http://fromdeepinthetrees.blogspot.com/

Art: By Russian Artist, Andrei Shiskin, 'Druid'

A Wizard Be

Little birds chirped, their pronouncement of the day, from upon the twigs and branches; where their balcony's of Oaken groves and coned giant's sway. Soughing upon breezes. playing among frosted strands, for an old man's joy, who so delight's, as they strum upon his hair, in the words they have to say. 

For this is Merlin, stoke's a little fire, from clay bed in the forest floor; nearby a quiet stream of running water. He's gathered all delicious herbs, from here and there, about the wild. He's taken them at times of  moon, or times of sun, enchanting them on walks, both deosil and widdershins. Considering the dark enriching earth...he'd leave a few for god and goddess's purview.

He temptingly enfolds the truffle'd lot in blackened pan, and then...the real treat; his first spring eggs, about the time of Eostar, whipped in, with a bit of wooden stick...he'd found. Quarter palm sized stones of speckled brown on white...three times, three wishes granted for his stomach sake..."god bless the birds of heaven, that do make these wond'rous  charms."

There, beside the fire...on it's hearth of flattened river stones...he takes his leave to let it cool, smelling that good odor of an incense known to bring a man to life, that first full meal since the winter's cease. Returning he, from meadow, there...to reconnoiter, he heard a buzz, and there...upon his skillet sate a little bee...gorging his repast.

"Buzz off! Buzz off!" he gently said..."gee find ye own, for this be mine...entire." But the little bee, ignoring he...continued on. Merlin being Merlin, wasn't cross...for a lonely man was he, so, befriended the wee thing and let it be. And they, as happ'ly as two were ever, caressed the meal with grace...until every crumb was gone.

"So, go on, little one", the Wizard spake, but it would not...then lit upon his hand, where dancing deocil...it said "I hold a gift for thee, yonder...over there", and flew. Curious, Merlin followed, for he'd heard the words such fast little wings had spoke. There, where his buzzy bee had led, were a tree all dead and hollow; deep within, a prize of golden flowing amber.

Nay one sting, did the wee bees of the hollow strike, for they said...''Ye were kind to our fellow, our wee 'buzz'...now ye are a friend"., and they swarmed upon his clothes and they kissed him and left, and promised him ever...their sweet nectar. The buzzy bee again came near his ear and asked..."may I visit thee, from time to time...for I too, am different from my kind and lonely?"

Thus, they did, and ne'er a stranger bond, than a bee, the wizard called 'buzz', and the man who is a 'Seer'. All the spring time and summer, onto fall...where the when, a wizard made them all a nest to see them through the strike of freeze and snow...and even through the midst of that, that wee bee would whisper in his ear..."Time for tea, my friend...for tea...good morning thee".


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Russian artist, Andrei Shiskin, Druid

Return To The Wild

Mankind needs to return to the trees, to be free and fearless of their naked insecurities. They hide in their cities, cloistered and cloned, with every possible light on...yet, they still feel fear. Let them, rather, join the creatures. Have a howl. Feel the fresh imperative in their loins, the unwashed lusts of earthiness again. 

Let them go, back to the first beginnings...where it all came from. May they slip their leash and run...their horney heaven come, to the bush, beyond backwater roads where sounds of nature whisper, or roar or scream or sing, their animal song...not to harm, but for privileged grace to simply live another hour in this paradise. To see and feel once more...to hear with hearing ear of every thing...the seeing eye, within the self, that tells us who we are. 

For God is there, in those, less trodden glens, where mists arise on mornings...from the rutted guts and nostrils of the wild things. So, go...for god's sake go, while you still have a soul, and worry not...your battery is down..your flashlight flickers...and is out. Just Howwwl! Runnn! with your maddened heart...gulp breaths of real clean air, slurp gouts and glops of puddled waters, laying there, just laying there...and nest, among the furred and needled branches...of the way it always were.

