Tag Archive: Poem

Blessed Be!

“Then came cold February, sitting
In an old waggon, for he could not ride,
Drawne of two fishes, for the season fitting,
Which through the flood before did softly slyde
And swim away; yet had he by his side…
His plough and harnesse fit to till the ground,
And tooles to prune the trees before the pride
Of hasting prime did make them burgeon round”



The Type – Sarah Kay

There is power in words.
And thoughts.
And actions.
We are power.
We are women.

The Muse & Her Demons

If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,
you can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands.

Or windows.
Or mirrors.

Let them see what a woman looks like.
They may not have ever seen one before.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,
you can let them touch you.

Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for.
Sometimes it is a bottle. A door. A sandwich. A Pulitzer. Another woman.

But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian.
Or a muse. Or a promise. Or a victim. Or a snack.

You are a woman. Skin and bones. Veins and nerves. Hair and sweat.
You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies. Not excuses.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,
you can let…

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May I Feel, Said He – E.E. Cummings

Dear Tom Hiddleston,

I love you.


Moon Magic

The Moon has been worshiped for ages; its pull on the world is seen as proof of its magical powers.
More than light in the night sky, the moon affects weather, create tides and may influence earthquakes.
Traditions across the world link the moon with madness.
As the human body is made up of 80% of water, it is thought that we are as affected by the moon as the earth.

Since it’s a new moon tonight (April 10), I figure it’s a good time for me to focus on renewal.
It’s time to open my heart to change and to additions.

Here’s a simple ritual I found online a while back; it’s been sitting in my bookmarks for the “right time” for me to blog about it.
While it mentions  the full moon, I feel like full and new are both appropriate.

“Honor Brigid on the Full Moon with a simple candle ritual.
Connect with the Moon and the Earth in whatever way you wish. Meditation, music, dance, being outside in the light of the Full Moon are all great ways to celebrate the moment.

Anoint the candle with an oil that makes you think of Brigid. You may pick the oil you wish. Think of her various roles as warrior, guardian of hearth and home, healer, goddess of spring. Pick the oil for the association that helps you connect to the aspect of Brigid that calls to you.

Light the candle and mediate on the fire aspect of Brigid, ask her to be present with you at this time.
Make an offering the the form of a poem, song, blessing or prayer.

(This one is from Goddess Alive by Michele Sky)

I thank you Brigid, for you presence here in my home,

For giving me warmth of heart and hearth.
As the sisters of old, I have honored you in the traditional way.
May my love for you be felt through time and space,
Across the universe, upon the earth and under the sea.
Although the light of this candle goes out,
I carry your flame in my breast.

Most Blessed Brigid,
living light,
bright arrow,
sudden blaze,
Goddess of the sun
and of the eternal fire
I guard your flame.”



The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet,
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.

— William Butler Yeats

A series of dreams

I grew up in an Irish-Catholic family, with an emphasis on the Irish. My grandmother’s parent’s came over from Galway, and Ireland was always this exotic motherland to me. That was where we came from, where some family still lives, and where the most magical and fantastic myths and legends originated.

Like any child, I was delighted by tales of leprechauns, unicorns, and faeries. Between mandatory school reading, I occupied my time with Irish poetry and folklore. I was enamored with the “year and a day” concept in so many of the stories.

I remember the first time I read the tales of St. Brendan the Navigator, St. Patrick, and St. Brigid. I felt such a connection to them. It was like reading about my own family.  In particular, I felt a special bond with Brigid. Even though I must have read at least a dozen different versions of the tale, I never grew tired of them. She was beautiful, brave, and intelligent – everything I wanted to be.

When I was up for my confirmation, I chose Brigid as my name.It wasn’t because I felt any particular connection to the Catholic Church. Actually, by that point in my life, I was so frustrated with how the Church treated people, especially friends and family, I was ready to be done with it. But I had to finish what my mother had started; for my Grandmother, I would be confirmed. No, I chose Brigid because I always felt like there was a part of her in me, and that was closest I would get to changing my name.

As the years went by, I strayed quite far from the Church, only ever returning for weddings and funerals. I never reconciled with religion; every time I tried to find my spiritual path, I was left in the dark feeling more alone than before. Something was calling me, I just couldn’t find it.

I had a dream.
It was a bright, beautiful day, and I was standing in a field of flowers. There was a music on the wind that I couldn’t identify, but it felt so familiar. As I wandered through the grasses I saw a small brick building with a large fire burning just outside.
As I approached it, I noticed the fire was on a pedestal… it sort of reminded me of a torch. It glowed blue and white, but I felt no heat. An older woman sat on a bench near a small vegetable garden, reading a book. She hummed the mysterious tune to herself for a while before she took notice of me.
“What are you looking for?”
“Um, I dunno. I thought I was dreaming. Maybe I ate too much before bed.”
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t looking for something.”
“I suppose so.”
“Maybe you aren’t looking in the right place.”
“I never said what I was looking -”
“You needn’t speak it. Just focus on it and all will be revealed.”

And I woke up. I cursed at my alarm.
I had that dream three nights that week. It was almost always the same, we usually talked about the world, my life, her garden, but little things changed – Her clothes, the smell of something cooking in the house, the book she read, or where she sat. On the last night, I helped her weed the garden, and I asked her who she was.
“I am the keeper of the flame.”
“Who is it for? The fire, I mean.”
“The one you seek.”
I had finally made a connection.
“How do I find her?”
“She will show you the light and the path. Follow her, show compassion, embrace art, and you will be healed.”
“How will I know her?”
“You will know. You will feel her presence when you dance.”

Again with the stupid alarm.
Dance? I don’t dance. I have two left feet, and they’re both on backward.
It wasn’t long before I had forgotten about the dreams.

Not even a year later, I started taking dance classes.
And the dream came back. It was very different this time.

The old woman looked almost younger, and we stood inside the little house. It was tidy, warm, and comfortable. We played cribbage for a while, and talked about my new job, my cats, and my marriage. My life was good.
And now I had dance.

“Have you found her yet?”
“Um.. I guess, no. Not really. I haven’t, like, physically seen her or anything. Should I be expecting a hallucination or something?”
“Time, dear; give it time.”

It was another 3 years until I saw her again. This winter, actually. I hadn’t really thought much about it. Over the fall I had wanted to dream about her. One of my cats was very ill, she went in for emergency surgery and we discovered she had cancer. I prayed to whatever powers would listen to help keep her healthy and happy; I wasn’t ready to give up on her. We made it through, and she’s doing well. We should have several more years with proper diet and medications.

This February (2012), the old woman returned. But she wasn’t old anymore. She was, maybe, in her 40’s or 50’s. Her hair was a beautiful shade of auburn where once silver had been. Her eyes were not so weary as before, and her hands were smooth. But it was her, I knew it. She hummed her little song as we walked along a wooded path.
“You are dancing still, yes?”
“Oh yes, I love it. I feel the music move through me and I feel like I could write poems without words.”
“Then you have found her?”
“I’m close.”

I haven’t seen her since, but I think when I do we should be about the same age. And I think that is when I will have finally found her. Until then, I will dance for her. I will write poems without words.

Brighde-© Stuart-Littlejohn

Brighde-© Stuart-Littlejohn