Poem: She is My God

My religion is found in love.
My church rests peacefully under this fig tree.
My rituals are found in the change of the winds, the phases of the moon, the rise of the tides, and the whispers of night.
My prayers are sent to the sun, and my priests are amongst the branches of this old tree.
I confess to the roots, and they lend me their wisdom.
My strength is found flowing from sacred springs of living water.
My hymns are in the song lines of this beautiful earth.
My communion is found in my lovers embrace.
My Bible is written neatly within the constellations.
My soul finds peace in the rhythms of nature- she is my God.

Brooke Hampton is the guardian of three wild and wonderful little earth warriors. She is a defender of light, Mother Nature, unconditional love, magic and beauty. Author of the Waldorf-inspired children's book Enchanted Cedar: The Journey Home. She considers herself an earth warrior, living food lover, organic gardener, wolf mama, wild water huntress, plant Goddess, love's mistress, book reader, home apothecary/kitchen witch, tea addict, love-maker, naked moon dancer, sun gazer, herbalist, barefoot mama. If you would like to get to know her better, you can visit her cyber-tribe online or on Instagram.

Don't Tell the Vicar!

Never Mention the Apocalypse to the Local Vicar.

Being asked to write poetry to fill a spot in the local Parish news was, to me, a way to get views. Even though it was run by local churchgoers. It was always known as the 'normal mag', what you read, like, to find out what’s on, init. No one ever read the church bit, but glanced over it to see if the fish and chip shop was around on Thursday.
 

The editor asked me for a poem for a slot in August. I had a rather humorous poem about potholes. Anyone living in the UK would know the general nuisance of potholes. I thought that it was a great topic for this month’s poetry spot. When I wrote it, I didn’t have the parish magazine in mind. It was a general poem about a make-believe village, written for a day during National Poetry Month which takes place every April.
 

Of course it needed the odd tweak for village life.

I sent the poem off, and a few days later I received a reply:

Dear Stormy. Thank you for the poem, it is very good but I think the vicar may find it offencive with regards to your line about the apocalypse and the reference to the devil. She may not find it too kindly of you to suggest this idea.

How would you like us to go about this? Maybe if we change the vicar from a female to a man, or remove it?

*

Dear Editor. First, tell the vicar to get a sense of humour. Secondly, when I wrote the poem it wasn’t even about the local vicar, it was a make-believe vicar from the village of Twitten. Thirdly, I am offended that you have been offended by a poem that isn’t at all offencive.

I was laughing when I typed it.

Dear Stormy. Oh, please don’t take offence. I am sure it will be fine, we will meet the vicar and see if, with some changes, the poem can be printed.

*

Dear Editor. I have decided to retract the poem, I do not think my poems are suitable for your mag. This is a shame as I have a wonderful ditty about a lesbian bell ringer and a wonderful sonnet about a Vicar in a strip club which I was going to send to you but due to both works featuring the word hell you may take offence.

I haven’t heard back. But that may be because of BT.

---

Pagan Writers Community are pleased to present the offending poem:

Potholes

There is a problem to have now in England
A blot on the our land we call fair
The existence of a new type of pothole
a warning to drivers beware

A road near the village of Twitten
has now vanished without much of a trace
The cyclists are annoyed at this problem
because now they have no place to race

From the church to the top of the high street
a crater appeared from the blue
They are missing some tourists from Demark
and a couple who came down from Crewe

The people are all in an uproar
at the state of the road near the mill
There is no way to get pass the river
Since the waters been flowing up-hill

A sink hole appeared down the village
The vicar isn’t doing that well
She thought the apocalypse was a coming
And that sinkhole went straight down to hell

She heard the devil a crying
he yelled, help I am stuck down this hole
with my pet dog, a cow and a tractor
And a ruddy big telephone pole

---

Stormy Haney lives in England with a selection of furry animals. Her poems and art have been published in a number of books, magazines and blogs. She participates in National Poetry Month. Her friends think she is delightfully bonkers. Follow along on her blog, Perrenial Poetry.

Stormy’s poems also used to appear on a monthly spot in her local parish magazine... not anymore.

Celtx Poetry Winner: Yule Procession

The following poem by Allen Hartley won 1st place in the third week of our 2014 Celtx Competition. The theme was Rituals.

