Brighid's Fire

It rises in my head And words come to me, Sometimes poetry, Sometimes just a thought. Always, I am sure That words are my tools. Now, I think again. Not just words. Not just The babblings of my mouth, Not thought of, Not planned. That's just not good enough. It's not, any more. Now the words must arise From deep inside me... I was told, long ago, That Silence was Craft. I haven't Learned it yet. I still talk too much, I interrupt too much, And I don't say much. So now, I'll make a change. Odd thought, for a Bard, That Poetry is still. That words are all wrong. That what I need to do Is learn to shut up. I have too much to say. When anyone speaks, I always add my bit, No matter the need. It's time to let that go. My Goddess, my Brighid Is Mistress of the Word And knows its true use. The Fire In The Head Burns out, if not kept In sacredness, and used Only when there's need. So I-- I will begin To practice Silence, To Listen, as my gift To Herself of the Flame. My heart will still be full, But I will not speak. Perhaps, if I do this My own Inner Flame Will once again burn bright. Perhaps She will hear And know it is for Her That I remain mute. The truest Gift of all Is hard to attain. For me, to speak is easy, To babble and chat. Remaining still is harder. So....I will do that. Aisling the Bard, Imbolc 2010