CelticPoet12 Poetry (42)

October 10, 1995


Across the black water, a gentle breeze stirs,
reflecting the moon’s face in soft golden light.
Nocturnal creatures ease close to the lake shore,
where they drink, hunt and feast, while cloaked by the night.

The pearl moon wears the same placid expression,
unchanged since the long night first followed day.
She hovers, watchful of harvest and earth.
Her powerful spell can lead mortals astray.

A silent voice beckons, "Look to yon hill crest,
past outlying fields of cornstalks and wheat.
The moon unveils the great walls of Camelot.
Hear thee the wind’s song, and hear its heart beat.”

A radiant glow crowns each object and shape,
conjuring scenes from a medieval tale.
My whimsy gives life to faeries and dragons,
and Round Table knights questing the Grail.

One silhouette stands apart from the grand oaks,
whose presence the pearl moon greets with a sigh.
The enchanter, Merlin, looks to her smiling,
enriching his soul with the nightingale's cry.

My mind’s eye can see a small, obscure window,
framing Guinevere’s face as she prays for her love.
Her will and her conscience conflict painfully;
she begs to be cleansed in the pearl moon above.

Across the black water, a gentle breeze stirs.
The moon rises proudly; a huge shining pearl.
The magic and imagery summoned from legend,
returns to my dreams, in a blink and a whirl.

Whispered on the restless wind

Love's blissful promise sent

To seek and find the someone

For whom my love is meant

My voice to gently soothe him...

provoke his heart to care

Warm embraces, lingering

The passion lovers share

Know our hearts have touched in dreams

And there our souls awaken

Weaving tight our precious threads

Unbroken nor forsaken

Held in wait, such treasures

For when shall come the day

The answer in a whisper

To me shall find its way

Hey dear poets and friends! Have wonderful THANKSGIVING. I have much to be thankful for this fine day. I am blessed to have met so many wonderful friends here and for the growth I've experienced along the way. I wish you all peace, love, truth and happiness in your corner of the world. Sincerely, Mistress Celtic!

June 30, 1992

Speak not above a whisper
Though crying out inside
Sacrificing simple needs
It’s safer just to hide

Betrayed by all emotion
These complex traits ingrained
Some inherent, some are learned
And some are unexplained

All those years believing, spent
Firm, without exception
That some are born to suffer
Granted no protection

The sickness is our secrets
Those shadows of disgrace
Damning truths we still believe
The hope our fears erase

Speak well above a whisper
Shed safely all concerns
Life has been a frenzied maze
Of complicated turns

Stand and earn your freedom
For now, look not behind
You have enough to deal with
You have yourself to find

July 12. 2012

Before your lips press together with mine,
LOOK, really look into my eyes with great care.
If you see in them NO invitation,
they mean what they say, so please be aware.

I will not give my heart away lightly.
I will not decide or settle in haste.
Heartache has wounded me far too often,
and time is something I’ve none of to waste.

Before your lips press together with mine,
attention to detail would serve you well.
Before you assume you have a green light,
how many things about me can you tell?

In some ways, I fear I’m an open book;
my heart on my sleeve, right there before you.
We need to learn the important things first;
honesty and trust...I know that I do!

What about integrity and virtue?
How many things in common have we?
If your goal is to simply steal a kiss,
I will find you out, and you’re not for me.

I’d like some romance the old fashioned way,
when a kiss meant “I like you, very much.”
There was buildup and anticipation;
sweaty palms and thrills from the slightest touch.

To a woman, a kiss is revealing.
There must spark and a true connection.
I need to look in your eyes and your soul
for the promise of love and affection.

To sort out and nourish our every need,
all things must fall into place naturally.
Before we give of our most sacred self,
the light in which we stand, must bless and free.

May 26, 2012


For days I’ve been feeling this sense of dread,
when I would open a cupboard or drawer.
I felt I could hardly breathe, so I ask:
what do I hold on to all this stuff for?

Dear self, what might psychologists say?
I sense the truth would go down a bit rough.
I can hear the words: “You’re in DENIAL!
Why do your fear you’ll never have enough?

Not enough love or material things
to pad your life, to feel safe and secure.”
This is a question that hits close to home.
Deep down inside is the answer and cure.

