And the Wheel Turns...

Yes, I know. It was August, and this is November. Well, things take a bit of time in the real world (makes me wonder what the computer phrase 'real time' means and if it has anything whatsoever to do with "life is what is happening to you while you are busy making other plans"). In any case, I am now thinking more clearly...If you wanted to know what took up the time between now and my last post, well, if you are my RL friend you already do know. If you're an online friend, here's the mishmash: Quit most of my national Pagan positions, revamped my marriage (it's all good), put down with much regret my dearly beloved dog, dealt with Lughnasadh, Mabon and Samhain in all of whose rituals I was involved, started the incredible Virgo cleaning machine and have seen floor in rooms in my house that I didn't know had floors, had pneumonia (twice), continued teaching a bi-monthly Paganism 101 class for the community, traveled to Colorado to spread the ashes of my m-i-l and f-i-l, facilitated a week-long visit between my 88-year-old Uncle who lives in New York, and my 91-year-old Mother who lives here in SLC, started my 7th NaNoWriMo and my first Writer's Digest Poetry Challenge, both this month, and began work on 2 CDs I am currently in the studio producing. Oh, and 1734? Well, yes, that too. But most of the work to be done on that involves my figuring out HOW to do any of the work on that, so it is behind the scenes, and some of it intensely personal. I have discovered that blogging the process, at this stage, might actually be detrimental to the process. I will be back to talk about 1734 when I have something cogent to say.

A bit of a tidbit with ketchup...

This blog has been pretty dead, as you may have noticed. There's a reason for that. I am trying really hard to separate my three writing venues, my LJ, this blog, and FB, by topic, and, to a degree, by f-list. So if you have been waiting to see what will happen next, this is the deal: This blog is going to be the venue for my poetry, and my discussion, which is going to get deeper and more arcane, of the growth of the Clan of 1734 Witchcraft I am trying to establish in SLC, Utah. I am a Holder of Virtue of 1734, Joseph Bearwalker Wilson stream, and I am feeling a call...as in, he's been visiting me in divination and dreamwork....and saying, "When the living HELL are you going to claim your Legacy and DO something with those Admissions...?" This is not my coven work, which is related to the kind of thing Joe was doing with Toteg (and those who knew him knew that Toteg Tribe became his primary spiritual focus in the years before his death), and our coven in my spiritual life is paramount. But there is a need to feed the Stream, and find a way to enrich and enflesh the Legacy and pass it on. SO this will be a place where I discuss, as much as I can, that process as it's ongoing. If you're getting this because you Follow me, you might want to decide on the basis of what my topics of discussion will be on this blog whether or not you want to continue to Follow me. I won't be offended by anyone who chooses not to, especially if you're someone I also talk to on FB and LJ. FB will become my daily touch-base for RL friends, and my LJ is mostly to keep in touch with my Pacific Northwest community of friends, and to talk about general Pagan philosophies and tidbits of personal news. And if you're getting an e-mail with this message and a link, that's because you're someone I think, from our prior interactions, might be interested in what I am going to be doing here. But again, feel free NOT to link, if you think you wouldn't be interested...it's really up to you.

FFF(F),

Aisling SilverBranch

Tubelo's Green Fire -- A Review

This book, it must be said, boasts an innate difference from the many current books which propound the supposed "mysteries" of various traditions of Witchcraft, Wicca, and other arcanae. In a word, this book makes no promises, offers no answers, fills no loopholes, catches no Lapwings. The work is a dance between Dog and Deer, Deer, and Bird, Bird and Dog*, one in which no one loses a life, questions are offered to many an answer, and nothing is decided by the dance except the certainty on the part of the reader of the absolute necessity of such works in the hermetic library, works which offer philosophia rather than prestidigitation. The quotation above, "not for the feint-hearted", is taken from the Preface, and I was immediately taken by the subtlety of the not-misspelled adjective, and became aware very soon thereafter that the phrase bore as many levels of insight and layers of meaning as does the book itself. The feint-hearted, those who are looking for quick tricks of the hermetic hand with which to baffle and amaze the once-born, will find no fodder here. The book is Craft in its totality, fully intending to cloak, as my mentor Joseph Bearwalker Wilson was wont to say, "a method, wrapped in a mystery", hoping that the sincere and insightful reader will be able to grasp at the cloak of the Mystery wrapped in the Method.

