EVOLUTION

His charisma was undeniable.
His manners impeccable.
His charm irresistible.
What choice did they have
but to flock to his banner?

It was easy for him to climb inside
their heads, and engineer fantastic
ideals of self-sufficiency
and supreme power.
It quenched their thirst
for a better life, made them feel
important, invincible.

So they built him a pedestal,
this hero of theirs,
and worshipped at it's base,
fulfilling his every command
with unquestioning obedience.

And even when they began to notice
unmistakable signs of imbalance,
it was excused as
the eccentricity of genius.
So they revered him even more.

Soon, they were deaf and blind
to all but his will.
He had finally created
his dream super-race of inhuman
brainwashed automatons.

It wasn't until they were burying
thousands of mutilated
skeletal bodies, that they saw
the path of his evolution
mapped out
in the entrails of his victims.

Only then did they understand
that Evil Incarnate had changed it's name
to Adolf Hitler.

ALBAN ARTHUAN

Winter Solstice


They're singing Christmas carols today
in our local shopping mall,
and the seven metre
recently slaughtered Pine
is decorated with glitter and
flashing rainbow lights.
This unnecessary taking
of the life of so noble a being
grieves me, yet
could there be a more fitting
sacrifice to the One God
who has overshadowed the Many?

And you stop
to hug and kiss me
as you pass, and wish me
'Happy Christmas,' your breath
reeking of whisky.
And I nod
then smile, wondering
why you assume
I'm a Christian, simply because
I'm white and live
in England.

Beyond your thunderous celebrations
I hear a more harmonious song, subtle
but immeasurably powerful, issuing
from the roots of time itself.
The Song of Taliesin.
Pulsing through my veins,
it infuses my entire being
with a sense of identity;
is a solemn reminder
that I am a daughter
of the Great Goddess,
a woman of the trees
dwelling within, but not of
your society.

For mine is the much older Path
that leads away
from noisy, crowded places
and into the quiet sanctity
of Oaken Grove, where
communication with The Bright Ones
requires no intermediary, but is
direct and natural.

I have no need of  holy buildings
because no Deity had a hand in
their construction.
They are the work of man alone.
Being inside a Church
makes me feel alienated and cut off
from genuine Spirituality.
A free Spirit such as mine
could never conform to the
unreasonable rules and regulations
set out by the upper hierarchy
of an orthodox religion.
And however well schooled
in ecclesiastical circles, a priest
is still human and is
therefore as prone to misinterpretation
as any layperson.

What I need is the Earth beneath my feet,
the wind in my face - only then
am I being true to my inner nature.
This is what it means
to be a Pagan Druid.

Unfortunately, the
coming of Christianity to these Isles
has robbed us of many
of our Traditional Sacred Sites,
for they now lie buried
beneath Church foundations,
as do the Old Ways
of our Ancestors.
Not a single person wished me
'Solstice Blessings' today,
although it is the native birthright
of so many of us.
I find that rather sad.

Here, tonight,
under these Midwinter Stars,
I feel the crisp frost
crunching underfoot, the
cold air penetrating my robes.
And it feels so good to be home,
in our Place of Unity.
You will find only living Trees here,
adorned by Nature Herself
with spiralling Ivy, crimson berries
and shimmering pearls of Mistletoe.
There is no other beauty to equal
such a magical sight.

As we enter into the Silence now
at this Hallowed Place,
the unmistakable presences
of the Old Gods and Goddesses
permeate the very air around us,
instilling their ancient wisdom
into our living Souls.
This utter Truth
of direct understanding
eliminates the need of faith.
There is simply a profound
inner knowing.

And as the Old Year draws to a close
at the approach of the midnight hour,
we cast away everything
that has been holding us back
these past twelve months,
allowing us to embrace this
New Beginning unburdened
and receptive to new influences.
There is a wonderful sense
of weightlessness and elation.

Now,
as the Druidic New Year
is reborn and we ignite the
Light of Arthur in the East,
won't you join us for a
celebratory glass of wine
and slice of Solstice cake?
For this Festive Time of Inspiration
belongs to Everyone, not
just an elite few!

May the Light of Arthur illuminate your life!

Solstice Blessings Everyone
               X X X

THE PROFESSOR

Do you remember
that sunny June day, when
I had an afternoon off and
you arranged yours to
take me on a guided tour
of this delightfully
absurd place?

How it makes me smile
to picture you then,
relating it's history to me
with near manic enthusiasm.
I recall how
you paused, mid-lecture,
to gaze into my eyes.