A cluttered life reveals a cluttered mind.
Sooner or later, the DUE POINT is reached.
The internal chaos translates, unfolds;
the thick castle walls, indeed, have been breeched.

Welcome to progress...my lucid moment;
an Epiphany, years in the making.
I look around at the state of my life,
and find myself nauseous, hands shaking.

Every cupboard and closet, mind and home,
shall be stripped and held in scrutiny's light.
This chrysalis shall yield a BUTTERFLY,
with finger painted colors, bold, sharp and bright!~

PART ONE OF TWO

The castle overlooked the vast Cornish Sea,
where Lady Igraine birthed a strong, healthy daughter.
The High Court of Cornwall feasted in celebration,
applauding Duke Gorlois as husband and father.

Morgaine was dwarfish, with piercing blue eyes.
Some say that fairy blood ran through her veins.
Her fate was to answer Avalon’s calling,
and revive the old ways with the dawning of change.

The child was fostered far from her mother,
and childhood coursed with study, not play.
Her maidenhood kept for the rites of Beltane;
so sacred a thing would Vivian betray.

Arthur remembered the eyes of the maiden,
for he was the Hunter at Beltane that night.
While Morgaine went queasy, silent and bone chilled,
her mind was crazy with panic and fright.

Her own dear brother had sired her child,
the bastard kin of Arthur, Camelot's King.
How could she tell him the horrible truth,
knowing the scandal and pain it would bring?

Arthur’s betrothed, the Lady Guinevere,
was the maiden he loved with all of his heart.
Merlin knew well she would prove herself false,
and in time, she would tear his whole world apart.

Versed in the old revered art of the druids,
Morgaine knew herb lore, magic potions and charms.
The spinning of spells was not without cost,
or she would have taken to Lancelot's arms.

How was it Guinevere dared to reproach her,
with sins of adultery and lust on her mind?
Time and again, she did well betray Arthur;
when her womb gave no yield, she thought God unkind.

King Uriens of Wales, wed the fair Morgaine;
a man old enough to be her grandsire.
At nine years and thirty, her purpose seemed scattered.
The King's son once kindled her passion and fire.

Once she had fought him with all of her might,
till his charm and persistence won her at last.
Handsome and virile, how Accolon teased her,
but that was a time that belonged to the past.

A time when they bowed to the will of the Goddess.
in service of Avalon, ensconced in the mists.
The mark of the blue crescent moon on her brow;
the great serpents twining 'round both of his wrists.

Morgaine resisted the fate of her calling,
not Queen of North Wales, at Uriens side.
She long had been groomed as Priestess of Avalon,
who ran all these years, yet still could not hide.

The wee fairy folk looked on from the woodland,
speaking in whispers none other could hear.
Their voices led Morgaine straight to the Ring Stones;
the circle of life, wherein, all things were clear.

Five years were spent retracing her footsteps,
the teachings of Avalon, she now must recall.
Each day, there was left, a gift near the Ring Stones,
by fairies who longed for their Queen to stand tall.

When Uriens died, Morgaine took her leave,
and journeyed to where seemed the edge of the world.
Her heart beating fiercely, she parted the mist,
watching as Avalon, before her unfurled.

The bells chimed out at Glastenbury Abby.
She thought of her mother and wanted to cry.
One served the Goddess and one the Jew King.
With a heavy heart, Morgaine passed its shores by.

War had begun its great sweep through the land,
while a dreadful homecoming awaited Morgaine.
The High Seat of Avalon was soon to be hers,
the Priestess, Vivian, had been recently slain.

An angry exchange occurred their last meeting.
Morgaine was lost in the throes of regret.
The people of Avalon grieved, seeking guidance.
Rebuild, they would together, but never forget.

Morgaine had finally made peace with her failings,
when a voice and a vision gnawed from within.
She rode hard toward Camelot, choking on fear,
and there found reward for her ultimate sin.

Gwydion spewed forth a lifetime of anger,
the son of her own flesh and Camelot's King.
He charged at his father with hatred and malice,
screaming, then knowing Excalibur's sting.

Morgaine cried outright as never before,
the truth of this deed taking shape in her head.
Arthur was dying by Gwydion's blade,
alas, their dear son, he already was dead.

