Nurse of the Dew
How faithful to life are the hands of the nurse
who cares for the children of the sun!
How supple are the fingers that caress with love
the faces of the children of the moon.
Their nature is the splendor of Ámen,
and their essence is the flame of Rā.
She is their doorkeeper and the guardian of their light,
offspring of Unnëfer’s mansion,
progeny of Ménu’s palace.
In the house of Isis she feeds them
bread from the Land of Bliss,
and beneath the beams of Osíris’ temple
she lays them gently to rest.
On the lagoons of Hérupkhart she harbors their ships
and by the rivers of Tatchésert
sings them to sleep with psalms.
She places them in the ferry of Kamútef
and with them surveys the elements.
She places them in the bark of the Mātet
and with them explores the universe.
How blesséd are the ones
who perceive the light of thrones!
How belovéd are the ones
who reflect the gleam of crowns;
for the countenance of Sëker’s infants
is the light of sacred stars!
What mystery is borne within them,
the fruit of holy ground!
© 2004 John M. Marshall
Caer Sidhe
(The Fairy City)
Below the stars of the north wind’s crown
rise the towers of the Fairy City.
Beside the glow of the north wind’s pyre
rise the spires of the crystal castle.
Behind the walls of the glass cathedral,
within the halls of the silver circle,
lies the flashing sword of light
in its scabbard wrapped in wings.
Around the chair of the owl and raven,
around the throne of inspiration,
nine are the maidens in gowns of white
who sing the songs of the moon and Saturn.
Here grow the holts of the oak and the broom.
Here thrive the fields of meadowsweet.
Groves of apples adorn the hills
that ring the island like sentinels.
Below the flower-laden limbs,
below the dew-drenched golden boughs,
rests the grail of the heavens’ bounty
on its hearth of stellar flames.
Nature’s names are carved in the beams
that bind to the sky the citadel’s choir.
Nature’s runes are written on the wheel
that surrounds the earth with supernal fire.
© 1994 John M. Marshall
Hymn to the Forest Gods
(The Druids’ Hymn)
Come to the forest at the throne of the sky
through the pathways of nature where the star-gods fly.
Open your hearts to the songs of the trees.
Open your souls to the sonnet of the lees.
Come to the grove where our ancestors sleep.
Come to the cove where flower-maidens reap
the harvest of heaven, the fruit of perception;
where the sun forever dances in the dream of his season.
Come to the brake of the wolf and the lion.
Come to the keep of the princes of Orion.
Upon the hearth of the cosmic fire
the flames of our mass will sing forever.
Now is the time of the oak and the willow.
Now is the hour of the hawk and the sparrow.
The gods of the forest encircle us here
among the holts for our hallowed new year.
(lyrics by John Marshall – music by Barbara Gallagher)
©1992 Marshall – Gallagher
The Black Wolf, from The Songs of Merlin
The black wolf howls
as dusk prowls among the shadows.
Freed from the stones of ancient altars
his haunting song drifts above the willows.
As light retreats, the wolf entreats
the spirit of the moon to come forth
and shed her beams upon the dreams
of night’s primeval sleep.
Close to the flames of my evening fire
I sit entranced by the choir of spectral hosts,
as other voices repeat the sound
that shakes the ground like thunder;
and yet, in spite of the holocaust,
I sense some purpose I once lost to my vanity.
Hope swells within my soul
that like the wolf I might find
the muse of lyric poetry.
Here in the forest beneath the sky
I dream of the fires
my mother set in the apple groves.
From dusk to dawn with lilting voice
she told the ancient stories.
She spoke in time of the hearth of heaven
and of the starry circle dance.
She sang to the earth; she sang to the trees.
She sang to the night with love.
Nature’s soul possessed the smoke
that was my mother’s misty cape;
and now the wolf in my mother’s tongue
sings the same celestial song.
© 1993 John M. Marshall
The Birds of Ophion
We are the birds of Ophion;
we soar on his powerful breath.
Our pinions were fashioned by the fingers
that spun the strands of space.
We are going to the myrtle grove
to perform the aerial dance,
to honor the guardian of the heights.
We will decorate ourselves with poppies
and with sheaves of corn and wheat.
The songs of our flock will encircle the welkin,
as we hover in the ether of its islands.
We are the sky people;
we fly on the shaft of the wind.
Our music was conceived by the spirit
that composed the chorus of the spheres.
We are going to the oak glen
to call his name,
to summon the angel of the air.
We will paint ourselves with the soil of earth
and with the juices of wild plants.
Our voices will rise in praise of him
who rules the kingdom of the clouds.
We are the hordes of the atmosphere;
we sail the streams of Zephyrus.
Our migration was patterned by the hands
that wove the web of time.
We are going to the valley of the sycamore
to call the god of the cosmos,
to invoke him who governs the universe.
We are the swarm of his creation in form and design,
creatures of his invention through beads of stellar rain.
Legions of his circle, in flight and in song,
we will ornament ourselves with the brilliance of his throne.
©1993 John M. Marshall
The Wheels of Ezekiel’s Chariot
Above the sovereign seraphic vanes
the northern lights spread their plumes
and shed their magic mystic code
upon the starry cryptic road.
Within the sacred silver seam
of every secret sylvan scheme
they stitch the dancing diamond dream
of dawn and dew and celestial breath.
With crystal coronal Coptic creeds
they sow their splendrous spatial seeds
into the crescent chrysalid crèche
that holds the holy harvest host.
Within the mantled mirrored maze
the motive mistral’s maiden masque
mimes the manifold myriad’s mass
inside the manna’s mysterious manse.
There below the wondrous whorls
of whisking spheres and waxing wells
children of the chambered chalice
charm the choir of cherubs’ church.
Astride the chirring changeling chariot
they charge the wind with whirling wheels.
Across the cambered cosmic course
they carry the king of the bardic bells.
© 1993 John M. Marshall
The Songs of Mary
Advent
I stand with the trees, as they wait for the rain.
I dance with their leaves, as they breathe the wind.
Upon the sea the storms are gathering,
as life within my womb like lightning
strikes the brink of mankind’s dreams.
I walk with the earth, as she circles the heavens.
I talk to the sky, as he fashions the seasons.
The waltz of life has found its pace;
the language of love has found its voice
within the bounds of time and space.
I stand with the fields, as they wait for the grain.
I bide with the meadows, as they bathe in the sun.
Above the land the clouds meander,
as life within my womb like thunder
shakes the stars from their jeweled beams.
I stand with the earth; I dance with the sky.
A well of joy, O God, am I.
JMM
1994
Winter Solstice
I stand in awe of this garden of stars,
breathless in its wonder.
Like a child I search this house of jewels,
as through its halls I wander.
The winter wind in ecstasy
cries out above the thunder
rumbling through the distant hills
that hold the throne of mystery.
I reach beyond the depths of darkness,
fearless in my labor.
With faith I cross the sea of night
to find its gleaming harbor.
This moment swells with victory
and strengthens my endeavor
to take the hand of God in mine,
as I pass the gates of liberty.
Upon the teeming shores of light
the stars descend like snow;
as tears of rapture, tears of joy
reflect their swirling radiance.
My soul I offer freely
for all the earth to know,
and as above my vale of love
is given with humility.
JMM
1993
© 2006 John M. Marshall
