My Spirit Sings

Tuesday, 26 January 2016

The Faery Grove by Patrick W Kavanagh

Sunday, 10 January 2016

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

Friday, 8 January 2016

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

Thursday, 7 January 2016

Roses,Pink, and Babies Breath

Roses,- Pink, and Babies Breath.

The icy pink against the misty white,

reminds me of the day we wed.

I felt my heart would burst for joy,

as hand in hand, our marriage vows were said.

Before the world and all the gods and goddesses,

we vowed that we would be forever true.

And nothing in this world meant anything to me,

except to be with you.

Our children grew up fine and strong,

while time just seemed to trundle gently on.

But, then the autumn years crept up on us too soon,

still, we just carried on.

When later, winter came, we saw it through

and kept each other warm as lovers do.

But in the spring, I handed you my ring and said goodbye,

Though love may be eternal, in the end, all lovers have to die.

It grieves me so to see you weep,

each day I watch you shuffle to my grave, on weary feet.

The journey growing harder for you every single day,

Yet in my heart, I know exactly what you want to say.

The roses,pink and babies breath, are beautiful my love.

But yet, it is the beauty in your heart that warms me so,

And I will wait for you, my love, until your time has come.

Then we will walk together once again, in that sweet place,

where clouds of babies breath and ice-pink roses grow.

Patrick W Kavanagh 10/02 2015

Art by: Boy So Blue Graphic Arts and photography.

Friday, 1 January 2016

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