Airmid's Cairn
Bones of the Ancients
lie undisturbed
within the heart
of Airmid's Cairn
Message from the Crows
Put down your fancy gadgets
the "distractors"
your escape from reality
with their false light
put pen to paper
and remember
Corvids
Corvids take to the sky
surveying the landscape
as only they can
with generations of understanding
Stone walls
cascading down rolling hills of green
Cottages
changing hands
through the generations
Crumbling ruins
still withstanding
the test of time
The trees
whispering stories
hidden language
Corvids return to their home
to ponder the world
as only they can
through the eyes of ancients
Godafoss, Iceland 2018
Faces everywhere you look
Making their home in the rock
Invisible to many
who choose to remain oblivious
Ignore the warning signs
and wander where none should tread
Fearless where fear would serve them well
Scenes from a Mall - Part Four
Like bards
they travel from shop to shop
the staff
a captive audience
Their purses empty
Their hearts and minds
bursting
with stories to tell
Most are old as time
a lost job
a lost love
an illness to be reckoned with
Every once in a while
something unique
makes it's way to my little corner
Causing me to give pause
to reflect
to reconsider
The doctor is in
5 cents please
Scenes from a Mall - Part Two
Surrounded by the din
voices rise and fall
a community
I have no desire
to be part of
Scenes from a Mall - Part One
Rather than unfurling gently
like a flower
she violently rips herself open
spilling a lifetime of atrocities
over the tile floor
Momentarily satisfied
she smiles
and goes about her day
leaving me drowning
in her grief
Quiet reminder
A small smudge
the brightest green
a souvenir
from Heapstown Cairn
My manifestation quartz pendant, charging among the moss at Heapstown Cairn.
Heapstown Cairn
Very much alive
untouched
laying in slumber
Energy builds
to be experienced
by those who
do not visit
with the intent to take
but rather
to share
in a moment
The Other Crowd are strong at Heapstown. They're all around you, luring you into all the little nooks and crannies.
Time seems to have no meaning. What feels like just a few moments is actually 30 minutes. What feels like 30 minutes is over an hour. What seems like an hour is closer to three. Everyone seems to have the same reaction. They feel themselves fading into the Otherworld and go willingly. There isn't any amount of time that is long enough and when we finally accept that it is indeed time to leave, we do so very slowly, pausing every few steps to take it all in.
I was pulled into a small grove, bathed in green. I stood there, dumbstruck. Uncertain what to say, I broke the rules.
"Thank you."
I regretted it as soon as the words left my lips. That is the number one thing you NEVER say to the Good Neighbors. To thank them indicates an acknowledgement of debt and if there is one thing you do not want, it is to be indebted to them.
I searched in vain for something to say, some way to make it right. I removed a piece of Labradorie from my pocket, placing it on a branch. The intent was to photograph it in this beautiful setting. The moss would be a gorgeous backdrop.
It remained there for only a second before tumbling to the ground. this unintended gift, lost to me forever, but hopefully well-received.
IN ORDER FOR AN OFFERING TO HAVE VALUE,
IT MUST BE A SACRIFICE.
You're only as strong as you are at any given moment
Even stone fences
when pushed
will fall apart
A day at Trinity College, Dublin
Each footfall carried her further into the past
the cobblestone under her feet
grounding
Ancient vibrations
circulating
filling her with a sense of awe
Willing herself
to still her mind
and absorb
Microscopic brilliance
left behind
but not abandoned
Companions and adversaries
grand inspirations and hushed conversations
echo through the ages
Monastic manuscript
spiritually inspired artistry
calfskin transformed
Survivor of raids and wars
decorated with indigo, lead, and copper
now speaks quietly from beneath a class enclosure
The human tide
moving ever forward
building up momentum
Once again
stilling her mind
wishing them away
She stands among
the ancient texts
piled to the ceiling
Carefully guarded
by marble busts
and the spirits of those who once were
The circuit completed
she steps out into the sun
forever changed
A collection of thoughts, lasting impressions, a gift to Ireland
Trad night at Clancy's Bar.
One night, as we gathered for supper, Thorn asked us to choose a line from something we'd written that we felt best represented our personal journey to Ireland. Something that spoke to us and that we would carry with us.
Each of us wrote our chosen line on a sheet of paper. Thorn took the sheet back to her cabin and in the quiet hours of the night, combined those lines into a shared poem.
A stream at St. Brigid's Well.
