“RoMa Johnson, a Druid scholar, sets out to build bridges between Druidism and Christianity, describing these different approaches as hailing from the Well and the Chapel. Her radical exposition of communion between the two addresses the intimacy and the visceral nature and fierce and tender love that is ever present...

As the sea-gnarled boatman guides his small craft in to shore, she sees a mottled crowd gathered on the strand: a few men come down from their chores, a few strong-armed women, their skirts sheltering peeking children.  Her welcome party.  She sees in their faces the eagerness of orphans...

Omaha | Elephants | 4th of July Picnic | Blanche | Rusty | Thanksgiving | Thanksgiving 2020 | Dial M for Murder | Pheasants | Christmas Pageant | Feeling Objects

The Mirage

Last week it all seemed like a mirage, really, I mean we knew, of course, but it wasn’t real if you know what I mean. The map of the world turned red, country by country and I found myself thinking, well, we’re all one color now...

About those Boots by the Door | About that Tree

There comes a time in every outward journey

when you reach apogee

the mathematical

hypothetical

mystical instant of the orbit

when you are furthest from your life

and you feel the curve of it

the swerve of it

the pull of it

toward home . . .

I boil an egg.

The kitchen smells of egg

well, it’s not a kitchen really

          a cooker

          on a shelf

          under a window

          in a hut

          in a garden

          in a village

          in a park

quaint and lovely as those painted eggs we used to get

nested within each other . . .

Oh these two-candle mornings

post-Samhain

the ephemeral veil

between us and the beloved dead

thickens once more

folds over and into itself . . .

I have come to believe that aliens are among us,

But that doesn’t mean they belong.

They might walk-in to our disused bodies,

But it would have to be—to them—

Like one of us putting on sealskin trousers,

Then swimming out to sea.

Inhuman inside a human...

South of Iceland I look down and see her

Cresting the fetch in her tiny craft,

Riding down the long green wave.

Brave she sits inside the skin

Carrying only one small dirk,

One dram of water.

All around her the seabirds soar

Blinding white as seraphim,

White winged

Long necked...

There was a way she walked that reminded them

of someone…

a flickering memory… a hand reaching for a hem.

Sometimes little bits of light escaped

from the folds and seams of her clothes

ephemeral as fireflies, not catchable, not caught, but

sticky in a way, as if

if you touched one...

Flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap

Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack

Whuh, huh, whuh, huh, whuh, huh, whuh, huh, whuh, huh, whuh

What is the wind (around us) made of?

Not hard.

The breath of sun.

The sweat of moon...

What if they were to meet

in the cloistered garden, there on Iona,

What would they say to one another?

+    I am the Bride of Christ.

•     I am the bride of no man.

+    I clothe myself in humility and walk in silence...

What if

Jesus and Merlin were to meet

At twilight 

In the garden, in the grove,

One looking forward to the Skull of Golgatha,

One looking back on the Sacred Head of Bran?

What would they say to one another,

These men, these gods,

Who live in time beyond their lives...

There was a fish

who lived in the sea.

S/he never thought of the sea

or dreamed of the sea;

it never occurred to herm.

S/he never wondered if the sea loved herm,

or where the sea ended (or began).

The sea, well, s/he had no concept of the sea.

I am the map you strive so hard to read.

I am the staff conveniently found

near the dangerous crossing.

I am your boots and

the dust on your boots.

I am the high breeze bringing

ice air from the mountain.

I am the castle keep of your destination...

A single stream of rain pours from a damaged gutter,

blows slantwise in the heavy gusts,

a straggling thread from the long grey gown of

Cailleach Bheur, Hag Queen of Winter,

bringer of storms.

Some say she is one-eyed,

old,

with bad teeth and

matted hair...