Like a well-respected predecessor, The White Goddess by Robert Graves, the book is written in a style which can only be described as mythopoesy. The Preface is a highly literate, fully annotated and daringly speculative look at the origins of both the concepts of dualism in religious thought and the roots of Craft itself. The language and content here does presuppose that the reader has something of a background in academia, with an emphasis on anthropology, philosophy of religion, and literary history. Moving from this into the content of the chapters is like taking a voyage of discovery after a year spent studying the atlas. One will "land" in a chapter very like the intellectual tourist wishing to spend a year or more at each docking point and thoroughly familiarize hirself with the new territory. Each chapter in turn, beginning with one which does indeed discuss, exemplify and seek to source the reader in the aforementioned "mythopoesy", and moving through the Mysteries as accessed by the Clan of Tubal Cain, is contemplative, thought-provoking, shatteringly literate, and fully functional as a guide, whilst forbearing from revealing anything of the arcanum which must be fully and personally encountered in personal practice of the Witch.

WARNING: This is not a "beginning Witchcraft" kind of a book. This book is for those whose feet are already securely seated on the Path, those who wish to have a hermetic glimpse of another angle of the Thicket. This book is most suited to long and contemplative study, perhaps with academic tools at hand with which to explore the many side-paths referred to in the text, but always knowing that what one is seeing is only a glimpse of the tail-feathers of the Bird, a tantalizing glance between the horns of the Deer, a swift pat in passing at the questing Dog. The author, Shani Oates, Maid of the Clan of Tubal Cain, has enriched her Legacy and done more than justice to the ethos of the teachings of Robert Cochrane as illuminated by Evan John Jones. This book is, without doubt, one of the most intriguing and illuminating books I have had the good fortune of perusing in many years. But it is not a how-to, not a go-to, not an encyclopedia. It's a voyage of discovery. Enjoy the trip!

@ Aisling the Bard/Aisling SilverBranch
June 22, 2010/ Salt Lake City, Utah
aisling@technoharp.com
All Rights Reserved

*and, if you have no idea what I just said, you probably need to be reading something else.

National Poetry Month, Day 10

This is a "recycled" poem, so it's not my real entry for today. It's just one I found, and love, even though I wrote it last year. I wanted it here because it's how I am feeling right now. A new poem, in a poetic form I have never seen before which a friend used in his blog will be posted later today, after I have written it.

But for now: "For today's prompt, I want you to take the title of a poem you especially like (by another poet) and change it. Then, with this new altered title, I want you to write a poem. Your altered poem does NOT have to follow the same style as the original poet, though you can try if you wish. " I am, of course, going to shadow the form of the poem, simply because I want to see if I can do it. So here we are. See what you think.

Here's my template:

Sea Fever

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
All I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trip's over.

John Masefield

And here's my attempt:

Spring Fever

I must go down to the store again, to the lovely gardening store,
And all I ask is a tall tree, and a flat of plants galore,
And a wind chime, and a windsock, and a white narcissus,
And a green thumb, and a rose bush that will please the missus.

I must go down to the store again, for the call of the growing green
Is the weed's clutch, and a yard full of stuff you've never seen;
All I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray of the RoundUp, and the crabgrass dying.

I must go down to the store again, for the vagrant gypsy's life
Is a soft dream that was long gone when I bought a house with my wife.
And all I ask is a spool of yarn to block the cats from the clover,
And a long vacation in someone else's garden when spring is over.