Arthur’s passing marked the end of an era,
though Camelot’s legend was never to fade.
He and his son were buried in Avalon,
lovingly honored as celtic harps played.

From that day forward, the Lady Morgaine,
cared little to venture from Avalon’s shore.
Her visits were mainly to Glastenbury Abby,
where she found contentment as never before.

September 10, 1982

These walls have cracked and settled, for many many years

Often I have heard it said, that every wall has ears

I know these walls have witnessed, each joy and tragedy

They know the lies and love, within this family

These walls contain a history in nail holes and glue

In layers of paint and paper, so long ago were new

These walls have worn the marks of artistic tiny hands

Fingerprints and pencil lead, lipstick, dirt, and crayons

These walls have served as shelter for keeping out the rain

They've guarded every smile and frown, well within its frame

These walls have made a home for all who stepped inside

A certain warmth and comfort, laced with so much pride

The cracks have grown wider...one last look around

We say good-bye with sadness as mournful echoes sound

Avert thine eyes from mine, I beg thee.
Thou speaks and thy voice comforts.
A voice like soothing hands,
I dare say,
able to reach and stir
the very depths of my soul.
I beg thee, stand afar,
lest ye be alerted
to the savage pounding
of my heart in my breast.
Thy presence weakens me
regarding all things thought settled.
I am haunted by a restless longing
to pour forth for thee,
words I have shared with no other.
I ache and flush
as thine eyes hold my gaze
and I catch thy sweet scent.
Merely thoughts I reason,
yet truth be my wish
for thy savory lips to mine.
Wicked temptress!
Shame scorns me,
for my skin craves thy touch,
thy warmth;
the embrace I trust would be strong, yet tender.
I am haunted by images of burning passion
and perfect love.
Is it fear that makes me tremble?
Alas, I know but one kiss
would be my undoing.

Bards who recorded Arthurian legend,
remembered the imprudent Round Table knight,
who quested for long years in constant pursuit,
of the Beast Glatisant, who kept well out of sight.

The beast, they all said, had the head of a serpent;
its body, a leopard’s, sinewed and taut.
The hindquarters and tail were those of a lion;
yea, this was the Dragon that Pellinore sought.

The knight swore in blood his unshakable passion,
before kin and country, peasant and crown.
This Dragon would know the sword of his father,
and with one great thrust, he would lay the Beast down.

The monster was clever and swift as the wind,
leaving Pellinore weary, body and mind.
His obsession brought much grief upon his household.
His spirit grew somber, his words more unkind.

At times, the great beast would bay near his chamber;
so haunting a cry, that he quarreled with sleep.
Come dawn, he would search all the crannies and caves,
from cliff sides to mountains, both rocky and steep.

His prime years behind with no conquest in sight,
he would not accept that his quest was in vain.
Though his sword arm was strong and breath filled his lungs,
the Dragon had taken his life all the same.

Scoundrels and drunkards embellished the stories,
of men frightened senseless, the Beast ate or burned.
One midsummer day, a knight rode out eastward,
to search for his Dragon, and never returned.

This is your special day ~ I love you mom.
Think back to the day you first looked at me...
this tiny, helpless, brand new baby girl,
whom you held in your arms so lovingly.

We wonder what path our children will take.
We witness all the changes as they grow.
We marvel with joy each accomplishment,
from the first “I can do it!,” fast or slow.

Every mishap sent shock waves right through you.
How many bandaids for ME, Miss No Shoes?
My poor right toe, I stubbed SO many times.
We warn our kids, but the truth is, THEY choose.

How many times were you blue in the face?
How many times did you cry in the night?
Mothers are never strangers to worry.
Learning means sometimes you don’t do things right.

I want you to know that I thank you mom;
in spite of our troubles, love paved the way.
Forgiveness has made us better people,
with loving, more constructive things to say.

With all my heart, I love and respect you.
I recognize that your life wasn’t easy.
We struggled to do the best that we could,
but I did hope to make you proud of me.

This second chance has given us blessings
and I have felt your love across the miles.
It makes my heart full just to hear you laugh,
and there's no greater joy when MY MOM smiles!~