Liturgy
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On the Other Hand…(A Love Letter)
So, I’ve been a little hard on the Pagan community lately. I’ve decried abuses and hierarchies, lack of political engagement, and the leftovers of the sexual culture of the 1960s that still thrive in many corners of it. Those things are true, in my opinion, and I stand by them. So why, one might ask, do I continue to be a part of a community of people who I find so problematic? Well, let me tell you: because it’s wonderful. In all my experience, no cohort of people has ever been so smart, interesting, creative, unique and, by and large, genuinely good-hearted. Weird, yes—but isn’t that just a synonym for creative? Despite blind…
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A Dawn Prayer
Whose warm love flows across the land each day Stirring Life, the world’s magic, arms yearning up, Turning each green leaf to follow. Whose generous balm Upon the skin is love’s touch, ahhhhhh heated fingers soothing, Whose roar boils water from ocean to sky Drawing sweet from salt, becoming rain, snow, river, lake; Whose fervid beat upon us is deadly, and yet Contemplating cold stars how we miss it, the Golden One, quotidian center Of our days, steady companion, sower of treasures great and small: Light-bringer, Life-quickener, dazzling, unbearably bright, Hail, oh hail the magnificent Sun!
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May Morning
With love for all of you, on this the eve of May Day… May Morning Fresh as the day the world was made, This morning: dew-spattered through feather fans Of foxtail and wild rye. Mars is low on the horizon, for once. Still As a caught breath, the day, hushed, Holds for a slow-golding time, the rose hints Of bold and bright to come, of music Yet to be made, dances old as the village, new as tomorrow’s milk. How can it be, four billion, five hundred million years, the old and battered Earth, Veteran of ice and fire, meteor, petroleum, stupidity, avarice, ignorance How can it be, this innocence:…
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The Avalanche–A Poem for January
The avalanche took our home. A wave of ice drove us before it, And everything we thought we had we loaded on our backs And fled, but no luck: the cold fist ground us under. Home. Years. Love. Work. Health. We cried as it passed over us, scraping, Pinned in place, locked in dim blue light: Frozen. The avalanche took our hope. We lay motionless, pockets collapsing about us Stripping away more and more, and we did nothing: Only gazed upward, and mourned, and remembered And night came, and all disappeared But a smear of muted stars. And it wasn’t until the sun returned, and murky light Bathed us in…
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Mulled Wine
It begins where the smoke hits your eyes: smouldering peat, Mutton stew on a broad iron hook, Deep snow. How can it ever have been summer? Apples wrinkling and mice in the barley— With so much to fear, thank fortune for company! We’ll tell our tales, remember how we passed the cold Last year, and that before. And those who couldn’t. The grape leans across The seasons, clasps the hand of summer’s Dried rind, dreaming the new fruit, Calling the sun back, World without end amen. —Mark Green
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A Winter Spell
O cold, inexorable darkness Draw back now beyond these circling walls. Should fear, and want, and danger walk It shall not be, it is not here. Let this place of warming light Bulwark against freezing night: a promise Holding through the day that we, come nightfall May sleep safely, cozy, soundly in the soft Down drift of love and food and enough. Pass on, cold night. Howl your rages, Pelt your icy javelins. Blot the stars and Dance the barren trees in anger. But come not here. Pour upon the freezing ground Your brutal rain, but step Not one foot within this woolen nest. Have your time, o winter dark. But…