I keep trying to photograph things that can’t be photographed.
I came in search of lush green land and found instead Fae Magic’s hand
This is a basilica of life
This is a place of truth, fierceness and hard edges
The trees talk louder here
Rocks have stories, ancient and bold
They sing to those who listen
Silent, resting, awaiting resurrection
The stones are a witness across time
storing memories
The thistle calls out to me
The poet’s voice interlaced with threads of Ireland’s troubles
On the hills and in the caves, gnosis lies hidden, but we know truth
The sun winked through the clouds at Loughcrew Cairn
red as an Asian poppy in the equinox sky
I thought I couldn’t be happier
then Tiffany danced
Scones, lovingly made by Claire.
Path to St. Brigid's Well.
A Promise at the Well
We stood
calling to Brigid
Asking nothing
for ourselves
But rather
offering to leave
something behind
A soothing balm
Not to replace
But to bring balance
We were told the story
of the sacred stone
now part of
some posh foreigner’s
art collection
To be ripped from the ground
and transported
so far from home
to be possessed
instead of appreciated
honored
shared
Thousands of stories
such as this
Thousands of
bits and pieces
taken
for no other reason
than the assumption
they won’t be missed
So we stood
calling to Brigid
Making an offering
from our hearts
To sooth the pain
To heal the wounds
An attempt to bring balance
For far too much has already
been taken
With courage, fill my heart
Battle is your art
With courage fill our hearts
Queen Maeve
- from the album "Motherland" by Lori Llyn
http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/lorillyn
Maeve's Mound - photo by Sky F. https://skyaisling.wordpress.com/
She stood on the hill, the mound in the distance. Here, she was told the legend of Queen Maeve (Madb) and how she ruled Connacht. Maeve's Sovereignty was not bestowed upon her. She stood firmly in it, embraced it, lived and breathed it.
She listened to the tale of the Battle of the Two Bulls and how (when it was over) the Brown Bull of Cooley carried the white bull, Finnbhennach throughout Ireland. As pieces of Finnbhennach dropped to the ground, place names, landmarks, and monuments were created.
The mythology and legends are so much more than stories. They are alive. You can walk the land and see where the battles took place, where marriages were consummated, where heroes were born and laid to rest. Is this connection to the past what brings so many here, each on their own Quest to find their own connection?
The Hill of Tara
The crows call out to me
“She is here! She is here! She is here!”
Not meaning me, of course, but Her.
The one. Herself. The Morrigan.
A relationship that I did not seek out
but found me just the same.
An energy so powerful, so ancient
that once sensed it cannot, will not be ignored.
I make my way through the gate, past the graveyard
the energy rising to greet me
Onward to the grassy path
a brief pause, and then I climb
All the while the crows call out
“She is here! She is here! She is here!”
I silence my ego
the part of me that will question everything
Casting doubt and throwing shade
destroying the sacred
in favor of insecurity
keeping me stuck
Connecting with the land
and all that occurred
since it all began
I wait
She does not speak,
but rather
introduces Herself
with a nod and a knowing smile
The crows are silenced
welcoming Her into the space
waiting
for Her instructions
She retreats
and
sensing this
they take to the sky
“She is here! She is here! She is here!”
We Saw a Vision
A hush fell over the Pilgrims as they entered the Garden of Remembrance. A solemn but beautiful place, it was one of quiet reflection. Her eye was immediately drawn to the large sculpture at the top of the stairs. A nod to the Irish Legend, "The Children of Lir".
The pool guides your eye upward toward the sculpture.
"The Children of Lir" (Clann Lir / Leani Lir), who were the victims of their stepmother's jealously and as a result, were cursed to live as swans for 900 years.
The park is a memorial to all those who fought and died in the hopes of attaining Irish Freedom.
Inscribed on one of the walls is the poem "We Saw a Vision", written by Liam Mac Uistin in 1976. This would not be the last time she wished she had learned Irish.
"In the darkness of despair we saw a vision,
We lit the light of hope and it was not extinguished.
In the desert of discouragement we saw a vision.
We planted the tree of valour and it blossomed.
In the winter of bondage we saw a vision
We melted the snow of lethargy and the river of resurrection flowed from it.
We sent our vision aswim like a swan on the river. The vision became a reality.
Winter became summer. Bondage became freedom and this we left to you as your inheritance.
O generations of freedom remember us, the generations of the vision."