Samhaim (Sow-in) Story by Mike Williams 11/11/2016 @ 6:18 A.M.

Samhaim (Sow-in) Story by Mike Williams 11/11/2016 @ 6:18 A.M.

The moon comes mumming behind clouds of pitch,
its silver ribbons of light bob and peek.
Gat-toothed Alysoun held seye by the hearth,
as her kinfolk gathered to hear her speak.

“Three nights before we’ve collected wicker,
the hollowman made and bonfires prepared.
Hilltops stand ready to light come morrow,
but this night spirits roam and fill the air.”

“The veil transcends thin the otherworld now,
best for divination and augery.
Cast your hazelnuts into the last fires;
Érie colleen, see who your husbands be.”

Each girl smirched their nuts with a suitor’s name,
then threw them into the hot fire ablaze.
Then watched to see which one would keep untouched,
as flames foretold the coming of their days.

Old Alysoun Múinim rocked in her stead,
her eyes flickered as she spun ancient tales.
The moonlight crept through the cloudbreak slowly,
and lit the room from a window then pales.

Her voice crackled and the flames leaped their bounds,
each time one of the nut casings would burst.
She seethed under her breath and the hearth hissed,
as she spake of omens and a new curse.

“A cruimther come into our sacred lands,
to convert and steal our identity.
His cross draped around his willowy neck,
with a dying man hung in effigy.”

“He mocks our gods and proclaims us witches,
and brings worship never known us before.
Saying we are doing some devil’s work,
then surplants our ways with strange foreign lore.”

“We were nearly driven out by Romans,
come ye round me now listen what I say.
In times to come we may not survive,
nearly forgot the Druì and their way.”

“The oak knowers long ago were all slain,
and their sacred groves lay silent in ash.
Our reminent are few in number now,
I see the Nos Calan Gaeaf growing rash.”

“As we mark the pastoral seasons well,
know that time brings in its bowels a change.
Hard days ahead and bonfires of old cease,
these lands are becoming sickened and strange.”

“Hede my warning for this may be our last,
come morn this priest commands his saints and mass.
Then Samhain will be remembered no more,
our ways gone as the clouds that quickly pass.”

Last Alysoun licked her licorice tooth,
put out her fire and scraped the resting char.
She stared fixed with grey bewildered eyes all,
then spake us never forget who we are.

“This night we honor our ancestors gone,
as we have done for a thousand Samhain.
Winter days darken and Laghnasa done,
and the priest renamed it Hallowe’en.

 

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Agoraphobia by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 6:33 P.M.

Agoraphobia by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 6:33 P.M.

Perfuse in solemn anguish;
my face begins to drip sweat,
and vision becomes tunneled,
as my back grows soaking wet.

Walking through the crowd I break,
buckling fast at both knees.
Anxiety leaves its wake,
I beg “get me through this please!”

My heart is steady pounding,
as the mall stretches out far.
I feel so near to grounding –
“Oh! Just get me to the car!”

The crowd seems all in a swirl,
I can’t get away or flee.
In my head I’m in a whirl,
Agroraphobia strikes me.

Space Fest by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 4:36 P.M.

Space Fest by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 4:36 P.M.

Calling Houston, come in Houston…
There is a brand new festival,
one ment to rock out Space City.
Houston, the shuttle has landed…

Now to commemorate NASA,
and all of Space exploration.
We’re calling every galaxy,
and Inviting every nation.

We bring intergalactic fun,
with carnival rides, bands, and eats.
We are going interstellar,
and we are dancing in the streets.

The music is really pumping,
there is a great firework display.
Lets embark on an odessy,
come and cellibrate space today.

Houston we have our first sighting,
All of the old shuttles are here.
Shout “From Kittyhawk to the moon,
and beyond to the atmosphere.”

There is a best costume contest,
and one just for the little tikes,
There are beverages and vignettes,
even artisans for all types.

The shuttle of dreams has landed,
and the city has a new face.
We’re making a new festival
and light the night for outer space.

Milk by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 12:36 P.M.

Milk by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 12:36 P.M.

The slow drip of candle wax,
a flicker of a flame.
Satin sheets and bare shoulders,
caress of a light finger.
Golden tendrils of your hair,
a stray single strand of silk.

The steady drum of heartbeats,
blush upon petal pink lips.
Warmth of a pressed powderd cheek,
delicate curve of your neck.
I swim your azure eyes,
waves of passion, I can’t bilk.

The length of your naked legs,
small crease along the bare back.
Dainty folds within a hand,
humm of a delightful sigh.
Your face in morning sunlight,
and soft skin as white as milk.

Anymore by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 11:53 A.M.

Anymore by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 11:53 A.M.

You don’t love me I know,
the way your eyes differ.
No kisses on the brow,
evade with silent pause.
I feel it all somehow,
our romance dying slow.

You look the other way,
with trembling I’m undone.
My words find not your ears,
a stick of furniture.
So many wasted years,
there’s nothing left to say.

Our ruin falls us before,
we are afraid to face.
Lifeless as winter cold,
dead passion’s ashes lay.
Our eyes behind a fold,
you don’t love me anymore.

Grandma’s Keepsakes by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 5:42 A.M.

Grandma’s Keepsakes by Mike Williams 11/09/2016 @ 5:42 A.M.

Fifty years collected –
Oh! What a treasured find.
Up in grandma’s attic,
I wondered back through time.
A pair of tiny shoes,
and photos from the past.
Reminders long gone by,
as we grew up too fast.

My father’s red waggon,and his first teething ring.
Uncle Charles’ uniform,
folded neat tied with string.
Aunt Mary’s tricycle,
with streamers on the bar.
Under cobwebs and dust,
trinkets of who we are.

Grandpa’s old fishing gear,
awaiting to be touched.
My brother’s matchbox cars,
how he loved them so much.
Every finger painting,
grade school report cards too.
Grams kept them together,
and still they looked brand new.

There were hurricain lamps,
Grams lit on stormy nights.
Forgot toys in a box,
and our first childhood kites.
Grandma saved everything,
and I pawed them with care.
Our lives all around her,
keepsakes of who lived there.

145 words, 32 lines, and 4 stanzas.
Image: Unknown.

© Mike Williamscollected poemsmemories poems