Friday, February 02, 2007

pomes of buddy don: Brigid

anne over at the gods are bored give me a challenge tuther day, witch twuz to rite a pome in honor of this day (or yesterdy in sum places) known in the celtic wheel of the year as imbolc. tiz the celebrayshun of brigid, witch ye kin google her ifn ye wonta know more. i will let this here lil pome speak fer my poor understandin of such mystries.


Upon a day that legends say hog shadows can fortell
The ending of the hoary winter season,
A child was born one early morn between heaven and hell,
Between the warmth of spirit and cold reason.

The year was old, the winter cold, yet tiny shoots of grass
Still bravely pierced the hardened frosty rime –
Their shoots unbowed they stood the vow that like the newborn lass
The spring would quickly grow and reach her prime.

For from that start twixt head and heart a small girl bathed in milk
Would grow to be the saint of three great arts –
She would exalt distiller’s malt, weavers craft, poet’s ilk –
All treasures from the soul’s liminal parts.

Our faith is clear in times most drear, when earth is bleak and frigid –
The gods did send a guide, a friend, to all in lovely Brigid.

(ifn ye wonta make a comment, ye gut to click on 'link' below.)


Anne Johnson said...

Oh my goodness, I wish you lived closer to Camden, NJ! You and Mz. BD would make such a great addition to our monthly Pizza and Poetry Nites.

This was truly lovely, hillbilly. Can I steal it for my blog????? Well, not really steal it, but run it and make you sound like what you are, which is gold on toast?

Tennessee Jed said...

You out did yourself bd! You had to get a grin from Brigid on that one you ole wordsmith!