Kiara  The early memories

Only a tiny person could see the entrance to Kiara’s world, and only a tiny person with true vision could see the green lady who guarded the entrance to the land of the Fae.
As is widely known, - but not so widely believed; - there are many physical entrances to this world, as well as the obvious routes on the astral plane. However, this entrance is very special; this is where Kiara first peeked out to see Jeremiah. This is when she fell in love and it is the moment that changed her life forever and also saved mankind from a terrible fate.

I was going to say it was the ending of her childhood, but, do the Fae grow up? Do beings with such a measureless lifespan have a beginning, a middle, and an end, - just as we do?
I do not know for certain. I have asked the Fae, but they have declined to answer. Trying to persuade a faery to be serious about anything is a difficult task. They love mystery and magic for its own sake and hate to explain anything in boring detail. In the end, I stopped asking. They are my friends and my helpers, and that is good enough for me. They are intrigued by our intellect and our ego’s, but they have learned from bitter experience that being too close to mankind for too long can have a corrupting effect. Somehow, it steals a little of their joy and innocence each time they give in to their endless curiosity.

How can I describe that world, whose entrances look so unremarkable to the human eye?
Many have spoken of the feasts and the music. There are also many tales of dancing and orgies too, - but perhaps these are the exaggerations of a medieval mind which was starved of joy and hope. Memory fails me where I need it most. Like the dreamer who struggles to recall their night of adventure, I am taunted by brief, half-remembered images of beauty and feelings of utter calm and peace. Even now, I can feel the gentle touch of leaves against my cheek. I can see a clearing where a soft light catches a multitude of tiny flying creatures. Are they faeries? I cannot remember. I can see orbs of many colours and I can smell the musty earth of the forest. The air is warm and moist. My clothes feel like they do not belong here, but I sense that to remove them may mean that I will stay here forever.

The flowers are beautiful. They are a strange mix of both tropical and temperate plants.
I sniff one and suddenly feel that I could shrink, if I wanted to, and nestle inside its cup-like petals. It looks almost like an upturned daffodil with a purple centre. Everything in this place seems to be asking me to stay. As I walk deeper into the forest, I come to a huge clearing. There is a river cutting through the woods, feeding a large pool that is sparkling in the sunlight. I can see larger creatures here. Wolves are blocking my path to the pool, but I do not feel frightened.  I hear the sound of a flute and look up to see a strange creature sitting on a branch playing a bright, cheerful tune on what look like Pan-pipes. He is much smaller that I had Imagined Pan to be. Perhaps he is a faun?

The wolves pull back to allow me to go forward. There in the pool are beautiful young men and woman splashing around. They called to me and invited me in, but my puritanical upbringing failed me, and the vision ended. I did return eventually, and I will share my memories as they return to me in a clearer form.
Patrick W Kavanagh 
Kiara’s later adventures can be seen at:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/589028

Lovers Moon

Dance with me once more beneath the sleepy moon.
The dawn begins to peek above the purple mountains all too soon.
The night has passed too quickly, and the garish daylight looms.
For me, without your smile, - the brightest day brings naught but gloom.

Whisper to me, one more time, - of love that never dies.
Show me once again, that far off world beneath the violet skies.
Share another kiss for all the ones which soon I’ll miss.
For there is nothing in life, for me, - but this.

Many were the nights I lay alone, by choice, before we met.
My heart was made of stone, and would still be, - if we were strangers yet.
But not a heart exists which can resist a faeries kiss,
And now my heart beats just for you alone, and none can query this.

How can I go back to dusty books when I have lain with you in quiet nooks?
Or tread the beaten path when I have walked the misty, moonlit road past sparkling brooks.
My weary eyes despise the bored and foppish dress of clerks,
When I have gazed upon the shining diamonds of your eyes, in caverns deep and dark.

Take my life, before you go away and break my foolish love-struck heart in two.

Do not leave this hollow husk behind with nothing left but memories of you.

Have pity on this mortal man.

And love me for whatever years are left in human life’s short span.

Take me to the world which blossomed long before the world of man began.

Patrick W Kavanagh  23/02/2016

Art by Bill Oliver

On a Mountain

“I never designed it like this, you must know!”, - 

Said the wise old man with a beard like snow.

