An Open Gate

I left the back gate open
Into the woods
Unknowingly inviting,
Who entered
The shaggy yard
Into moonlight
Out of the shadows?
First creeping shyly
Hesitant, unsure of danger,
Then bounding unfettered
Breathing open air
Enjoying the space and flowers,
There are spider webs
Jeweled by the morning dew,
Did the Sidhe Folk join you
Losing their hoods and cloaks
In the wild dance?
Perhaps I’ll take
Some inviting portal,
One breathless pause
Then entering
To find an unexpected meadow,
I’ll chance the open gate
Life awaits.

August 29, 2019 0

Manannan’s Daughter-Cantos five-Medb

She rides the gray stallion toward her village, stopping only to retrieve her weapons. It was good to run free, feel the wind, the sun on her skin. Time now to return. Her duties as chieftain’s daughter were many.

Sudden sound stopped her. Sliding from her mount, she was stealthy death moving through the undergrowth. Some slight sound warned her as she spun around, her sword struck from her grasp as she moved it to ready. She was slammed to her back before she could move to use her shield.

“The lady should return her toys to her father before her brothers miss them or she hurts herself.” He leaned down to help her up.

She easily evaded his hand, kicking his feet from beneath him, her sword kissing his throat. “I have no brothers. I’ll keep my toys.”

He rolled away from her sword, grasping his own, “Careful my lady, you could get hurt.”

“Better yet, I could hurt you.” She spoke through a wolf’s deadly smile.

They circle cautiously, watching each move of the other, studying, evaluating, planning. Shields ready, sword tips lazily circling, they watch for an opening.

She springs, slashing, then out again. The clang of her sword against his shield shatters the stillness. She hisses in disappointment at his escape. He swings his sword while she moves to balance again. She parries and spins, deflecting his strike.

Their dance of swords continues stroke for stroke, the advantage of one quickly taken by the other. Spinning, weaving, leaping, rolling, their bodies grow slick with sweat, lungs burning for air.

Approaching hoofbeats break his focus for just a moment, but enough. Her shield sweeps his legs from beneath him. Her sword dives for his throat.

“Stop.” Her father’s voice is imperious. “It is generally thought poor hospitality to kill the bridegroom before you bed him.”

“Lucky for you that my father arrived when he did.” Her sword still at his throat.

“I would not be lonely here.” He looks from her eyes, lower. His sword is at her stomach. She hadn’t noticed its light kiss. A scarlet thread seamed her belly.

She reached to help him rise, “My name is Medb.”

August 26, 2019 0

Chrysalis

The space too small
Cramped
Struggling for growth
Life,
It rips
The pain rends
But cannot stop
The push for freedom,
It fights through a tiny opening
Too small
But a hope for escape,
Exhaustion trembles the body
It must continue
Freedom,
Weak
It clings to the security of the past
The terrors of the unknown beckon
Tease
Entice
Terrify,
Iridescent wings catch the sun
It leaps
A shriveled husk remains.

Whether or not ancient Celts believed that butterflies were souls of the dead seeking the Otherworld can be debated. Regardless, they had to have seen the lowly, earthbound caterpillar, through pain and struggle, transform into the graceful, skybound butterfly. They must have marveled. MJG

August 22, 2019 0

Brigit’s Hands

Her hands are stories
Knotted with aged strength
Tales of labor, loving,
Her sweet face speaking
Tear-creased soft and laughing seamed
At peace in each day greeting,

Her hands are stories
Gentle with patient strength
Tales of labor, serving,
Her sweet face speaking
In family toils content
At peace in each day greeting,

Her hands are stories
Holding with enduring strength
Tales of labor, praying,
Her sweet face speaking
Serene in sustaining faith
At peace in each day greeting,

Her hands are stories.

Brigit, daughter of Dagda and Bres, was protector of women, of hearth and home.To all the women of strength through time, they raised us, taught us, loved us. May we continue to live their stories. MJG

August 14, 2019 0

The Cat

The cat sits
Unblinking
Stationary on the hill
Dreaming ages past,

Rising wind sounds the Fae
Riding from the sidhe
Harness bells tinkling
Hounds baying
Horns calling, calling
Distantly lost,

The cat blinks
Then yawns lazily stretching
To saunter to his fireside
And home below.

The ancient tales of Ireland are full of wonders and magic, heroes, Fae folk, and mystical creatures. We are too logical in these modern times to be distracted by these ghosts of our past. Perhaps cats see what we miss and hear what we ignore. At least they always seem to share less than they know. MJG

August 8, 2019 0

Dragon Eyes

Dragon eyes can never lie
Truth waits
In swirling opalescence
Enticing the unwary,

Dragon eyes can never lie
Promises tangled
In jeweled gossamer
Tempting the foolhardy,

Dragon eyes can never lie
Hope igniting
In ethereal gems
Daring the brave.

You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get a dragon to sit still for a portrait. MJG

August 7, 2019 0

The Dragon Rises

The dragon rises
Broken winged
And tattered
The mirrored scales
Tarnished
Dull are her
Jeweled eyes,

The dragon rises
Flame spent
And guttered
The proud crest
Ragged
Mute is her
Dulcet voice,

The dragon rises
Proud hearted
And undaunted
Her unconquered spirit
Free
Untamed is her
Wild soul,

The dragon rises.

August 6, 2019 0

Bard

The Old One wakes music stirring
His notes beckon to others reaching
Timeless youth his age masking,
The Old One plays music piping
His cadence speeds to start the dancing
Twining patterns his call heeding,
The Old One sings music soaring
His wild song speaks their hearts arousing
Embracing song shadows voicing,
The Old One frees music swirling
His magic shackled joy releasing
Forsaking time never ceasing,
The Old One wakes.

What can I say, bards and music and Celtic magic. The photo is of my small bodhran, ancient drum of the Celts. MJG

July 31, 2019 0

Celtic Contradictions

I am afraid of the night
Yet I must see the stars,
I would cower before the storm
But I must heed its bidding,
I tremble beside the sea
Still I yield to her embrace,
I grow restless in the springtime
Weary in the fall,
Life beckons to me
I must follow if I can.

The Giant’s Causeway calls the ancient Celtic mysteries and magics to mind. The stories they weave are spellbinding. MJG

July 31, 2019 0

Fungie

Wave dancer
Teasing with sensuous grace
Delighted to entice,
The dolphin comes

Sea runner
Exploring sunken secrets
Excited with wonder,
The dolphin leaps

Ocean child
Content in wild innocence
Happy in sweet freedom,
The dolphin plays.

Fungie or the Dingle Dolphin, is common bottlenose dolphin who has been interacting with humans for better than thirty years. He readily seeks the company of fishermen, kayakers, and swimmers in Dingle Harbour. I don’t know if Fungie is still alive but I would love to meet him. He embodies the playful, welcoming spirit of the Irish. The painting is mine. MJG

July 26, 2019 0