National Poetry Month, Day 9

Here's today's prompt...first, think of a number between one and ten. Thinking of that number, go to this site, and go to that number of quotes on the page. Copy the quote, and write a poem about it, about what it might make you think about.

My quote:

Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.
Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900), Lady Windermere's Fan, 1892, Act III

My poem: (poetic form is the anaphora, a poem where each line begins with the same word or series of words)

Miss, Taken

I never knew it could be dangerous to share myself,
I never knew someone might not accept me as I was.
I never knew the many ways people can bruise your soul,
I never knew a reason to be frightened of a friend.

I never knew, until I began seeing what's-his-name--
I never knew anyone who could make me seem so real,
I never knew when someone said "my girl", he could mean me.
I never knew the others to whom he said the same thing.

I never knew it was abuse, the things he did, he said,
I never knew I was a victim, never would have been.
I never knew anyone who could make me feel so small--
I never knew I would believe that it was all my fault.

I never knew how powerful I would feel when I left.
I never knew the many years his shadow would remain,
I never knew my children would be caught in the crossfire,
I never knew how long it would be until things might change.

I never knew what it would do to me to live that life,
I never knew how much I'd like myself, much better now,
I never knew the way a possible life-long mistake
I never knew I'd made might serve to make me who I am.

I never knew mistakes could lead to life experience,
I never knew that quote by Wilde could show me who I am.

I never knew.

National Poetry Month, Day 8

Today is a "recycled poem", one I wrote two years ago, but just found again in looking through old manuscripts. Your prompt, if you would like to play, is to write a poem based on some "rule" or "symbol system" that you use in your personal life. This poem is based on The Witche's Pyramid.

Sphynx

To know...that one was easiest...
To my peril, because I became arrogant...
And indeed, the pyramid collapsed
With the weight of my over-confidence.

So once again, I began to build.
To know.
Not to tell everyone everything.
Not to brag, or boast, or blather.
But to quietly, successfully,
Go about the Work,
And the final result
Would come in its time
Successfully
This I know.

And so, to Will
To do more than Want
But to intend, to focus,
Indeed, to Be the thing desired.
When did I finally realize
That Willing is not something you do,
And Willing is not something you want.
The True Will is Who You Are...
And I know this.
And I am this.

And so, to Dare.
Reaching beyond the Self
To encounter the Being of the Other,
Others, people, sisters, brothers, friends.
To Dare, to speak one's Truth
To Dare, to be in another's grief
To Dare, to change, to become, to be More
More than Self
More than Will
Daring, and Sharing
And becoming One.

And so, to the final rung
The final angle of the Pyramid.
Now I Am With...
Now there is We, not just I
Now I see, and I hear
In the hearts, in the pain
In the crisis and the struggle of the Other
I am there
I am Daring to Be
With the Other,
Joined,
Friend, Brother, Sister, Lover, Companion.

And so, we are One.
And so, I see through the eyes of others.
I see hatred,
I see dishonor,
I see injustice,
I see lies that hurt.

And so....here, now, on that fourth angle
One step from completing the Pyramid.
I halt.
I have to stop.
I cannot continue.

For here and now,
In the pain of the Other
Who is also mySelf,
In the grip of injustice,
How can I Be Silent?

National Poetry Month, Day 7

A slightly different prompt today...if you're playing, post a poem by someone else that resonates with you today, and then post your own poetic response thereto. Here's my model for today, Maya Angelou:

The Rock Cries Out To Us Today

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers--
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

**********

I Cry Out To The Rock....

Oh, strong, stalwart stone,
O thou upon whom was built
The foundation of history,
The church of Jesus,
The bones of civilization,
Hear now my complaint of thee....

Thou has become a bulwark,
A symbol of fortitude,
An icon of stability,
The metaphor for firmness,
Unchangeability,
Those things which must BE.

I say unto thee now,
It is time to change that.
It is the time for you
To crumble, to become sand,
To give in to the vicissitudes
Of time, and wear, and growth.