He gazed down with kindness and gave me a bow,

“I never once ordered the flowers where to grow.”

The sky shone behind him with crimson and gold.

There was youth in his eyes, though I thought him quite old.

The birds sang so sweetly because he was near. 

As love overwhelmed me, I stifled a tear.

“But what of the sorrow and suffering and pain?

And those who must come back again and again?

He halted my questions and spoke with a sigh, 

“That was your own doing, my children, - not I!”

“I gave you this world to create what you will.

You have chosen to hoard and to hate and to kill.

I gave you a garden with beauty and grace,

But all that is left is just ruin and waste.”

“Your share of compassion has withered and died.

Your dreams and your visions are twisted inside.

I have often descended to help and to guide, 

But each time I fell by your malice, and died.”

“The trouble that comes will be wrought by your hand.

Your greed and your anger have ravished the land.

But, do not be troubled, for when it is done,

Your spirits will rise and will shine like the sun”

A music that I cannot ever describe,

Had lifted me up, - ‘til I stood by his side.

A chorus of angels, - a million or more, 

Extended as far as the distant shores.

I turned, as a Faery took hold of my hand.

She guided me back to my own sweet land.

For Angels and Faeries are much the same.

Like the faces of God, differing only in name.

Patrick W Kavanagh   21/02/2016

Art by Bill Oliver

The land that knows no ills

The land that knows no ills

One evening near the woodlands edge when all around were slipping into peaceful sleep, 

I watched the tiny creatures of the night, from all their little burrows start to peep.

A bat, not long arisen from his bed, with sleepy ears, had almost touched my head, 

As I wandered through the wonderland where day and night are wed.

At the turning of the light, when brother sun bows low to sister night, 

My eyes were filled with awe and admiration at a most amazing sight.

There beneath the drooping branches of the woodland trees, 

I saw the fairies trooping, with their banners waving in the gentle breeze.

Tiny horses galloped by on silver hooves that glittered underneath the moonlit sky; 

With lances high the banners fly as rows of faeries, spur their horses on and fly.

A touch of medieval etiquette as queenly faeries follow on, bedecked in jewels and the whitest lace,

Yet not a sprite looked back to see the light of pure enchantment shining on my upturned face.

How I longed to fly out west with you, to where the sky was turning into deepest, darkest blue.

I longed to see that land beneath the setting sun that lies within the kingdom of the ever-young.

Now I walk these woods each evening, as the sun begins to slip between the purple hills, 

In hope that you will once again return, and take me with you to that sacred place that knows no ills.

Patrick W Kavanagh   10/01/2016

Art by Bill Oliver   Boy So Blue GraphicArts and Photography

A conversation with the Muse

Finding the Pagan Way
A conversation with the Muse.
I found myself in a large cave, and my goddess, who as you may know is also my muse, was looking every inch a faery queen. Her beauty always leaves me breathless. She seemed to be wearing a circlet of pearls woven into a silver band made from many fine strands. The strands of silver seemed to branch out from the core and formed interweaving spirals, between the pearls. Her ebony hair flowed down into the shadows and her deep brown eyes filled my mind with half-forgotten memories of sun-drenched foliage and warm moist air.
“You have not visited us for a while”, She said softly. Her voice seemed to carry concern and a faint hint of humour at the same time. “I have been writing”, I said, defensively. “Sit down!” she said, and I noticed a plush sofa. As I sat, I felt a bony knuckle rap against the crown of my head. Looking up, I realised that she had changed personas. She was the ancient crone. Grey hair was tied into a scraggy bun with what looked like a leather thong and her perfect cheekbones stretched against the weather-beaten skin of her face. “You foolish child! how can you write anything of true value if you do not listen to your heart? You have wasted your valuable time in fretting about popularity and promoting your books! Listen and learn!”
I felt her bony fingers touch my forehead as the scenery faded and memory drew me back through time. I found myself at an age when age does not matter, and sitting on the floor in my maternal grandmothers flat in Ringsend, Dublin. All around me were treasures. Tiny little glass bottles of many colours and shapes. She had taken them from the glass cabinet for me to play with.  I was totally engrossed in the reflection of light through the bottles and the feel of the cool hard glass. Some were thick clear, uneven glass that distorted everything like a hall of mirrors as I looked through them. The glow of sunlight through the window shone golden through the amber vials. The green flasks made the room look colder and darker. Even on a summer’s day, the fire was lit and I could recognise the unforgettable smell of turf burning. Life was simple and safe. I was too young for fear or anticipation and my past had barely begun. I sensed, rather than understood, my grandmother’s love and her satisfaction in seeing me playing with her collection of old glass containers.
I felt a touch on my forehead and I was back in the ornate cave. Flaming red hair framed her vibrant green eyes and billowed about my goddess, then swept down and around a flowing robe of green as she danced and swirled. “Write for me! She commanded. I felt puzzled. She laughed. “You are sitting at your laptop, aren’t you?” Suddenly I am here and looking back at what I have written. Have I been dismissed? I suppose I must relax and see what it is that I must write. I decide to make a cup of tea first, and I can hear her giggle somewhere in the back of my mind, so I know that she is still very near. While the kettle boils, I search for an image to inspire me. Do I have one as beautiful as her flaming red hair and laughing eyes? It hardly matters to a goddess with a thousand faces. I choose a picture to match my mood then sit and wait for inspiration as I sip my tea. The first few lines are granted, and I begin.