And if you die in flight, running through the night...what matter, if you never know? Is it better, this 'not being' that the city safety offers, or to feel yourself alive...My God! Alive! Forever more, somehow...this creature comfort, you could come to realize? And...if we do survive, to witness, once again...the world grow, and give and take, from up there, high...away, within the glens and glades and groves of hidden harmonies...I hope, we never look back.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Penny Parker, Wolf howling at the moon, from Pinterest.com

http://fromdeepinthetrees.blogspot.com/

The Sow

We live in a time of 'emergence', when strange new things come forth, suggestions of strange new things, and rumor's...because, everything is spun, nothing is really known, and there are few to trust. Years ago, when I worked in Scottsdale, Arizona as a cashier at a major all night gas station, the cops would come round, periodically, to say..."Don't you fall asleep, Bruce...you stay awake. You have NO idea what goes on here, in 'peaceful' Scottsdale". I confess, for them it must have been happening. For me...no. I've whistled down too many dark roads and alleyways, to expect I have a choice in the matter. I am conscious and cautiously aware of the dangers, I must face...in the event, my experience propel's me into danger. I pray to my god, my power and go forth. What else can I do, for a quart of milk, or a gallon of gas, on the irony of an empty moonlit walk, after running out of petrol? It's all dreamtime now, and story tellers. But there are real story tellers; Seanachie, The word seanchaí, which was spelled seanchaidhe (plural seanchaidhthe) before the Irish-language spelling reform of 1948, means a bearer of "old lore" (seanchas). In the ancient Celtic culture, the history and laws of the people were not written down but memorized in long lyric poems which were recited by bards (filí), in a tradition echoed by the seanchaithe. ( foregoing from Wikipedia) Not journalists, making it up to suit the winning story, or favor the editors politics. ' Storytellers, in the classic sense of an ancient tradition, 'knowing' their hearts, 'knowing' the shadows they see, and what the shadow's suggest. Emergence is a crossroad of time, where the inevitable collides with the 'unforseen'. Very few, know how to see, and these 'seer's' were revered by ancient tribal people, for they were that forewarning, that was needed to protect the tribe. It is no different now. And it say's "there shall come, many false prophets", and so there shall; and so there are. But as the process of 'emergence' deepens and the dream becomes deeper, and what may be trusted and known, becomes lesser, people will once more turn to those with the gift of 'the seer, or 'Sow'.

It is easily supposable, that in the time of Merlin the Enchanter, when Clotha, the goddess, ruled men's minds in the Alth Clud, now known, as the Strathclyde valley of Scotland, tribal peoples about the area turned toward the Druid sage and seer, Merlin. Then, the Sow, would tell them, with his dreamtime stories, gleaned of the light and shadows, of his fore knowings...there about the campfires, in the deeps of the great oak groves of the ancient Calidon forest...what they could not know. Their eyes would glitter. The fires would flicker, and the seer would thrill them, with the telling of a tale. Their creature eyes would grow wild and wide, unto almost changing...into what they were.

There are many tales of Merlin, and by many...he is much loved...still. He is the great Wizard, the Magician, the Enchanter and Prophet of the sixth century. Very little is truly known of him. Supposition is rife , or outright fabrication, but none of these offences quell his wisdom, or the reality of his being, in the minds of those who wonder and love him. That is where he is...now. Within that archtypal realm, he travels still and speaks through his poetry's. He understands 'The Battle of The Trees, the 'twigs' of grammery, The Cauldron of Rebirth.

So, it's all here, set before your eyes...what the seer saw, for those with eyes to see. As the shutters are closed, on the light of the world, and fear becomes the god of all. Candles will be lit and campfires...and people will gather and ask and listen. They will seek of the wise people, and beg of the seer to grant them knowledge. Have no fear. You all enjoyed children's stories. Dragons, Wizards, Witches, hidden realms of awe and enchantment. It's coming back. It was never gone. You just never really asked of...The Sow.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Merlin, artist presently unknown

Myrddin (in English, Merlin) is a Welsh legendary figure best known as the wizard featured in Arthurian legend. The standard depiction of the character first appears in Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae, written c. 1136, and is based on an amalgamation of previous historical and legendary figures. Geoffrey combined existing stories of Myrddin Wyllt (Merlinus Caledonensis), a North Brythonic prophet andmadman with no connection to King Arthur, with tales of the Romano-British war leader Ambrosius Aurelianus to form the composite figure he called Merlin Ambrosius (Welsh: Myrddin Emrys). He is allegedly buried in the Broceliande forest, near Paimpont in Brittany.

