Category Archives: EverLight

For Patricia — in appreciation

FITZ SEED: “stands tall through the fresh snow fall”

TITLE: Stand tall, my friends, as the cold winds blow

The cycle of nurture, bloom and harvest,
lies quiet now ‘neath sleeping snows –
though some must refuse to play the game,
from hearing some other song
that calls to stand guard and protect.

Do not lie down easy,
nor strip off your passions,
nor fear the waning, barren sun;
but stand with me
in EverLight.


For Jan – a prizm

I promised a Fitz fro any who would come to the Abbey,
though I hadn’t planned on four at once —
but will if you insssisst.

papa faucon

SSSEED: ’skwour skafire skeathers’

Translation: “even thee Jan as now”

Open and shut – black and white,
here, there and gone –
feather fire lost in rush,
and soul’s need
for coloring.

Yet was not always so –
before man decided duality must reign,
and everything judged better than —
while the mere act of creation
strikes fire in eternity,
and showers down
to light the way for others.

The Lantern Burns with Soul

As children we were gifted with imagination,
instead of carefully entrenched dilutions
that smudged smears and grime
on the rosy panes of our lantern
of joy and innocence.

There was no question of what Light shone through and about,
and people marveled at our gleaming soulful eyes
that lit up lonely hearts
and brought each back unto creation
of love and enchantment.

Again and ever again we tried to fan the flame
as we gather fireflies and phosphorescent moss
that shed no awesome light,
but kindled some simple happiness
in shadowed hearts and minds.

Oh, what can I do by today my slumbering friends
to become a lantern for your search and all,
and ease your troubled soul
that wants to remember tomorrow
as a dream of yesterday?

The Falcon Sings

This song is written in an 11th century split form that may not display well on WordPress,
but were I there with you at the Abbey portal at dawn’s kiss, I would would sing to friends old and new — who know of the pains of creation.

papa faucon

The songs are from the willows scarce heard before the dawn,
and n’er know a single voice, nor ancient earth bound thrum.
‘Tis the echo of my yearning, a quest for ever gentle –
eager hand to join with mine ‘round the Staff of Covenant.

Are you the one I’m needing to complete the Braid of Tears?
Will you brave the rift of scorn and tame the flailing seasons
that will shriek of icy souls burned in the Forge of Greed,
or load my pack with thorny rocks that rend my guileless flesh ?

Do not answer, lest you lie and shatter my velvet dreams
of children’s eyes of wonder at the prancing of the rain,
and whispers of the moonlight that ride the birthing waves
out – out to the beginning of this Path of Orthenbe.

I gird my loins with petals fresh from the nether bloomings
of the silent shuffle thistle that can scratch the itch of time,
for bitter arrows of fear cannot pierce the weave of trust
that dusts the glomming hush that caresses innocence.

I need no squire of renown nor muscled arm of boastful,
but seek a minstrel of Light that can pluck the fluted reeds,
and coax the notes of knowing from betwixt the space of be;
for the battle is ‘gainst lonely and the enemy ever me.

Remember the Calling

While one may seek solitude and peace
within the protecting stones,
pray do not forget the Calling …

papa faucon


and she sang in longing,

”In misty moors we now repair,
the Grail’s wine of wisdom to be shared,
hear Myrddin’s Harp surround us there…
for He shall guide His Children.”

to which he echoed a decade later,

”Weaving, wandering, threading thrice ’round.
Does not the foot prance but lightly
on Earthly form of chance encounter?

Lead, love, guided by spirit surround.
It is new footprints in morning dew
that call me to wisdom’s misty share.”

and they now seek in twain
within and out — of then and when
the secrets of a bard’s rebirth
in the whispers of sisters and ancients
and faint tracings in Lemurian sands.

The call is to quest and aspire
to find the Elixir of Creativity –

a Grail perhaps …

or to gain clarity of vision to see it
were it held forth in trembling hand –

or embrace the courage to grasp it,
and sip and taste and savor and breathe –

or, having found wisdom along the way;
to pass it to another more needful,
and drink instead from an offered open hand
ever filled with promise and simple love.

Alone at Dawn

a musing – faucon

There are memories most pervasive
of thoughts beyond the lost words endured
in seeking truths as foundations
for my yearning, churning youth.

Then there are phrases caught forever
in the web of my patterned constructs
that guide the search for balance
on the fulcrum of my soul.

Two such glimmers of gifted wisdom
seem to be in conflict of intent,
and I sense that life’s mysteries
are found in such discordance.

“To love any woman profoundly,
you must love all women a little!”

“If I am to see love in everyone,
I must first embrace love of one alone!”

