Lantern Jack

Dank tendrils of

a misty miasma

caress the land

somehow, ill at ease

 

Padding soft across

all the shaven fields

haunting the crows

out gathering seed

 

Jack-o’-lantern lights

the marshy bogs at night

homesick as he patrols

the cusp of all the twilight

 

Between the copse

and the meadows

playing hide and seek

with memories

 

Ready or not

here he comes

deep in the furrows of time

ploughed and furled

 

Collecting the flints

and chalking deeds

haunting the daylights

out of all the living

 

He flickers in between

will-o’-the-wisp

a faerie, pixie light,

torches in the breeze

 

Close the windows

lock the doors

lest he blow

dream-dust in your ears

 

Reaping wheaten loaves

the catcher in the rye

bakes drum rolls

in a timpani oven

 

Palming dream grains

in his cauldron fingers

blowing dragon breath

upon fading embers

 

To ease the Phoenix

the ashes out

teasing the tears

of a forlorn dawn

 

Jack is abroad

with his magic sack

sprinkle, sprinkle, all

dreams to twinkle

 

Hush the rush

the lantern comes

to plant seeds

in the clouds of thought

 

His pantry always full

unscrews the jar

kept many winter through

and places the dreams

 

In his magic flute

to key finger threads

upon the duvet downs

that still doze, dozy

 

Jack-o’-lantern lights

sleepy hollow

and starts their dreams

their dreams for tomorrow

 

As he tip-toes past

he checks off the names

from his shopping list

granting each a single wish

 

Now with the call of dawn

the reeds and peat

whisper him back to bed

and lay down his weary head

 

For Jack must again dream

his pantry full

and pack his sack

before the mist will call and pull

 

For lantern Jack

there is no rest

must sow all those dreams

from his magic sack.

 

Fog “Haiku”

I love fog and mist, they are of course in reality, dragon’s breath.

Everbody sane knows this.

———————————————————————-

dripping with silence

the fog embraces

a vellum envelope

 

no breath breathing

a distillation of dew

way before its dawn

 

the spectre of a barn

hidden coyly

beyond a misty fig leaf

 

wet blotting papers

with no ink of sun

to irradiate diamonds

 

cling like chewing gum

to the damp

pavement of the day

 

soon the Tenebrae

of dusk, will tip toe,

up the green carpet

 

this sceptered isle

will lay its head

on pillow down

 

the fog will give

of its febrile feathers

to comfort in sleep.

 

Things That Go Bump in The Night !

Anál nathrach,

orth’ bháis’s bethad,

do chél dénmha

“The Charm of Making” Merlin or Myddrin.

If you chant this charm, this mantra, in deep voice it sounds pretty damn spooky. I’ll wager that should you and I ever find ourselves sat around a fading camp fire in an isolated spot and I struck up the chanting. You would have the metaphorical hackles on the back of your neck stand up. You might even shit a brick.

There are loads of people who pooh-pooh the paranormal and things that go bump in the night from the safety of their armchair. But once again I’ll wager that many of these, despite their professed rationality, would not go willingly and alone into a supposed haunted house. Also, if they are brave enough to watch horror movies, they might jump from time to time.

The day we arrived here I went down to the river to talk with the korrigans.

“In Breton folklore, a Korrigan ([kɔˈriːɡɑ̃n]) is a fairy or dwarf-like spirit. The word korrigan means “small-dwarf” (korr means dwarf, ig is a diminutive and the suffix an is a hypocoristic). It is closely related to the Cornish word korrik which means gnome. The name changes according to the place. Among the other names, there are korrig, korred, korrs, kores, couril, crion,goric, kornandon, ozigan, nozigan, teuz, torrigan, viltañs, poulpikan, and paotred ar sabad.”

To me it seemed to be the most sensible thing to do, to say hello and to ask their permission to live amongst them. I was ultra-polite and “spoke” from my heart.

Over the weeks which followed we encountered various ward off charms around the house at “entry points”. These were left by the previous owner a practising catholic, there is even a place where the sun has bleached the outline of her crucifix into the wallpaper. When we were looking for houses out in the Breton countryside, we on occasion noted witch marks, inscribed to ward off bad witches. To a man with north wales blood, this seems perfectly natural.

So, what we profess and how we behave or respond may differ markedly. People like the sound of their own voice.

We were having some odd occurrences here, so I went around the house wearing my insignia and with a smudge stick smouldering. There was something up on the top floor in one of the attics which I encouraged to leave.  When I got into the vide sanitaire, a kind of basement, the smudge stick burst into flame. Residual methane or something that goes bump in the night? I did a deep cleanse.

I mentioned before that my personality is seventh ray. I like planning…

Here is the technique of integration as per The Tibetan.

Ray Seven

  ” ‘I seek to bring the two together. The plan is in my hands. How shall I work? Where lay the emphasis? In the far distance stands the One Who Is. Here at my hand is form, activity, substance, and desire. Can I relate these and fashion thus a form for God? Where shall I send my thought, my power the word that I can speak?

‘I, at the center, stand, the worker in the field of magic. I know some rules, some magical controls, some Words of Power, some forces which I can direct. What shall I do? Danger there is. The task that I have undertaken is not easy of accomplishment, yet I love power. I love to see the forms emerge, created by my mind, and do their work, fulfil the plan and disappear. I can create. The rituals of the Temple of the Lord are known to me. How shall I work?

 ‘Love not the work. Let love of God’s eternal Plan control your life, your mind, your hand, your eye. Work towards the unity of plan and purpose which must find its lasting place on earth. Work with the Plan; focus upon your share in that great work.’