Geoffrey's rendering of the character was immediately popular, especially in Wales.^[1] Later writers expanded the account to produce a fuller image of the wizard. Merlin's traditional biography casts him as a cambion: born of a mortal woman, sired by an incubus, the non-human from whom he inherits his supernatural powers and abilities.^[2] The name of Merlin's mother is not usually stated but is given as Adhan in the oldest version of the Prose Brut.^[3] Merlin matures to an ascendant sagehood and engineers the birth of Arthur through magic and intrigue.^[4] Later authors have Merlin serve as the king's advisor until he is bewitched and imprisoned by the Lady of the Lake.^[4]

Rhydderch Hael (Welsh: Rhydderch the Generous, fl. 580 – c. 614) was a ruler of Alt Clut, a Brittonic kingdom in the Hen Ogledd or "Old North" of Britain. He was one of the most famous kings in the Hen Ogledd, and appears frequently in later medieval works in Welsh and Latin.

Early Medieval Era[edit]

David Nash Ford has proposed that Dumbarton was the Cair Brithon ("Fort of the Britons") listed by Nennius among the 28 cities of Sub-Roman Britain.^[1] From the fifth century until the ninth, the castle was the centre of the independent Brythonic Kingdom of Strathclyde. Alt Clut or Alcluith (Scottish Gaelic: Alt Chluaidh, pronounced [aɫ̪d̪̊ˈxɫ̪uəj], lit. "Rock of the Clyde"), the Brythonic name for Dumbarton Rock, became a metonym for kingdom. The king of Dumbarton in about AD 570 was Riderch Hael, who features in Welsh and Latin works.

During his reign Merlin was said to have stayed at Alt Clut. The medieval Scalacronica of Sir Thomas Grey records the legend that "Arthur left Hoël of Brittany his nephew sick at Alcluit in Scotland."^[2] Hoël made a full recovery, but was besieged in the castle by the Scots and Picts. The story first appeared in Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae.^[3] Amongst lists of three things, in the triads of the Red Book of Hergest, the third "Unrestrained Ravaging" was Aeddan Fradog (the Wily, perhaps Áedán mac Gabráin), coming to the court of Rhydderch the Generous at Alclud, who left neither food nor drink nor beast alive. This battle also appears in stories of Myrddin Wyllt, the Merlin of Geoffrey of Monmouth's Vita Merlini, perhaps conflated with the battle of Arfderydd, located as Arthuret by some authors.^{[4]Source: Wikipedia}

Ceridwen (pronounced [kɛrˈɪdwɛn] Cer-id-wen ) was an enchantress in Welsh medieval legend. She was the mother of a hideous son, Morfran, and a beautiful daughter, Creirwy. Her husband was Tegid Foel, and they lived near Bala Lake (Llyn Tegid) in north Wales. Medieval Welsh poetry refers to her as possessing the cauldron of poetic inspiration (Awen) and the Tale of Taliesin recounts her swallowing her servant Gwion Bach who is then reborn through her as the poet Taliesin. Ceridwen is regarded by many modern Pagans as the Celtic goddess of rebirth, transformation, and inspiration. Source: Wikipedia.

According to the late medieval^[8] Tale of Taliesin, included in some modern editions of the Mabinogion, Ceridwen's son, Morfran (also called Afagddu), was hideously ugly, so Ceridwen sought to make him wise in compensation. She made a potion in her magical cauldron to grant the gift of wisdom and poetic inspiration, also called Awen.

The mixture had to be boiled for a year and a day. She set Morda, a blind man, to tend the fire beneath the cauldron, while Gwion Bach, a young boy, stirred the concoction. The first three drops of liquid from this potion gave wisdom; the rest was a fatal poison. Three hot drops spilled onto Gwion's thumb as he stirred, burning him. He instinctively put his thumb in his mouth, and gained the wisdom and knowledge Ceridwen had intended for her son. Realising that Ceridwen would be angry, Gwion fled. Ceridwen chased him. Using the powers of the potion he turned himself into a hare. She became a greyhound. He became a fish and jumped into a river. She transformed into an otter. He turned into a bird; she became a hawk. Finally, he turned into a single grain of corn. She then became a hen and, being a goddess (or enchantress, depending on the version of the tale), she found and ate him without trouble. But because of the potion he was not destroyed. When Ceridwen became pregnant, she knew it was Gwion and resolved to kill the child when he was born. However, when he was born, he was so beautiful that she could not do it. She threw him in the ocean instead, sewing him inside a leather-skin bag (or set him in a coracle, depending on the story). The child did not die, but was rescued on a Welsh shore – near Aberdyfi according to most versions of the tale – by a prince named Elffin ap Gwyddno; the reborn infant grew to become the legendary bard Taliesin. Source: Wikipedia