How can both thoughts be true in wonder,
if one must listen to mind and heart
to forge a plan of human touch
and echoed painless passion?

Within Phinominal Expansion
one might project:

“The relationship of the love of one
to the love of every man,
is as the ratio of the greater part
to all of love imagined”

Yet this universality
doesn’t direct which should be the greater;
nor if by expanding all love
the distinction may dissolve.

A mystic might cleave this Gordian Knot
by surrendering to Divine love first;
and then approach each new stranger
as both ‘the one’ and ‘of all’.

A pensive crone or wizard might allow
that ‘to love oneself’ is paramount –
with all love flowing naturally
from knowing love by living.

But, as a poet with a sense of awe,
I might leave such mysteries alone;
and just craft a lens and mirror
that thee might encounter love.

A Dawning Song

I am nestled in the tiny niche beside the Abbey Door,
wating for those who will come to see the dawn —
and have time to practice a song upon my Gusli
in preparation for Emmie’s birthday — no melody,
just a gentle strumming as in ancient times.


I am but a drop of sparkling dew
on the tip of a trembling fern,
proof of the endless Source of all,
in a Song of Everbe.

For I am the breeze ‘neath the angel’s wings,
and the far whisper of lovers apart,
and as you m’love, a slip of memory.

Each brief gifted life feels my breath and Yours,
and they will recall the brief silent tears;
saying, “twas only a slip of memory!”

Don’t dance — fly — drift — cascade;
all to the tinkling of a single crystal chime
and an orchestra of ‘everbe’
and fine applause of laughing stars.

Oh, how to capture the caressing breeze;
dancing, gliding, entrancing spirit,
a dreamed hint of Myrdinn’s falcon wings,
whispered enchantment of EverSong.

I could share this past thrill
in many tales of the child within,
for memory needs no second chance
to create and nurture everbe.

You dance lightly in my thoughts;
a flutter of wings against my cheek;
a giggled breath to stir anew
the pulse of Spirit’s swing
above the Soul’s grasp.

To know life in fullness – grow to everbe;
you must live life and be alive right now,
reborn in brightly gifted dawn.

Then brave sieze the hand of Alcuin
and gather stardust in your pouch,
to heed the winds of everbe
to prance with fairies of wisdom
by the glow of the embers of now.

and loveswim in the Currents of everbe in awe;
they will beglide on stardust breath.
Behind their joyful, undulating spirit swing
will wave a wake of rainbow laughter,
seen by artists and mystics as angel wings.

What we create is joy-song in hearts and souls
of unknown strangers of quickened spirit
that will be-come to EverBe.

Motherbear Sunrise

Mandelas are everwhere about in nature …

even this sunrise shared


Only Sunrise

I see the waking,
slow enveiling,
azure whispers of the world’s slumber.

Through the branches’
chance elopment,
find circled five points of an ancient star.

Slow eyes rise above,
void fulfilling,
embrace gray and opal pallet waiting.

Shifting clouds of dawn,
fingers un-entwining,
flickers of smiling, crashing brilliance.

Figure of rapture,
soul entrancing,
show me the mem’ry of the face of God.

For Those Who Come

and it begins … muses the Lamp Lighter


One must arise early
to see the mists of portal reach,
than dream a bit longer
in the arms of your cherished one;
for the faint swirling breath
of the Abbey sure conceals naught
if you fail to invoke
wizards and crones, knights and angels.

Find here new path and glade,
grove and vale paced by racing heart.
Know that here human hand
forges currents of magick spell,
and wraps my very soul
in tendril vines of spirit’s growth.

Soon — soon waiting friends
you will be close to share my thoughts,
and sigh to the rapture
of harp and voice, magic and tale,
and hunt for starry dreams
beneath the tears of Mistress Moon.

Each by each may you come
only to leave in bonded peace;
for you will be kissed
by an angel of rebirth dawn,
and protected by right,
in bold embrace of falcon wings.

of dawn and thee

it starts with two, as is right,
for then there must be more —
so scripture says …

I nestle in my tiny alcove
just left of attention;
while Fran seeks a softened rock …

and together we watch the dawning.

I read her a poem I wrote a bit ago,
that seems appropriate
to time and place …


Lively Vine

There is a struggling vine out back
curling about the arbor bench
in valiant defiance of fate –
soil poor, exposure shaded dim,
and little care save wind and insects.

Yet, I will spend some time each day
to watch its gradual change –
from tawdry leaves of verdigris
to its many hues of pageantry.

Its dreary life invokes pity,
and my scant attention feckless;
but all year I know of its soul
that will command attention now!

This thought is but allegory,
of the hidden spirit in all;
that I speak of the child next door –
ignored until she is a crone.