After what seemed like
an eternity,
you asked me what I saw in you.
'I'm so very, very old ,' you said.
But I hadn't the slightest interest in,
nor understanding of, the
morally defined
mathematical equations
of physical and emotional attraction.
I was never that intelligent,
not like you.
I simply felt it.

If only you'd grasped
the uncomplicated fact
that each grey hair on your head,
every wrinkle time-etched
into your dearly loved face
fuelled such a hunger
deep inside me.
Your slightest touch
was pure ecstasy.
How dared those small minds
castigate you and denounce
our love
when it felt so right?
Just thinking of you now
brings me out in goosebumps.

But they must have been getting to you,
because doubts were beginning
to creep in.
'I'm so afraid you'll break my heart
one day,' you said, a tear
threatening to escape
from the corner of your eye.
'You'll meet someone nearer
your own age, then I'll lose you!'
But that isn't the way it happened at all, is it?
It was I who eventually lost you.



And I tried desperately hard
to strike a bargain
with the Ferryman - begged him to accept
three-quarters of my life allowance,
in order to bring us into line
and bury that wretched
fifty-year age gap,
instead of you.

But,
without a backwards glance,
he sailed slowly away
into the distance,
taking you with him.
And my heart bled to death
right there,
on that bleak shoreline.

Without you,
life has been
so dead.

THE TRAMP

Illustration by Joan Walsh Anglund

I was once a wealthy man,

Before my unfortunate obsession began

With betting on the dogs and horses.

So now I've had to leave the forces.

I was a Major, highly respected,

Until the Colonel my activities inspected.

Then I was discreetly shown the door

For becoming an embarrassment to the Corps.

So now I live in a cardboard box

With my sole companion, an urban fox.

But it isn't at all too bad a life.

At least I've escaped my nagging wife!

And this shabby old box you think you see

Is actually a stately home to me.

It's decorated with furnishings rich,

Crafted from things I found in the ditch.

Now here on the streets of London I'm free

From everyone making demands of me.

I can come and go whenever I please

And laze in summer under leafy trees.

Those are the days I love the best,

With empty spirit bottle hugged to my chest.

Surely I must be in paradise,

Apart from being eaten alive by lice!

I think I'm being prompted to take a bath,

So down to the Thames I follow a path.

I bet you don't have a bath this size.

In comparison yours is the booby prize.

As long as I earn a crust now and then
By busking and begging beneath Big Ben
I'll never starve, in fact I'll thrive
For I need very little to keep me alive.

'But don't you need hot food in winter?' you ask.
Well, haven't you ever heard of a flask?
The soup kitchens are open all day
And they always allow us to take some away.

'Aren't you cold though as if in a fridge?'
Not when I shelter beneath the bridge.
And even if frostbite prompts me to die,
There's no need to feel sorry for me, nor cry.

For I will have lived my ideal life,
Free from all the stresses and strife
Of pandering to a society
That never really was for me.




THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING

Last night
in troubled dreams, I saw
the tower of Vortigern fall
through time
into now,
while all around
a greyish darkness enclosed me,
until I stood in the centre
of  decaying wasteland.
Mortally afraid, I sought
the silence inside,
where I found him.
A slight, not very tall man
mounted on a creamy-white stallion.

'Arthur,
why have you broken
your promise?' I blurted out.
'Bankruptcy, violence, greed
and wars no one wanted
are bringing down
your once great nation;
while invaders creep in
through bureaucratic cracks
to insidiously destroy us
from within.
Albion needs you now.
Yet still you don't come.
Why, Arthur?
Why have you abandoned
your subjects in our
darkest hour?'

He smiled indulgently,
as if a petulant child
stood before him.
Then,
speaking the language of chivalry
(virtually defunct today)
through cloud-form,
Raven song and patterns
woven into the land,
he taught me another way
of seeing.
From the heart.

And I learned
what love is.
It isn't that shallow
ego-driven thing
that all too often
masquerades in its name,
but is the pure
unconditional power
that created the Universe
and resonates in the Soul
of every sentient being.

And I understood
that nothing evil can possibly exist
in the presence of  true love,
and that it is solely
our unloving hearts
that have blocked its free-flow
and allowed this mayhem
to run riot through our land.
We have become the source
of our own destruction.

And I awoke then, knowing
that Arthur hasn't abandoned us.
It is we who have banished him
to the land of legends
and imprisoned him there.


But there is hope yet.
If we can only learn to open
these locked and desensitised
twenty-first century minds,
then maybe he will someday return
from the Blessed Isles,
our Once and Future King,
then Camelot will rise like the phoenix
from the ashes of anarchy
and the promised Golden Age
will dawn again.......