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Riders of the Sidhe by John M. Duncan
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
Creation of the Birds by Varo
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.
Creation of the Birds by Varo
©1993 John M. Marshall
The Women of Eleusis by Jean Delville
The Sibyls
Oracles of Apollo at Delphi, Greece – circa 600 B.C.
Dies Irae - The Prophecy of Cuman
A day of wrath is coming, and peace will find its nemesis.
The spike of the lightning’s lance will pluck the light from the eye.
The whirling of its morbid dance will suck the breath from souls.
The wind will send its changeling flight to rend the veils of temples,
as the towers of your fortresses drown in sanguine rivers.
Your daughters and your sons, your mothers, sisters, brothers,
will leap from the crumbling scaffolds in waves of mortal rain.
Fledglings without pinions will sear the air with fear
and fall to earth like withering leaves in plumes of wingéd fire.
Thirsty mouths will shrivel where fountains cease to flow.
Hungry mouths will fill with dust where trees of life once grew.
Your granaries will be ravaged by the plague of drought’s affliction.
Your hospices will overflow with the prey of Hades’ legions.
Clouds will cloak your wilting groves in shadow like a shroud.
The hands of death will choke your camps in the smoke of funeral pyres.
Remnants of your failing hearts will stain the barren hills.
The scales of Justice will bend and break with the weight of sorrow’s tears,
struck by sorrow’s sharpest sword upon the mournful mounds.
Chimeras seek the broken limbs of nature’s fractured fields;
as the savage day of wrath comes forth, and terror finds its genesis.
©2004 John M. Marshall
The Prophecy of Europa
I thrust my sword towards the sky,
as mournful cry escapes its anguished tongue.
Its hilt is stained with the tint of sorrow,
and from its blade drips children’s blood.
In shadowed streets I hear the screams
of infants stolen from their dreams
and put to death before their mothers,
as sisters for their youngest brothers
weep without constraint.
In hallowed halls where prayers are said
hollow words for the dead
who hear no more the beat of wings
nor the wind that daybreak brings
in scented waves of ecstasy.
My hand of dread, my sword in deed
has hastened from the house of bread,
as terror in most hideous form
strikes the toll of love’s demise.
Within my grasp the hours erode,
as rust engulfs the gears of time.
From my clasp the night spews forth
and chokes the dawn with its wintry shade.
Flowers fade, their colors scorned
by the fire that is my breath.
Hope dismembered, faith is flung
upon the pyre that is my shrine;
yet in a trice when life seems lost,
my sword shall rise like the morning star,
gently wake the child in death,
restoring mirth once drowned by tears.
©2004 John M. Marshall
The Vision of Delphica
Sapphire blue is my heavenly root,
blue of font and blue of lake.
It gathers space in its spiral web
and wraps the ground in its waxing robe.
Raven black is my star-honed thorn,
black of earth and black of stone.
It pricks the hand of life with death,
yet sews the cloth of time with breath.
Crimson red is my sun-forged flower,
red of blood and red of fire.
It floods the fields with shades of grace
and steeps the sky in seraphic spice.
Sea foam white is my moon-mulled fruit,
white of snow and white of milk.
It forms the egg of earthly dreams
and bears the seed of celestial thrones.
Emerald green is my cloud-cast crown,
green of tree and green of vine.
It speaks to shadows in the tongues of night
and touches the air with wings of light.
© 1994 John M. Marshall
The Vision of Hellespontica
One by one my four arms reach
to touch the gates of death with love.
My limbs will teach to silent tongues
the brogue of breath, the voice of joy.
One by one my hands extend
to hold in trust the truths of time.
Among the stars where souls transform
my boughs compose the clefts of spheres.
Below the dome where dreams expire
and faith is lost to schemes perverse
acts of hope also transpire
throughout the beams of heaven.
Below the clouds and murky mist
that stain the veil of night with fear
with wings of flame and wings of frost
I bathe the earth in streams of light.
Beyond the door of human strife
I stand with open arms and hands
to grant the troth of birth with grace
and seal the oath of life with peace.
© 2004 John M. Marshall
Sibylla Cimmeria
Throughout the fields of the harvest’s stars music flows from my horn of plenty.
With circular wings the melodies fly to touch the one, embrace the many.
Upon the fertile plains of earth from clouds of song comes magic dew.
The springs and streams of the fallow firth cascade in canons from the timbral flue.
With silver strands from stellar sparks it weaves the whorls of coronal silk.
From waves that cross sidereal bars it fills the font with celestial milk.
Rivers of light entrance the tides of genesis in their natal quest.
The mother of the sun in splendor resides with the child who nurses at her breast.
The dance of light encircles the moon and rings the meads with its whirling flood.
It brings to life the gardens of stone and bathes the earth in its spectral blood.
© 1993 John M. Marshall
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