A Yule Procession by Allen Hartley

Winter’s might, gripped this longest night 
The Tawny Owl softly calls, as snowflakes fall 
The Blackbird is calling all, to acknowledge, the intercessor between the worlds 
The animals pass in review, before the golden hue, of his eyes 
As the procession was in recession, Brighid’s companion leaped 
To sleep, by the embers of the Yule fire 
No desire to rise, until satisfied 
Sol had released the land, from Winter’s might 


Note: The Irish Goddess, Brighid’s companion is a cat.

---

Allen Hartley has always been fascinated with ancient cultures and societies. He has spent decades researching the subject matter and focusing on Runic scripts. In 2002 he settled in North Idaho with his wife and son. While his current employment requires extensive travel, it also allowed him to publish his first book, Secrets of the Soul (2012). This was followed by Mists of Dawn (2013) and Boundaries of Time, due out in 2014. His latest release, Nature’s Palette – Waterscapes, is a non-fictional, joint project with his wife Vanessa, who has been a great source of help in refining his ideas. Find him at Amethyst Rain Publishing.

Celtx Poetry Winner: At Night in the Woods

The following poem by Jeff Martin won 2nd place in the third week of our 2014 Celtx Competition. The theme was Rituals.

At Night in the Woods by Jeff Martin

There’s a deafening silence 
At night in the woods. 
I peer out at the trees 
From under my hood. 
Owls are hooting and 
Insects are humming 
While I walk in the silence 
Of those understood.

Casting a circle 
With a finger outstretched
Over the ferns and
Discarded vignettes 
Of much larger branches
That the trees have abandoned, 
I called for the blessings of 
Fire and Water. 
Air did I call on, as well as the 
Earth which made for me a platform 
Where I could do my work. 

There were not but broken 
Glass shards in my vision 
When I meditated on my past. 
My present wasn’t fitting 
So I looked into the future 
And I saw in the reflection of 
My child’s eyes a divinity
For which I have long quested. 
Picking up the fractals of a 
Former life, I paused and right 
Before me appeared the Horned One. 
He snorted fire and

I came to my senses in a start. 
The crackle of branches just outside 
The circle where I sat 
Were made by a large buck. 
He sat and stared at me, silently 
Waiting 
For what, I still know not.

---

Jeff Martin is a writer of poetry and fiction, student, musician, father and avid reader. From an early age, Jeff has been drawn to the written word and has been dabbling throughout the creative arts for the majority of his life. Writing has matured into one of his most cherished passions and he is currently working on a young adult fantasy novel and a collaborative anthology on mythology. Jeff runs a blog and corresponding Facebook page that feature short stories and poetry from himself and other authors.

Celtx Poetry Winner: The Ancient Altar Stone

The following poem by Diane Narraway won 3rd place in the third week of our 2014 Celtx Competition. The theme was Rituals.

The Ancient Altar Stone by Diane Narraway

Let me paint a picture, 
Of an ancient altar stone, 
And a long forgotten shaman 
Dressed in hide and bone. 

Whose piercing eyes see everything, 
Behind his painted skin, 
And the darkest fire burning 
Is the soul that lies within. 

Lord of his own dance 
In the misty morning light, 
Surrounded by his clansmen 
On that most sacred site. 

Whilst lying naked on the altar 
Lies the chosen one, 
Whose blood will be the offering, 
At the rising of the sun. 

Oh! How great would be the honour 
To be that sacrificial lamb, 
And give yourself so freely 
For the benefit of the clan. 

And when the darkness closes in, 
The next breath will be the last 
As to the sound of beating drums 
The blood runs thick and fast. 

To honour mother Earth 
As the sun begins to rise, 
The shamans staff is raised up high, 
Amidst the tribal cries. 

While the drums beat ever louder, 
To the rhythm of the heart. 
Then when he taps his staff three times, 
The celebrations truly start. 

But all that now remains 
Of that divine rite, 
Lies beyond the veils of time 
Upon that ancient site.

---

Diane Narraway began writing poetry at junior school and has always enjoyed writing.  These days she is the editor and chairwoman of Dolmen Grove Chronicles, which affords her the chance to write on a variety of topics ranging from reviews to short stories. She is also involved in several other writing projects including a pagan children’s book and, of course, more poetry, which she would like to get published as an anthology in the not-too-distant future. You can find Dolmen Grove on Facebook here and here.