The word goes forth from soul to form: ‘Stand in the center of the pentagram, drawn upon that high place in the East within the light which ever shines. From that illumined center work. Leave not the pentagram. Stand steady in the midst. Then draw a line from that which is without to that which is within and see the Plan take form.’ “

For a period of months, when I got home from my day job teaching science and had eaten, I would light five candles in the shape of pentagram within a circle as per the famous Leonardo da Vinci diagram. I entered from the East and lay down in perfect alignment. I would then mediate and do the Toltec Dreaming practice prone on the floor for around 40 minutes. The candles had to be lit in sequence. When I was finished, I left the pentagram by the East and then extinguished the candles in reverse order. It has to be ceremonial or it does not work.

I’ll wager than none of my colleagues ever imagined that I was doing this.

{After all they knew me so very well and understood all my motives perfectly…}

If you think about it things like graduation ceremonies are forms of ritual magic. A whole bunch of geezers dress up in fancy robes and then process up to a stage like in my case The Royal Albert Hall. The initiates of higher education walk through those about to receive their degrees. There is a master or mistress of ceremonies and some big wig hands out the degrees. Ritual magic is everywhere, just look at the funny wigs in the UK courts. The gavel…you get my drift.

If the world can be explained only by science, as it currently stands, there are no things which go bump in the night. They are illogical and figments, they do not exist.

As a thought experiment:

How strong is your faith?

Would you walk in a graveyard at night?

Would you come with me into a haunted basement?

If I sounded the charm of making and the Dragon’s Breath began to manifest, what would you do?

Waiting for Annwn

Hiding beyond the tangible edges

a secret ninja writes runic beginning

borne by the postman’s bat like wings

as fate impregnates the future’s concubine

 

The winged feet of Hermes

pitter patter in the nursery

to resolve the racemate

on one hand this, on the other that

 

The silent swish of parachutes

harbingers of some noumenon

full of swirling nativity

for which there is no crib sheet

 

The monkey puzzle tree

ever enigmatic clothed in stealth

that no radar might ping it coming

a creative Creole dish now simmering

 

Steaming slowly from out the fissure

of days yet to find dawn

the Dragon’s breath it breathes

its misty nascent magic on the land

 

The spectre rides pterodactyls

the pigeons of the past

with a pod of secrets coded

which no cipher can

 

The hush of Awen exhales

acorns of potential

scrambled in the eggs

which need first to break

 

The omelette of tomorrow

yet unfolded in its pan

which the pipers play

too far from ears

 

The pregnancy of now

has not taken full hold

the purpose ectopic

what chance the embryonic path?     

 

An incoming alphabet of letters swirl

in the tea ceremony

to the beat of a bristle brush

stretched on the rack of Raku glaze

 

The unbearable wait of pendant

hangs head bowing heavy

around the neck of how

and of what and of where

 

The sergeant cries incoming

into all the shell like ears

all hairs stand at attention

creased sharp between the shoulder blades

 

Formless yet still shaping

a first hint of substance

itches itself out the prime

and scratches scale to weigh the order

 

The swings and roundabouts

turn wind in the playground

waiting for the break

through all the children’s laughter

 

Hiding beyond the tangible edges

a secret ninja writes runic beginnings

borne by the postman’s bat like wings

as fate impregnates the future’s concubine

Mists of Dragon Lore

I have a bit of a “thing” about dragons. I have a joke that I was aiming to incarnate in Bhutan, saw the flag of Wales and ended up in Cardiff instead. Born in the year of the dragon, in a land of dragon lore and now living in Pays du Trégor …

——————————————————————

Flag of Wales (1959–present).svg

Flag of Bhutan

The flighty Golden Dragon

swims through the air

filled with coy and cunning

shining, shimmering, volatile, majestic

 

The Green Tree Dragon hides

just outside the window

whispering healing,

through the panes and leaves

 

The red, Red Dragon breathes

fire and brimstone

sensuality, passion

blood

 

The Blue Dragon soars

sober and scholarly

with eyes that see,

further

 

The Thunder dragon

sounds hammers

in the mountain anvils

and forges

 

The Chinese Dragon

tells riddles

and rhymes

of changing wisdom

 

And the crying free man

born Son of Dragon

carries blood

in his claws

 

Blood of ages

carried across Galaxies

from other aeons

and he is a most Ancient Dragon

 

Go now to the place

the place appointed you

and coalesce

coalesce the Eternal Mists of Dragon Lore


 

Hidden Dragon

Beneath the granite

the slate and the shale

dripping mystic tears

the cave broods

lachrymal

 

Each hesitant drop

marks time, as it

ekes a basin

out the rocks;

the metronome of destiny

 

Myddrin of the opened eye

watches from afar

as Taliesin he opines

and verses Bardic on

the gathering Eisteddfodau of dreams

 

‘neath the cornerstone

the hidden Dragon stirs

scratching an ear

with a claw,

pensive on his waking

 

Who calls forth

the Dragon from his sleep?

Who has the temerity

to enter his brooding lair?

Who summons the Dragon’s breath?

 

Stretching lithe

and yawning wide

he flexes wings

unfurled flags

and blinking eyes

 

He remembers when

he came here

from the Dragon’s realm

high on the cosmic planes

to be Sentinel

 

Again the eye is open

he climbs out the cave

to his mountain Eyri

to espy

the world of men

 

And he breathes

the very hush of Dragon’s breath

rolling over fields

under doors

to permeate, to permeate

 

The breath clings

holding its magic lore

intact, sensing smells

and nuance

as the Dragon now inhales

 

He breathes again

primordial

Jurassic

and before

to cloak the world

 

For in the mist

of Dragon’s breath

only he can see

and as the Sentinel of eternity

he must ever watch

 

With eyes keen

beyond ken

and sharp,

as sharp

as the Sword of Taia.

 

Y Ddraig Glas

the very last of the Sentinels

is now abroad

and his aeonial purpose

beckons