Breathe

Beautiful… ❤

Pagan Blog Project – W is for The Wild Hunt

Åsgårdsreien (1872) by Peter Nicolai Arbo

Åsgårdsreien (1872) by Peter Nicolai Arbo

The Wild Hunt

written by Miaerowyn

My God is out hunting, He yearns for the kill
Howling and thundering upon the stormy gale
My God is out hunting, only death will make Him still

In darkest wood, blustering field and wind-torn hill
His host searches for His unwilling prey
My God is out hunting, He yearns for the kill

The scent is caught, His wolves close in at will
Hunger glowing in their dark eyes, they will not fail
My God is out hunting, only death will make Him still

Long moments pass, then all becomes still
A breath is taken, the prey yet whole and hale
My God is out hunting, He yearns for the kill

Silent in turning to move from the dread chill
Directly into His figure the prey jumps with a wail
My God is out hunting, only death will make Him still

A spear through the heart, He cries out at the thrill
The prey carried to His hall to be devoured with ale
My God is out hunting, He yearns for the kill
My God is out hunting, only death will make him still

Pagan Blog Project – O is for “Over Those Tree Filled Hills”

image

Over those tree filled hills
You’ll find most magnificent peaks
Crushing Earth moved together
Forming stark heights

Snow-covered rock
What once was the core of terra
Now sun bathed
Against the twinkling of night’s stars

There You stand
Laughter in Your eyes
Light dancing on Your skin
Hand out for me to take

We run, we dance, we fly
Above this valley You share with me
Of eternal blooms and nourishment
We shall want for naught

As You sing magic into my soul
My fear falling away
My awe of You expands
Mine own songs find my lips

– Miaerowyn

Winter Fires

Winter Fires
Now, as winter  fires
fall soft and low,
and the snow is tossed
and blown about,
I find in the blankets
of my weary head,
the comfort of things
I might of said.

In my tiny bed
of make believe,
the dragons, the demons
are glad to leave.
And the icy chill that wraps
the window pane,
is lost to the warmth and wonder
within my brain.

So, the wind may blow,
the fire may die,
but neither can ever
ferret why . . .

I smile
I choose to ignore their face
gone to the memory
of some happier place
by Linda Copp

When The Frost is on the Punkin

When The Frost is on the Punkin
by James Whitcomb Riley (1853-1916)

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as her tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then the time a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here–
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock–
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries–kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below–the clover overhead!–
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

Then your apples all is gethered, and teh ones a feller keeps
Is poured around teh cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!…
I don’t know how to tell it–but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me
I’d want to ‘commodate ’em–all the whole-indurin’ flock–
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed – and gazed – but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

-William Woordsworth

Sources:

  • Image: Bobbie Burgers