Curse Or Blessing?

In response to the An Fianna poetry challenge, "Write a Poem for Paddy!", here is my contribution:

Curse, or Blessing?

Craggy-faced as the rocks,
He stood, rooted firm on the shore,
His back to the waters.

In a whisper, he muttered,
While waving his hands in the air,
Maledictions, in French.

'Twas the Auld Ones he cursed,
The draiocht, the fili, the Land,
In the Name of his Christ.

Waves lapped at his heels.
He noticed, but calmly ignored;
His work was important.

His words fell to silence.
He spun, with a flip of his robes,
And re-entered the boat.

As the oarsmen took oars,
He turned for a pitying look
At the shores he had damned.

No more would the Snakes
Of draoicht and evil designing
Soil Eriu's fair face.

Twixt water and sand,
A ribbon of wrack in the waves
Formed a Guardian rune.

His shadow grew short
As the boat crested waves in the dusk,
Crossed the horizon.

Behind him, the Land
And the Folk, and the Druids he'd cursed
Watched as he left.

And yet, he returns,
Every year, cause for drinking, for dance,
An icon of Ireland.

It's an irony, this.
When you think how the things that he cursed
Now flourish, reborn.

The Druids still live,
All the Gods celebrated by Pagans,
Immrama still dreamt.

And Lá Fhéile Pádraig,
A holiday marking his coming
But not about God.

So, raise him a glass,
This man, who in bringing a curse
Brought "Erin go bragh!"

A chance to be proud
Of our Land, of our kith, of ourselves.
Just hear the Snakes laugh.

Chulain's Hound

The Guardian, Cuchulainn, so softly he treads
That those in the circle do not turn their heads
To mark him, as silently beating the bounds
He slips through the shadows. In making his rounds
He wards and he watches, that nothing untoward
Be able to slip through as he weaves his ward.

The Watcher, Cuchulainn, his footstep is sure
As, watching and warding, he makes all secure.
He waits in the shadows whilst light glows within
And Guards the abode of his Kith and his Kin.
No threat will escape him; his presence pervades
Through the rustling darkness of woodlands and glades.

The Father, Cuchulain, he covers his child
With the safe hand of love, as, compelling, yet mild,
He teaches and shows, demonstrating the man
Who is both strong and kind. As no other hand can,
His hand shares both power and gentleness. One
Such as he is a gift to his well-beloved son.

The Teacher, Cuchulainn, his words always few,
Shows his knowledge and cunning in what he can do.
Whether woodslore, or music, or Working the Arte,
All he knows, all he shares, coming straight from his heart
Is a gift to his clann. For such knowledge as his
Is not shared in mere lessons, but from Who he Is.

The Brother, Cuchulainn, his siblings may call,
And he'll be there. The Family he makes for us all
Is a Hearthstone of safety, with room to explore.
With his hand on the latch, we may pass through the door
Knowing he will be silently slipping behind
To keep us all safe as the Crossroads we find.

The Dear One, Cuchulainn, has gone on before,
As always, our Guardian. The first through the door
As he shields us from what dangers might lie in wait
For his unwary clann. So, we stand at the gate,
And look long and far, as the sound of his tread
Dies away. He's our trailblazer. He's gone ahead.

(written as a tribute to my dear friend and Craft brother, Cuchulainn of EarthHaven
March 3, 2010)

Poetry Challenge Day 5

Write a poem about a landmark.

Tower of Verse

A landmark? Well, I think he qualifies,
His name resounds through every venue where
The art of poesy is given care
And thought, wherever stellar writing vies
With honest feeling, when in lines of verse
One tries to capture moment, feeling, thought.
The lines of poetry his hand has wrought
Have never been supplanted. Not averse
To trying to aim high, despite my sure
And certain knowledge that he will endure
For centuries beyond my finest line,
I try in this poor effort to make mine
The latest voice to praise him. William, Bard
Of Avon, hoist me now with your petard!

Hoodie Crow

She is screeching down the hollow echoes of your shattered mind,
She is clawing with her talons at the wraith you cannot find
For her power has destroyed it, and it 'ere no more can be
And you bleed, and coil, and crumble, as her power sets it free.

You are powerless to stop her, she is clawing at your eyes
And her own are black obsidian, immune to your disguise,
For despite your craven cringing as you run and try to hide
The crow has marked your path and will destroy you from inside.

Never seek to try evading, never dare to lift your hand
In retaliation, for her strength you never will withstand,
As she swoops in screaming majesty to tear your tattered face
And her wings are swirling whirlwinds to erase you from this place.

You are gone, destroyed, defeated, and the shrieking of her glee
Is the last humiliation of your pride, and sets her free,
Both herself and one she cares for, her beloved, wife, and pet,
And for all your naked suffering, you always will regret

Having meddled in the business of the Witch who lays this curse,
And despite the dread you now must feel, it only will get worse.
For her power is supreme and in its working she's the queen...
And there's nought for you to do but bow, and, broken, flee the scene..

Poetry Challenge

Prompt...write a poem entitled "The trouble with...."

( Here's the prompt... )

The Problem With Logic...

Is pretty intense.
It's simply that,
By and large,
Things don't "make sense."

Logicians expect
An elegant
Patterning.
While people are

Experts at
Effortless shattering
Of formulas,
Shibboleths,

Trite preconceptions.
And so, mostly,
With only
Tiny exceptions

Due to vicissitudes
Unique and foreign,
"Logical action"
Is an oxymoron.

Prompt: Write an "Outsider" poem.

Looking In

I am never going to understand it...
I watch them,
Laughing, hilarious.
Slapping one another's shoulders
Splashing beer,
Raucous, overblown,

No two faces alike in expression,
Not really,
And yet they all, somehow,
Make one thing...

"One big teeth", in the words
Of some other poet
Whose name I've forgotten.

So I watch.
Outside the wraith
Not part, not wanting to be...

I can't understand it.
NBA Playoffs....who the hell cares?
But I know I am the outsider here
The minority...

Next St. Patrick's Day I will find
A different bar,
Wine, maybe
And Irish dancing.

Fat chance, tonight.
I stand outside and wonder
Then turn and leave.

Think I like it outside.
I will go home
And read a book.

Poetry Challenge

This actually took place in the month of April, National Poetry Month, but as you saw I was in the process of teaching poetry and featuring poets of all kinds and styles. Not my own stuff. So here is the Poetry Challenge, but it's for May.

First prompt...
Write a poem about a first..

Reality

It was a small package,
Unremarkable,
Not obtrusive.

It felt, in the mailbox,
Like one more relic
Of a desultory march through e-bay.

But opened,
It scintillated,
Coruscated.

It belied its humble cloak
Of mailing envelope
By springing full-blown to life,

Denying the staid wrappings
And blaring its insistent trumpet of my name
Into its genuine listing of authors.

Brilliantly my own words resound
On the last four pages,
As something awaited, stayed for...

There I was,
Published anthologically
For the very first time.

I wonder if anything
Will ever feel this much again
Like an ultimate birthday.