Let a tree's roots crack you.
Let thunder shake you in your bed.
Let a bolt of lightning
Split you asunder.
Let yourself be Moved,
Changed, Dissolved, Remade.

Become the Living Stone,
The avatar of existence
From which all things were made.
Become again sentient,
Let yourself be a live thing,
A life form, one which grows.

Too long have we poor humans
Used you as a symbol
To excuse our own failures,
Our own mental laziness,
Our own stubborn wrong-headedness,
Our failures to Become.

So, O Rock, show us now
That you are bone of bone,
And bone must grow, or die.
Illustrate for us
The power of transformation,
The reality of malleability.

Make us aware
That it is not the Rock
Upon which we build
But the vitality of the structure
That will sustain us,
That will make us Beings.

O rock, I know you hear me.
Rise up now, in power.
Become an earthquake.
Open a chasm
Prove to us that you can change.
And then, we can, too.

National Poetry Month, Day 6

Here's another "oldie but a goodie", written on our vacation to Florida two years ago. Prompt for today...write a poem about a place you've been.

Ocean Thoughts

What is it, this vast, blue deepness?
Ululating bladder of an unseen wind
Stretching imperatively from horizon to horizon…

How to create enough awareness,
Not superimposing Self on the phenomenon,
To begin to encompass its living vastness.

I find it impossible.
Not even a drop in the coruscating breathing,
I just stare.

Composed when observing the ocean from Miami Beach
July 2008

National Poetry Month, Day 5

All right then, yes, I am an old woman and a long-time teacher...so of course we have to do some things that are classical poetic exercises. So.. your prompt today. Pick an ADJECTIVE, and use it as your title. Form...the classic sonnet. Fourteen lines, iambic pentameter, rhyme scheme abab cdcd efef gg. Use your adjective at least once in the body of your poem. Have fun!

Uncommon

It takes a lot of courage to be strange.
No one has ever tried who couldn't see
The unexpected challenges the range
Of deviant behaviours might set free,

The many ways not living by the norm
Might point you out too clearly to the mob
Of those who live their lives in standard form
And think your forced compliance is their job.

So, creeping on the fringes of your own
Uncommon life, you yet begin to see
A certain kind of beauty, all your own,
In shattering of custom. It could be

The most important thing you'll ever do.
To live your life as no one else but you.

National Poetry Month, Day 4

Here's a new one. If you would like a prompt, what are you doing lately that makes you feel good? Write a poem about that.

Walking

I had forgotten how it felt
To be out in the air
By myself
Stretching, looking, wondering.

Yesterday, I went along the street
Picking up trash
Consciously making an offering
To the Lady of the Land

Today, it was so brisk and chilly,
I hurried a little,
Making steam with my breath
And counting my paces.

And when I got home
I thought deeply.
How is it that I
Have so long neglected this simple joy?

So...it's not exercise
Not any more.
I won't fall into
The trap of "I gotta".

It's a privilege
It's a joy
My self-time,
Daily communion with Nature.

So...every day
Because I want to,
I will go out.
Don't bother me, I'm walking.

National Poetry Month, Day 3

I am going to celebrate National Poetry Month, this year, with my own work, some recycled, some new. Here's a prompt for you....What's the first "-ing word" that comes to your mind? Make that your poem's title, and proceed in accordance....

Here's mine, one I wrote a number of years ago for My Honey, on seeing her photo seeming to look down on me from the wall. I looked back, and I called it...

Peeping...

I sit here in my armchair
Gazing at your face
Smiling down from the wall at me
With your accustomed grace

Or sometimes, when you’re busy
I just glance, unnoticed,

And you put me in a tizzy,
Even when you’re fully focused
On whatever you are doing.

I can sneak a look and wonder
How long have you been brewing
The spell you have me under?

