Tag Archives: crow

Balreask, by pd lyons


pdlyons photo, artist unknown - paris

pdlyons photo, artist unknown – paris

after 2 years living in Cape Breton we returned to Ireland. for a short while we stayed with Michelle’s family in Balreask, while we sorted out a house of our own. This poem was written then 2004 – I was still a bit high about being in Ireland again. Maeve is , for me the goddess of sovereignty of the land. It was a good morning.

 

Balreask

Earliest morning I been up

Since we got here

Out in the garden Qi gong cup of tea

One crow on the aerial above the chimney

Is that you ?

Is that really you Maeve?

Yes you are sleek and shiny really beautiful today.

Tilts her head towards me

As if surprised

Then clucks a few syllables in return.

Can we stay Maeve? Can we make our home here

Well not exactly here but in this country. Are we really coming home?

She leans further towards me, opens and closes her beak, leans closer

then whistles three gutsy in her throat whistles & flies.

The grass needs tending

It just might rain

Beginning is the least I can do

 

pd lyons photo artist unknown - paris

pd Lyons photo, artist unknown – Paris

2 more from Ravens


I know forever is the memory of your touch

Angels with broken wings

I taste the sin they bring

I want to cling to them

But something always haunts me

.

Lust that is true,

Dreams that have gone astray

Down every road you know there’s really nothing much to choose

The siren’s sweet lament

Their spell is my intent

But there’s something in my head denying my attempt

A kind of howling sound says I am pledged to you

.

I cross the thousand years

Part the veil of tears

Despite the demon fears

I’m reaching out for you

And breaking through at last

The circle finally cast

Kneeling down I bow my head to you

My sword at your feet

My crown on your lap

My heart into you hands

I am my Lady’s man

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Balreaske

Earliest morning I been up

Since we got here

Out in the garden Qi gong cup of tea

One crow on the aerial above the chimney

Is that you ?

Is that really you Maeve?

Yes you are sleek and shiny really beautiful today.

Tilts her head towards me

As if surprised

Then clucks a few syllables in return.

Can we stay Maeve? Can we make our home here

Well not exactly here but in this country. Are we really coming home?

She leans further towards me, opens and closes her beak, leans closer

then whistles three gutsy in her throat whistles & flies.

The grass needs tending

It just might rain

Beginning is the least I can do.

Image

Siane. Part 2 (from basa nuvo poems by pd lyons)


 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 

Siane. Part 2 (from basa nuvo poems by pd lyons)

 
PART II
 
When I was born I saw the world through the eyes of a crow. For at least three maybe four days. On the day the crow returned my soul to my body I was able to see through my own eyes. The first person I saw through such eyes was she who was my nurse. When I was older she told me of this event. Explained how I was special because usually crows do not return such a lost or stolen soul. That children’s souls are so sweet they are usually eaten right away. But she had this feeling about me and stayed by me constantly during those days so that my worried parents might try to get some rest. I asked her if it was because my soul was not sweet that it wasn’t eaten. She laughed and told me that even the most wicked person was born with a sweet soul.
So what did I see when I saw through the eyes of a crow? Well one day as I was still child enough that all chairs were big enough for me to curl up in, I did so in the kitchen. Staring into the fire I heard the voice of my nurse, softly, tenderly she spoke and quietly falling asleep still hearing her voice I began to dream. and she, from whom I have never had reason to doubt and from whom I have only known loyalty and love, this is what I told her from my dream state about those days when I saw through the eyes of a crow:
A great grey sky almost to rain. Leaves gone to colour muted by soft and steamy morning. While Below, arched like great green cat backs, farming lands bordered by trees rowed up like man soldiers behind walls of stone which long ago toilers of these fields had so piled. Then as if in memory I saw them, those man-things building walls. Stones like teeth, roots like tendons pulled from a dark open earth. Then as if in further memory I saw those same lands in a time before the man-things, a time when all was tall forest, hard wise wood forests before the man-things came….
But now its only overgrowth, sapling and briar borders along these scrubby pastures where I must keep my attention. Now my vision follows the lay of the land, rolling down to a small valley curling with a silver stream then over again until directly below me a field just before the water slips into the woods. It is a field now for the dead of men. Vivid in an otherwise dull landscape their blood pulls at me. A rare moment – Not only much flesh but none among them upright, none to bury these fallen in the ground as if some seed to sprout anew. Now they are still, delicate, exposed, but I cannot let my vision linger long. There are my comrades feeding, they will leave aside some favourite scrap for me. But I cannot let my vision linger long. I the watch must keep… Until, finally I hear their call “Come. Come. Come.”. my legs tense with a will of their own, push off, the earth happy to see me rushes up in greeting and with a jolt I’m standing wide awake before the kitchen fire.

 

 

 

 

may all who journey


where does sky begin

where does sky begin

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