He smirked as he turned to his short speckled friend
In light cool blue shirts and oil black wavy hair.
Crushed pencils and a chair knocked over
Red brick every where in this timeless school
Sitting at desks and on desks, bleary eyes. Dark pool.
“Can we be in your class?”
A spark, a push, an excitement
Boistrous boys beating
Life bursting out the seams
Rowdy self assured but so fragile
A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard
A voice singing on a May Eve like this,
And followed half awake and half asleep,
Until she came into the Land of Faery,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
And she is still there, busied with a dance
Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,
Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top
In Celtic religion and Irish mythology, Brigid (exalted one) is the daughter of Dagda, and had two sisters, also named Brigid, and that’s why she’s considered a classic Celtic Triple deity.
Brigid is the patroness of poetry, smithing, medicine, arts and crafts, cattle and other livestock, sacred wells, the arrival of early spring, all things perceived to be of relatively high dimensions such as high-rising flames, highlands, hill-forts and upland areas; and of activities and states conceived as psychologically lofty and elevated, such as wisdom, excellence, perfection, high intelligence, poetic eloquence, craftsmanship (especially blacksmithing), healing ability, druidic knowledge and skill in warfare, and also seems to have been the Celtic equivalent of the Roman Minerva and the Greek Athena.
In the Christian era, nineteen nuns at Kildare tended a perpetual flame for the Saint, which is widely believed to be a continuation of a pre-Christian practice of women tending a flame in her honour.
Sometimes when a mermaid’s daughter
is in the bathroom
cleaning her teeth with a thick brush
and baking soda
she has the sense the room is filling up
It starts at her feet and ankles
and slides further and further up
over her thighs and hips and waist
in no time
it’s up to her oxters.
she bends down to pick up
handtowels and washcloths and all such things
as are sodden with it.
they all look like seaweed—
like those long strands of kelp that used to be called
‘mermaid-hair’ or ‘foxtail’.
Just as suddenly the water recedes
and in no time
the room is completely dry again
Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill,
The fifty minute mermaid - A Recovered Memory of Water
Bright lights beam down as I sit staring at the screen of my phone
Plugged in as the mouths of others say
Everyone is staring down. Faces illuminated and still
A chico beside me has a big beautiful bucket of crimson roses tied up with a big red ribbon. Pure white jeans and shiny shoes like the moon. Slick oiled back hair
Sipping on a tin can covered in a green plastic bag.
A couple sit opposite dreaming down.
Aching through tunnels of blackness
Whispers in toungues
Buzzing light beside me
Trains, everyhere creeping over the earth
This one is whizzing through a mountain
Underneath where they say God gave Jesus this earth
Running from the sea
Lights flash flash flash
Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house!
Let me have all the freedom I have lost;
Work when I will and idle when I will!
Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame.
I’d never considered myself
favored, fortunate or blessed
and I certainly couldn’t say
I was lucky
forever wandering lost until
who would have guessed
someone like you might find
someone like me