My Lady Moon

Within that world, where ancient mysteries lie, unshared with few, except the brave.

I walk the sacred path, determined that I keep the promises I made.

I had sworn that I would live a life that was devoted to the truth and to the Fae.

I had promised I would strive to live my brand-new life, immersed in magic every single day.

A childlike heart is wont to stray within this night-time world of loving Fae.

Where fireflies flit between the flowering moonlit trees to guide your way

I stretch my mind to fill my senses with the beauty of this glowing aerial display,

For, soon I must return to all the trials and all the complications of the day.

I will walk the lonely path of mankind’s world and spend each moment longing for my kin.

I will count each weary day until my promise is fulfilled and I return again.

Here among the dancing trees where laughter floats on every floral scented breeze,

I will rest a little while, and I will find my smile again, among the flowers and bees.

Join me! - If you dare, in my sweet world where children dance and sing without a care.

Walk the starlit path that shines down from the moon and weaves between the trees.

Here, in the woodland glade, where lovers promises are made beneath her silver light.

My Lady moon will take you to a world where all is love and all is pure delight!

Patrick W Kavanagh    12/12/2015

Art by Bill Oliver    Boy So Blue Graphic Arts and photography

Finding the Pagan Way

Finding the Pagan Way

A conversation with the Muse.

I found myself in a large cave, and my goddess, who as you may know is also my muse, was looking every inch a faery queen. Her beauty always leaves me breathless. She seemed to be wearing a circlet of pearls woven into a silver band made from many fine strands. The strands of silver seemed to branch out from the core and formed interweaving spirals, between the pearls. Her ebony hair flowed down into the shadows and her deep brown eyes filled my mind with half-forgotten memories of sun-drenched foliage and warm moist air.

“You have not visited us for a while”, She said softly. Her voice seemed to carry concern and a faint hint of humour at the same time. “I have been writing”, I said, defensively. “Sit down!” she said, and I noticed a plush sofa. As I sat, I felt a bony knuckle rap against the crown of my head. Looking up, I realised that she had changed personas. She was the ancient crone. Grey hair was tied into a scraggy bun with what looked like a leather thong and her perfect cheekbones stretched against the weather-beaten skin of her face. “You foolish child! how can you write anything of true value if you do not listen to your heart? You have wasted your valuable time in fretting about popularity and promoting your books! Listen and learn!”

I felt her bony fingers touch my forehead as the scenery faded and memory drew me back through time. I found myself at an age when age does not matter, and sitting on the floor in my maternal grandmothers flat in Ringsend, Dublin. All around me were treasures. Tiny little glass bottles of many colours and shapes. She had taken them from the glass cabinet for me to play with.  I was totally engrossed in the reflection of light through the bottles and the feel of the cool hard glass. Some were thick clear, uneven glass that distorted everything like a hall of mirrors as I looked through them. The glow of sunlight through the window shone golden through the amber vials. The green flasks made the room look colder and darker. Even on a summer’s day, the fire was lit and I could recognise the unforgettable smell of turf burning. Life was simple and safe. I was too young for fear or anticipation and my past had barely begun. I sensed, rather than understood, my grandmother’s love and her satisfaction in seeing me playing with her collection of old glass containers.