I fall away from my own work, uncaring
And watch the play of light
and shadow in your eyes…

It's always a surprise,
And always a delight,
To look when you don’t see. How can I, daring

To disturb your concentration,
Even for a minute,

Intrude on you with talk of love
And how deep I am in it?

I love to rediscover how lovely you can be
while doing something focused,
that is nowise about me.

No matter how many times
I see you on the sofa
It is always a surprise that I never quite get over.

That you love me?!?

Then you look up
and give me that impish grin
and remind me once again, brand-new,
how deep the love I'm in...

No matter what you’re doing, I can be
As stealthy as a cat, and turn my head
And try to see
What are you thinking? Watching? Doing?

But…It never fails...

You will look up at me,
as if I had just called your name, instead
Of silently

just touching with my eyes…as if I touched, pursuing.

And love prevails.

You are forever somewhere, in your head
Or in a job of work…but I, unknown,
Can watch as if I were not there,
And know that you alone
Belong to me. On any day I gaze
You are within my view. The lamplight plays
Upon your hair, your skin…you have your work

But I….have you.

National Poetry Month, Day 2

Today's poem came to me from a random thought I had during the morning's reading session, so I am not sure it is worthy of a prompt. I suppose we might say, write a poem based on an idea you got from whatever you're reading....My own prompt is complicated. I got the thought from a book of fiction I'm reading, but the actual place the idea originated is a quote from the Bible. So...whatever you're reading, what kind of poetic thought does it engender? For me.....

Turnabout

They wandered in the desert,
A people lost, abandoned,
Long before escaping from the plague in Egypt's land,

They'd always been the lost ones,
The wandering outsiders,
Convinced their God had sent them forth to wander in His name.

They knew that they were Chosen,
The only ones who knew Him,
The one God, He who told them they must worship at His shrines,

Disclaiming other Godness.
And so, within His writings
There came the Word forbidding any wasting of the seed.

They learned that it was better
To give a whore one's children
Than to ensure, by wasting, that there'd be no child at all.

Because they were the Chosen
Yet always few in numbers
They were enjoined from ever wasting seed upon the ground.

There was the tale of Onan,
Who would not be the father
With Tamar of a child he must support, yet not his child.

For centuries they've used it,
All Biblical non-scholars,
To justify forbidding masturbation, and to say

To all who would prohibit
Conception of more children
That anything that interferes with pregnancy is sin.

Today, I wandered into
The world of exigesis,
To find which verse, exactly, gives the context to this rule.

The way I'd always heard it,
"Tis better that the seed be
Cast in the belly of a whore than spilt upon the ground".

Surprisingly, I found out
There IS no verse of scripture
Which says this, nor in any way implies that it is so.

The "verse" is fabrication,
Cast into ancient diction
To make it sound like scripture, so the message would ring true.

Indeed, that very Tamar,
Not fertile, due to Onan,
Seduced her husband's father, and was not cast into hell.

And so, today, I wonder,
How many other places
Are we certain of a shibboleth which never has been real?

How many other "scriptures"
Are the work of politicians
Who need the strength of God's word to support their feeble own?

And most of all, who are we,
We herd of "chosen peoples"
Who somehow think it honors God to not think for ourselves?

National Poetry Month, Day 1

Poetry Prompt--It's a Nine-Nine-Nine....closest book to hand, page nine, every ninth word, nine words total, and nine lines. Extra credit if you use nine words per line. Omit prepositions and conjunctions, as well as proper names...use every other word in your count. See what you can do with it. Here's mine:

Quick-Table-Story-Eastern-Fall-Dingy-Dignity-Found-Use

Too Little, Too Late

I remember a story my father told me once,
A tale of an eastern star, remote and cold,
And of its fall into oblivion, due to being
Fixed on its dignity, at the expense of brilliance.

Dad reminded me that I also was too quick
To judge, to assume, to decide that some dingy
Remnant of someone's life, laid on their kitchen table
Was beneath my use, too simple, not wise enough.

And then, he died. I found his words.....eternal.

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)