Sisters of the Burning Branch Goddess Gallery Presents...
Wings...
A Tribute To Our Sister That Has Gone to Arms of the Goddess
Dame Niamh Gealach, High Priestess
Sisters of the Burning Branch, Sisterhood of the Silver Star, and Circle of the Silver Hive
Order of the Black Hat and Order of the Crone
Rest Well Sweet Sister
15 October 1937 to 10 December 2008
We will see you again!
Dame Niamh's HPS Page
Samhain
by Dame Niahm
I am a twist of black paper
Dancing in a wind-eddy.
Blown three times round the gatepost,
Wrapped briefly round the lamppost
Hanging by wingtip from a branch
Plié into a puddle on the pavement.
I am a shout that bells around the corner
Ricochets diminished from the bushes,
Whistles down a chimney,
Chuckles in the porch-eaves,
Murmurs blending into the wind.
I am a shape-changing shadow
I whisk along behind a loping cat,
I solidify in corners, melt in streetlights,
Flit across the round-faced moon,
Fingering the rime round the moon,
Whispering a rhyme round the moon.
I am a figment of the night’s imagination,
A clown-face suspended in midair
To exorcise your ghosts,
To invite your dear departed to Dumb Supper,
To remember the sweet departed on this night,
And howl off hooting into the tunnel of night.
I am a twist of black paper
Dancing in a wind-eddy.
Blown three times round the gatepost,
Wrapped briefly round the lamppost
Hanging by wingtip from a branch
Plié into a puddle on the pavement.
I am a shout that bells around the corner
Ricochets diminished from the bushes,
Whistles down a chimney,
Chuckles in the porch-eaves,
Murmurs blending into the wind.
I am a shape-changing shadow
I whisk along behind a loping cat,
I solidify in corners, melt in streetlights,
Flit across the round-faced moon,
Fingering the rime round the moon,
Whispering a rhyme round the moon.
I am a figment of the night’s imagination,
A clown-face suspended in midair
To exorcise your ghosts,
To invite your dear departed to Dumb Supper,
To remember the sweet departed on this night,
And howl off hooting into the tunnel of night.
A Warrior’s Legacy
by Dame Niamh
I never asked much.
I never got much.
I never knew how much I needed
Or how little.
I craved a father’s kindess
I looked for a teacher’s patience
I found a peg to hang responsibility on
And gorged myself on fantasy.
I only gave dependence,
Spoke in tongues, was devout in obscurity.
I hid my breasts under sweatshirts
And wept in loneliness on someone’s
borrowed crucifix.
I pattered with soft open hands on walls we built
To keep me out, or you in; I whispered in foreign languages .
I said if you loved me you wouldn’t hurt me,
Not knowing what “love” or “hurt” meant, or “me” either.
Then I went out into the dry wilderness of Zin
And met my lions, my serpents, my thirst and Pharaoh
And studied mutinously. For a while I dwelt
in a monastery on Mount Athos.
Then I was a yogi. One day I recognized my face.
I did graduate work with Sisyphus in rock-rolling,
Mucked out horse-stalls under Hercules’ watchful eye.
I vacationed briefly in Valhalla;
A scalper sold me a ticket to the Gotterdammerung.
I worked my way back as a foot soldier, was
wounded,
Now I limp like an old centurion.
I’m home on furlough in my beat-up armor,
Dragging my runcible sword,
Proud of my tattered commission, having fought
the Minotaur.
They gave me an ear.
I am the hero of my ancient quests;
Let me retire with honors.
Sisters of the Burning Branch, Sisterhood of the Silver Star, and Circle of the Silver Hive
Order of the Black Hat and Order of the Crone
Rest Well Sweet Sister
15 October 1937 to 10 December 2008
We will see you again!
Dame Niamh's HPS Page
Mabon
The Goddess' Farewell to the Hunter
by Dame Niahm 2005
Now I lay you down upon the drying
grass,
Beloved. Your eyes sweep shut; you are weary,
Having given all you could give,
Even now you fade into the dry brown turf.
Your hand, once strong and warm, is dry
Like a little bundle of willow twigs; your hair
Fades into the leaves under your head.
Your blood and bones return to Me.
But this is how it is: your sacrifice is made
So that all can live again as the Wheel turns.
Even now your child quickens in My womb,
Growing, flourishing. He will be born when the snow flies.
How can I let you go, beloved?
I bend to kiss your lips, they fade against mine.
You smile, and slowly, slowly, sink into invisibility.
My tears fall where you were.
Now you will go down to that sunless sea,
Climb into your boat and sail the moonlit waters,
Safe in my womb. When My waters break, you will be born,
And I will hold you in my arms again. Child, brother, husband
Beloved. Your eyes sweep shut; you are weary,
Having given all you could give,
Even now you fade into the dry brown turf.