I felt a touch on my forehead and I was back in the ornate cave. Flaming red hair framed her vibrant green eyes and billowed about my goddess, then swept down and around a flowing robe of green as she danced and swirled. “Write for me! She commanded. I felt puzzled. She laughed. “You are sitting at your laptop, aren’t you?” Suddenly I am here and looking back at what I have written. Have I been dismissed? I suppose I must relax and see what it is that I must write. I decide to make a cup of tea first, and I can hear her giggle somewhere in the back of my mind, so I know that she is still very near. While the kettle boils, I search for an image to inspire me. Do I have one as beautiful as her flaming red hair and laughing eyes? It hardly matters to a goddess with a thousand faces. I choose a picture to match my mood then sit and wait for inspiration as I sip my tea. The first few lines are granted, and I begin.

My Lady Moon

Within that world, where ancient mysteries lie, unshared with few, except the brave.

I walk the sacred path, determined that I keep the promises I made.

I had sworn that I would live a life that was devoted to the truth and to the Fae.

I had promised I would strive to live my brand-new life, immersed in magic every single day.

A childlike heart is wont to stray within this night-time world of loving Fae.

Where fireflies flit between the flowering moonlit trees to guide your way

I stretch my mind to fill my senses with the beauty of this glowing aerial display,

For, soon I must return to all the trials and all the complications of the day.

I will walk the lonely path of mankind’s world and spend each moment longing for my kin.

I will count each weary day until my promise is fulfilled and I return again.

Here among the dancing trees where laughter floats on every floral scented breeze,

I will rest a little while, and I will find my smile again, among the flowers and bees.

Join me! - If you dare, in my sweet world where children dance and sing without a care.

Walk the starlit path that shines down from the moon and weaves between the trees.

Here, in the woodland glade, where lovers promises are made beneath her silver light.

My Lady moon will take you to a world where all is love and all is pure delight!

Patrick W Kavanagh    12/12/2015

Art by Bill Oliver    boysoblue.com

The Faery Queen

Wings of finest gossamer that sparkled as she flew,
Silken robes that shimmered brightly in the morning dew.
Pearls of sunlight on the early morning sunlit leaves.
I gazed in admiration at her beauty as her faery spell she weaved.

I stood and watched with joy, and felt again, just like a little boy.
Her singing touched my heart and played with it as if it were a toy.
One fleeting glance and I was hers, I shyly reached to take her hand.
She took me far away to share her native land.

I can not remember any nights or any days.
Just the endless revelry and all the games we played.
It seemed to last all summer long, then I awoke and she was gone,
But in that single dream, I found that fifty years had gone.

Where are those middle years I planned to spend in quiet company?
Where are the friends and family that filled my life with comfort and delight?
There's no one left to fill my final years with joviality.
A lifetime passed away within a single day and night.

Patrick W Kavanagh  01/07/2013
Art by Bill Oliver 

https://soundcloud.com/patrick-kavanagh-3/the-fairy-queen-2

Winter Fae

The winter has been long and cold, and springtime still seems very far away.

I sit here snuggled in the warmth and dream about my childhood, and the fae.

How I miss glowing embers, underneath the flaming sods of turf that fed our fire.

When I used to sit in quiet contemplation as the faeries fed my hearts desire.

Dancing gaily through the woodlands, mirrored in the phosphorescent world of smoke and flame.

Faerie troopers marched across the gleaming forests edged with crimson and with gold.

Carriages of purest white, and silver reins upon the coal black shires that proudly cantered by.

Horsemen dressed in silver armour, prancing as they raised their glistening lances to the sky.

Then the Faery Queen,- magnificent in sparkling gown, she turned and waved to me.

Her wings like delicate, translucent butterflies, that fluttered blue against the ruby trees.

I cannot think of any other joy as sweet as this, my fondest childhood memory,

Though fifty years have past since then, it lingers still, as fresh and clear to me.

Every word I place upon the page brings childhood's wonder closer to my mind.

All the joys and mysteries that, for a little while, I thought that I had left so far behind.

Join me now and let us gaze upon the embers hand in hand with our own inner eyes.

