A Year And A Day....

One year and one day ago, March 1, 2010, my dear friend and brother, Roy Moorman (Cuchulainn) was untimely taken from the earth in a tragic car accident. I wrote this that week as a tribute, and I post it here again as a remembrance. He is being honored by the opening of Salt Lake City's first Pagan Community Center, Crone's Hollow, this coming weekend. I honor him here by remembering the man he was, and offer thanks and honor for his having been in my life.

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, Cuchulainn, 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)

From my amazing son...

...I found, in an old BOS, this poem, this morning. Written to me in 1991 on Samhain, when he was 22, and shared here because it's wonderful:

Stretch the taught tendon
--flex mind
Circle the cortex (lines of thought)
Feed the blood
Fire;
Cringe not at truth
But smile at your reality
For laughable life is ever entertaining
And tears may be the most prolific teachers.
Spin the dance of love
Eternal.
Life is round, and so it comes
And bids farewell
To the body,
But never to the soul.
Fill your shoes in hope with dreams;
Walk the fear-lined path to solace
But never in loneliness.
Tread in the eyes of others
Never forgetting the color of your own.
Speak in peace to kindred souls (and foreign)
Never pace alone
And be not weary.

*****

Damn, I wish I'd written that! But I love it that my kid did, and gave it to me. So now, I give it to you.

Once More, With Feeling....

Brighid, again....
Once more, with feeling,
Once more, Her festival.
Once more.

Brighid Duffy of Kildare,
My long-beloved ancestress,
Daughter of Duffy,
As am I.

An unique woman,
Unlike any other of her time.
"Not like other young things"
Said the poem.

She wanted to marry God.
She thought she was special,
She thought she had something to offer
And she did.

Look at this world,
Thousands of years later.
Everywhere, all over the globe
We know her name.

She is Springtime.
She is snowdrops
Blooming in the snow.
She is Hope.

She is Barding,
She is creating something
Where nothing was before.
She is Song.

She is Making,
She is using hands and heart
To make the world better.
She is Craft.

She is Healing.
She is waters of comfort
Flowing over bruised flesh.
She is Love.

On this day
The sun shines brightly
Onto melting snow.
It is Her day.

And she gifts us
With the sound of water
Snow melting, rain falling,
Life returning.

I will sing today.
I will do something loving.
I will make something new.
I will praise Her.

I have written
This poem, in the morning
On Her day
And for Her.

Brigid, my Mother,
My Ancestress, My Goddess
My inner Fire,
My Harpsong...

Burn bright.
Dance today, old limbs joyful
Sing with me
Voice rich and full.

Create with me,
Something new and lovely,
Making beauty
Where was none

It is Your Day.
I praise You
Once more,
With feeling.


Aisling the Bard, for Her Lady
Imbolc, 2011

About the Harp

It breathes.
I feel it, nestled against me,
breathing my breath
before I strike a note.

Living it sings
With a voice
Larger than my hands,
Deeper than my heart,
Higher than my dreams.

Seeing it stand there
Is sheathed potential.
Arrow-strings taut, tensed at any sky,
It is a Now,
A Doing,
Unlike any other place or being.

I stretch
to reach all the strings
And feel life beneath my fingers
Unexpected
because I have not made it,
Engendered it.
It is its own,
Not mine.

It breathes there
It lives in the soul of former musics
Calling, crooning

Sleepsong
Griefsong
Laughtersong

And that other song
Self song
the one I play when no one is listening.

It is a place,
A time,
A history,
A Universe

How can people say
"the harp is so relaxing"
When within its voice
Are children and battles,
Wars and kingdoms
Births and alliances...

And yet it cradles me
like a lover
And sings songs
I never knew until it spoke.

Harp
Is a verb.

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

In The Belly

She quivers behind my lips all winter,
Never speaking, but filling my mind
With words unuttered,
Thoughts of poesy in silence,
Postponed for warmer days.

She dances in my old limbs,
Never moving, but filling my veins
With warm blood,
Making me wish for days long gone
When I was the night-dancer.

She lives inside my thoughts,
Never acting, but filling my head
With bard's fire,
Sparks of imbas, stored up,
To burst forth in springtime.

She flows in my stilled hands,
Never crafting, but filling my fingers
With stored skill,
Plans for drawing, painting, writing
All for later execution.

And then it comes...
La Fheile Brid, filling my Being
With Herself, Her Inspiration,
Her Creative Spark,
Her Healing Waters,
Her Ringing Song...

Brighid is coming!
Brighid is coming!
Brighid is here!

And I am no longer
In the belly....

Welcome Brighid....
All this you have given me,
All this which comes forth,
All this is Yours..
As am I.


For the Lady
Imbolc, 2008
Aisling the Bard

The Genealogy of Brighid

Every day and every night

That I say the genealogy of Brighid

I shall not be killed,

I shall not be wounded;

I shall not be harried;

I shall not be put into a cell;

No fire, no sun, no moon will burn me;

No water, no lake, no sea will drown me:

For I am child of Poetry;

Poetry, child of Reflection;

Reflection, child of Meditation;

Meditation, child of Lore;

Lore, child of Research;

Research, child of Great Knowledge;

Great Knowledge, child of Intelligence;

Intelligence, child of Comprehension;

Comprehension, child of Wisdom;

Wisdom, child of Brighid.

*********

Brighid's Arrow--an Invocation Most Holy Brighid, Excellent Woman, Bright Arrow, Sudden Flame; May your bright fiery Sun Take us swiftly to your lasting kingdom.

Healer's Rune Brigid, you are a woman of peace. You bring harmony where there is conflict. You bring light to the darkness. You bring hope to the downcast. May the mantle of your peace cover those who are troubled and anxious, And may peace be firmly rooted in our hearts and in our world. Inspire us to act justly and to reverence all that God/dess has made. Brighid, you are a voice for the wounded and the weary. Strengthen what is weak within us, Calm us into a quietness that heals and listens. May we grow each day into greater wholeness in mind, body, and spirit.

Brighid's Rune

I, _______, (your name) in this fateful hour

Place all Nature with Her power;

The Sun with its brightness,

The Moon with its whiteness,

The Fire with all the strength it hath,

The Lightning with its rapid wrath,

The Winds with their swiftness along their path,

The Sea with its deepness,

The Rocks with their steepness,

The Earth with its starkness;

All these I place

With Brighid's mighty help and grace

Between myself and the powers of darkness.

******

Brede's Breastplate (The Deer's Cry)

I arise today through the strength of Heaven:
Light of Sun,
Radiance of Moon,
Splendor of Fire,
Speed of Lightning,
Swiftness of Wind,
Depth of Sea,
Stability of Earth,
Firmness of Rock