Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," on this holy day of Imbolc, 2014!
I would like to thank those of you who come here to read and laugh with me, those of you who seek and praise the bored gods, those who respect the faeries of Sidhe, those who feel that life is best when breathed like a poem.
Debra, She Who Seeks suggests that this is a good day to flood the Internet with poetry. I totally agree! In honor of Queen Brighid the Bright, Goddess of home and hearth, She of the silver mantle, She of the creative flame, I post an offering from my favorite bard:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.