The perhaps we both can sleep, and dream of meadows filled with sprightly flowers,

And cloudless sunny skies.

Patrick W Kavanagh 28/01/2015

Art by: Bill Oliver boysoblue.com

Boy So Blue Graphic Arts and photography

Yuletide Dreams.

I wandered through a wonderland, where twinkling stars adorned a pale blue sky.

The moon was shyly rising, as the setting sun gazed back with fondness in his eyes.

Some gentle greens, - like soothing balm, were spread across the sleepy violet hills.

Ah! Such a land as this could be the cure for many, many ills.

The crisp clear air felt mild and calm, - despite the snowflakes speckled on the trees.

This wistful winter landscape filled my pondering mind with happiness and ease

The tiny icicles that hung from every tree were chiming with a tuneful harmony.

And childhood thoughts, of gift-filled sleighs, came tumbling back to me.

Above the frosty grass, the ghosts of many flowers were swaying gently in the wind.

They sparkled on the slender stems, like crystal memories that waited for the spring.

The tiny folk who sang so sweetly, stole my heart and bound me to this awe-inspiring place

I write this note to any who would miss me, - should I disappear, this night, without a trace.

Patrick W Kavanagh   18/12/2015

Art by Bill Oliver   boysoblue.com

The Water Nymphs

The Water Nymphs

Down beside the woodland pool, whose waters flow so clear and cool,

I took a stroll, one summer’s day, and saw the water nymphs at play.

I stopped a while, to rest and dream, along the playful little stream,

And beauty drew my eyes to where, they laughed and splashed without a care.

I dared not breathe, - my chest was tight. I crept a little closer to this unexpected sight.

In joyful sport, they flicked their tails, as sunbeams caught their rainbow scales.

My shadow fell upon the water, and these tiny mermaids turned and fled.

Then they chased the little silver bream, along the shallow sunlit, river bed.

Undeterred, I hid among the soft, green ferns, and waited patiently for their return.

The moon had gifted silver light, when they came back to settle for the night.

Beneath a moss-strewn, rocky weir, they sat and combed their sea-green hair.

I slipped into a restful dream, and wandered in a mystic world that few have ever seen.

Patrick W Kavanagh    16/12/2015

Art by Bill Oliver

Angels in the Wind

Angels in the Wind

I stand and feel the wind's embrace,- as kisses, soft as feathers, touch my smiling face.

Gentle laughter, hushed as falling snow is calling,- and it leads me where I need to go.

Swirling leaves are blowing all around,-that somehow leave a gleaming trace.

But as the seasons meet within my heart, I feel a joy, an all-consuming grace.

It grieves me little now to say that all I think I know will, someday, pass away.

It does not matter that the world will turn and all my dreams may die and never be reborn.

This perfect moment is enough, within the pause between the night time and the day.

With tiny angels dancing all around in laughter and in play.

“Walk with us between the worlds and let imagination fly.

We will show that all who ever lived , will never die.

We will heal your aching heart and help you understand,

That only love can heal the world and soothe the heart of man.”

Patrick W Kavanagh 16/11/2015

Art by Bill Oliver boysoblue.com

Down among the Lavenders

Down among the Lavenders, I watched the little people play,
As I was sitting in the garden, one delightful, summer's day.
Dragonflies were flitting by, beneath a dreamy, pale blue sky,
My eyes were filled with beauty, and my heart was filled with joy.

I never noticed how the time flew by, until the evening came,
And I was woken from my reverie by gentle summer rain.
Silver beads were trickling down the dull green leaves below the violet sprays,
And still, the little people danced and played in summer's evening haze.

How I wish, that I could have sat forever in such charming company,
The rich warm smell of rain-kissed lavender, brings back such memories.
This tale has been my secret treasure,- this past fifty years and more,
I tell it now,- for who will mock me, as I pass through summer's open door.

Build for me a little bower, so I may spend eternity beneath the Rowan tree.
For in that lovely place, so filled with natures grace, I'll find delightful company.
Those who mourn, will earn naught but my scorn, for I will soon be free
to play among the lavenders, beside the blessed Rowan tree.

Patrick W Kavanagh 11/02/2015
Art by: Bill Oliver  boysoblue.com