Your hand, once strong and warm, is dry
Like a little bundle of willow twigs; your hair
Fades into the leaves under your head.
Your blood and bones return to Me.
But this is how it is: your sacrifice is made
So that all can live again as the Wheel turns.
Even now your child quickens in My womb,
Growing, flourishing. He will be born when the snow flies.
How can I let you go, beloved?
I bend to kiss your lips, they fade against mine.
You smile, and slowly, slowly, sink into invisibility.
My tears fall where you were.
Now you will go down to that sunless sea,
Climb into your boat and sail the moonlit waters,
Safe in my womb. When My waters break, you will be born,
And I will hold you in my arms again. Child, brother, husband
O
remember Me till I hold you again!
Samhain
by Dame Niahm
I am a twist of black paper
Dancing in a wind-eddy.
Blown three times round the gatepost,
Wrapped briefly round the lamppost
Hanging by wingtip from a branch
Plié into a puddle on the pavement.
I am a shout that bells around the corner
Ricochets diminished from the bushes,
Whistles down a chimney,
Chuckles in the porch-eaves,
Murmurs blending into the wind.
I am a shape-changing shadow
I whisk along behind a loping cat,
I solidify in corners, melt in streetlights,
Flit across the round-faced moon,
Fingering the rime round the moon,
Whispering a rhyme round the moon.
I am a figment of the night’s imagination,
A clown-face suspended in midair
To exorcise your ghosts,
To invite your dear departed to Dumb Supper,
To remember the sweet departed on this night,
And howl off hooting into the tunnel of night.
I am a twist of black paper
Dancing in a wind-eddy.
Blown three times round the gatepost,
Wrapped briefly round the lamppost
Hanging by wingtip from a branch
Plié into a puddle on the pavement.
I am a shout that bells around the corner
Ricochets diminished from the bushes,
Whistles down a chimney,
Chuckles in the porch-eaves,
Murmurs blending into the wind.
I am a shape-changing shadow
I whisk along behind a loping cat,
I solidify in corners, melt in streetlights,
Flit across the round-faced moon,
Fingering the rime round the moon,
Whispering a rhyme round the moon.
I am a figment of the night’s imagination,
A clown-face suspended in midair
To exorcise your ghosts,
To invite your dear departed to Dumb Supper,
To remember the sweet departed on this night,
And howl off hooting into the tunnel of night.
A Solstice Song
by Dame Niahm
On this long‑shadowed day
I set the host-gifts out. On this day
Even the needy to the needy offer gifts;
My prayer‑gifts I offer with these my hands:
That a thin cushion of mercy soften
The between‑a‑rock‑and‑a‑hard‑place place you
dwell;
That your shovel seem a little lighter
As you heft yet another spadeful against the
tide;
That as you curl against the cold‑sheeted night
A warmth enfold itself around your
back,
That the candle you still have courage enough to
light
Be thanks and praise for fire, for bread and
wine;
That no more salt run down into your
cup,
That your ghosts be exorcised
That pain leave you
That cats come to you
That the intangibles freedom, vision and peace
Dispel the encroachment of the sorrowing dark!
May you believe in the lengthening of
days,
May
your presents be the future..
A Warrior’s Legacy
by Dame Niamh
I never asked much.
I never got much.
I never knew how much I needed
Or how little.
I craved a father’s kindess
I looked for a teacher’s patience
I found a peg to hang responsibility on
And gorged myself on fantasy.
I only gave dependence,
Spoke in tongues, was devout in obscurity.
I hid my breasts under sweatshirts
And wept in loneliness on someone’s
borrowed crucifix.
I pattered with soft open hands on walls we built
To keep me out, or you in; I whispered in foreign languages .
I said if you loved me you wouldn’t hurt me,
Not knowing what “love” or “hurt” meant, or “me” either.
Then I went out into the dry wilderness of Zin
And met my lions, my serpents, my thirst and Pharaoh
And studied mutinously. For a while I dwelt
in a monastery on Mount Athos.
Then I was a yogi. One day I recognized my face.
I did graduate work with Sisyphus in rock-rolling,
Mucked out horse-stalls under Hercules’ watchful eye.
I vacationed briefly in Valhalla;
A scalper sold me a ticket to the Gotterdammerung.
I worked my way back as a foot soldier, was
wounded,
Now I limp like an old centurion.
I’m home on furlough in my beat-up armor,
Dragging my runcible sword,
Proud of my tattered commission, having fought
the Minotaur.
They gave me an ear.
I am the hero of my ancient quests;
Let me retire with honors.
Copyright GoddessSchool
2009
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