Later interpretations[edit]

Taliesin (fl. 6th century) (/ˌtæliˈɛsᵻn/; Welsh pronunciation: [talˈjɛsɪn]) was an early Brythonic poet of Sub-Roman Britain whose work has possibly survived in a Middle Welsh manuscript, the Book of Taliesin. Taliesin was a renowned bard who is believed to have sung at the courts of at least three Brythonic kings.

Prophecy of Merlin (Prophetiae Merlini), sometimes called The Prophecy of Ambrosius Merlin concerning the Seven Kings, is a 12th-century poem written in Latinhexameters by John of Cornwall, which he claimed was based or revived from a lost manuscript in the Cornish language. The original manuscript is unique and currently held in acodex at the Vatican Library. The text is an example of the popular prophetic writings attributed to the sage Merlin, which ascribe to the early bard prophesies relevant to the author's time. In this case the prophesies relate to the struggle between Stephen of Blois and the Empress Matilda, but the poem also contains local Cornish allusions of great interest.^[1]

The Bright And Morning Star

She bore him, nursed him upon her breast, used to sing him lullaby's, to make him sleep. She rocked him, woo'd him, coo'd him in his nest, then, solitaire, she'd hourly play and...cheat. She had a 'split', within her soul, you'd see a mile away, within a mirror. She healed the sick, raised the dead, and when the Pure Ones, wouldn't honor her, with place upon the Mayflower, she swam to this New Land...instead.

She had a babe in a manger, but denied it. Her hair would swim in a water pot, just to be rid. She came from generations of wisher's and will'rs, as well as his father had. Both sides living with power, humbly hidden away. What hath he? A few words to say, and...by God, they will be said.

The White salmon swam, and his grandmother owned..."He seems a strong one." Sam Hill stood, beside the river, where he left a thing, perhaps he thought might stand forever. Or till now...to mark the moon, to mark the sun...to mark the time remaining to us all...playing on the water. He hath seen and he hath known, and he hath knocked upon the doors that welcome will not open. He hath wearied of it all.

The seals, that were, are not so well sealed now. The secrets...he abhor's, as black crows pick at the breast of his true mother, where her bones, of stones, lay...where her ribs pierce through the darkness of deep forests, and his father cannot rest...in sky, for lies told here. Watch the weather...watch the fire...listen to the wind, whispering you, in tongue that only Holy Angel can transpire.

So, know...your time has come.You have wrecked or endeavored to wreck a sweet and sound and watered world in the dark dark sky, but you fail, for your shadow is not righteous, nor to heal. The sons and daughters of The Risen will make sure of this. Leave...now!

He love's his land. He love's his world, as was given from his father. He is sore to see her used so. When the words come, and the runes be in his hands, and they sing to him of many things...before his people, he will rise to bring you down, with mirror and staff, and the key of his power to open or close time...forever.

He love's his people. Harm them not. The power in Trinity will not save you, for it is not of you. Your blessings are blighted and damned lies, and the gnashing's of your teeth can be heard in the halls of the buried places, where you thought to save yourselves.

It is not to be. It is not to be. Go now, or meet the light you fear, in a bairn of one you could not control.

Requiem will be held for a soul, in a mass of the dead. She will not be judged as you had hoped, but stand again...whole; by the side of the boy she saved, for he knows of the powers that pressed her, and how she fought so.

For it has all gone round, and evil done for good, come to take its place. To sort what has gone down, that right be never wronged again, as time itself, affiliate of harm...slither off, to nevermore be found. When blessing be and Trinity, the Grail, the Rose, and he...The Bright and Morning Star.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: catholicexchange.com, Morning-Star

The Cat's Ass

Humans are too busy seeking the highest level, always wanting to be higher than a cat's ass. There is nothing higher than a cat's ass. Keep going on up. You'll see what I mean. Every religion teaches humility. Water teaches humility, seeking and settling in the lowest places, where it shares itself with all. Everest can't take any more of your heat. Give God a break, and just get off your high white horse, and come back down to Earth.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: catster.com