Imbolc - Brigid the Goddess of Poetry

 
summoning my strength I purify the rite  
a ritual to bring in new life  
death holds no power over the renewing of spring  
a song for the moment  
true lovers meet in the green of the day  
where love is fertile bringing new life to the aisles  
 
chaste of vision I chant  
let's be merry  
inside the solemn vow, I have kept my promises of virtue  
 
sacred soul a part of the dawn  
innocence blushes and rises to what is pure  
a sanctuary of time a renewal of all things  
taking note of winter's pause  
When Father Frost withdraws his gnarled fist  
 
I Brigid within the sunlight's bliss  
bless each blossom and seed  
that dares pierce the soil  
feeding the masses from my breast  
 
sing a song of plenty  
oh poets of on Imboic's day  
we shall reap from the bounty  
 
my healing spirit will bless you  
take heart I am among you  
 
 
 

                                      For Brigid
 
A blank page lays open-handed
ready to hold this story
but all that oozes from the veil
is a memory of a memory
 
You appeared while I was writing
Specter from a past life
my Celtic blood lived
 
Conversation becomes the hardest thing to carry  
under the weight of history
Our own senses become weapons
for and against yourself
over what to believe
 
Your sweet skin of fog
escaped from its sepulchre  
becoming the chill winter morn
 
You asked if you needed a calling card
or soap box platform
to be remembered  
to offer what’s inside your heart—
that healing touch, like soap  
which washes us clean
 
Not the nightmare
that canonized your name
in a saintly manner
designed to absorb your existence
but the dream where we overcome
such a tyrannical religion
 
From that day forth
despite stones of judgment
from those who wished me saved—
I offered my bones as a lifeboat
rowing your truth ashore
from their disinformation war
 
My right hand is never empty
but packed with promise
like this blank page before me
waiting to hold the weight
of whatever it’s going to take
to restore history to its rightful place
 
I used to wish  
that chaos wasn't stirring
its insect legs in wait
to swallow another fact
or life
 
Now I know no one ever leaves
before that one thing is accomplished
that one destined thing
preceding transcending the flesh
 
It may be one small thing
but still change the entire course
of human evolution
 
My life is different now
having felt your phantom hand
I see your face in the light
hear your voice in the ritual
of lapping waves against the boat
rowing you into the present moment
where you rightfully belong
 
Your gentle Spirit
a whispering specter of mist
over the water, so grateful
for newfound belief  
in ancient truth

 
Sun returns to earth
and warms cold, damp soil
Seeds awaken from dormancy
and new vigor springs from them.
 
And our eyes drink in the wonder!
 
Goddess blesses the earth and its interior.
The fields, the herds and the homes...
She brings healing, inspiration and art.
SHE lights the sacred flame.
 
And our mouths touch the dense sky!
 
Imbolc is time for renewal,
of cleaning out the old and preparing the new.
Honor the life that is reborn
and give thanks for the gift of fire.
 
And our hands join the energy.
​

I heard her breath upon the dusk
the evensong in whispers husk
called, in the fading chirps
roosting birds,the last allerts

We felt the empathy reclaim
for each of us, held the chain
in the Green Mans root and branch
winter past and spring advance

Brigit danced with words betrothed
for in birth, gestation to a close
felt the lactose of the sun
 ready breasts the earth becomes

Encamped beneath the frosted moon
fantasies that still prevailed,spoon
the mead, honeyed herbs upon wounds
welcome milk held in the womb

Assembled, listen when she spoke
auburn hair waved to her waist
 jeweled words and settings grace
celibrate, seasons as they uncloak

Wildlife standing so bewitched
a symbiotic creature in their midst
music of her ringing tones
 unseen spirits, leprechauns and gnomes

We see her now in silvered cloud
sun backed surf, crashing loud
expected air of pregnancy
spring swelling with vitality

Virgins may, the ceilidh prance
flowered lace upon each branch
 echoes, her lyrics wing benevolence
entwines, Imbolc pertinance

 


 

I know nothing of Saint Brigid  
and I suppose I should  
but winter remains quite frigid
if I'm not burning wood,
 
or switching on electric heat
to smell potatoes bake,
and roast the water, rinse, repeat,
for showers that I take.
 
But if she is another muse,
a patroness of verse,
she'll sweetly daze, and thus enthuse,
my thoughts to intersperse...
 
for lexical fertility
to stay in shape for spring,
and ward off imbecility...
like Martin Luther King!