All Lore was hearthside tales

[Piparskeggr]

Hail all;

One of the things I have written about in the past is that all Lore started as fireside tales; some individual's idea of the How and Why of some facet of their life.

I was standing on my front stoop one day, watching a dark line of thunderheads advancing from the southwest. The thought occurred to me that one of my forebears may have seen the same sight and tried to explain the damage that such a storm would wreck on his croft.

The following poem resulted...

Baleful Skyborne

Low lying clouds, at the world's rim
Driven by wind, block out the sun
Mountains they seem, jagged and dark
Calling to mind, wilderness drear

What fell beasts lurk, harbor within
O'erlook Midgard, with baleful eye
Looking for prey, ready to pounce
Harm-makers hunt, riding the storm

Wings are widespread, cast shadows deep
When from their lair, baneful wights soar
Striking right hard, wrathful, weal-less
Havoc they make, then they move on

Hail their sling stones, lightning their spears
Ransacking all, beneath their path
It matters not, high born, or low
All will suffer, from this ill will

Ripening fields, of golden wheat
Newly thatched huts, of newlywed
Proud grove of trees, oak, ash and elm
None can withstand, cloud wights' ill will

Deep in our hearts, in back of minds
Feelings and thoughts, may well arise
Giving to that, which is around
Form, face and name, to understand

Why did the hail, beat down my crop
Why did the bolt, fire my home
Why did the wind, slam me to earth
Why is the world, fighting my weal

Low lying clouds, at the world's rim
Driven by wind, block out the sun
Mountains they seem, jagged and dark
Calling to mind, wilderness drear

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Be well - Pip

[Oresai]

Beautiful! :)
In the highlands of Scotland, there has always been a tradition of travelling bards. As a child and young woman, I well remember attending ceilidhs, gatherings at which songs were sung, music played, dancing happened and stories were told. Bards would come from who knew where and because the ceilidh was most often in someone`s barn (as it still is, here, in Orkney) we sat enchanted, on haybales, listening to tales of old and wild gods, Sidhe folks, merpeople and unlucky individuals who incurred the wrath of god or wight. :)
The very best tales have a core of truth in them. :)

[Piparskeggr]

Hey all;

I've travelled quite a bit, trying to learn from the many "tribes" within the broader Heathen community. My use of poetry and song as a link to the Holy was sparked by my attendence at the Winlandish Rice's Midsummer celebration a decade ago. I learned the concept of Poetic Significance during that long weekend.

What we do, say, see...it all has some poetry in it.

In example: driving to work one day, different route due to a detour, passed by a construction site I'd not seen before. There were 2 mounds of black earth piled up; topsoil scrapings. Under the early morning sun, these mounds were giving off tendrils of mist and were surrounded by a pristine meadow.

Barrow Folk

Black earthen mounds, at edge of town
Bounded by grass, lush meadow green
Pebble flecked sides, packed hard and bare
Grey mists arise, as if they breathe

Ancient barrows, storied in song
Cover a folk, shrouded in time
Legends abound, telling some deeds
Naming some names, none are well known

Shades of the past, remembered still
Sometimes in whole, sometimes in part
Stories do change, as they pass on
Muddled become, life threads entwine

Kings they are called, Ring Givers fierce
Queens of the Hall, Key Holders fair
Warriors bold, mighty and brave
Maidens in white, tall, grave and kind

And deeper still, further in past
Within a dream, faint memory
Stir mythic bits, of Eldest days
Those who first dwelled, some become gods

Beyond all ken, are these first days
To really have, an image clear
Of who did what, and when and how
Comes from them, Lore, with inner Truth

We look at Life, we look at Them
Trying to see, the why of things
Knowing the Holy, has guiding hand
Within our hearts, within our souls

Our thoughts turn to, questions like these
Mighty Powers, arise from where
Are They just Folk, from Elder Days
Or are They glimpse, into the Well

The Holy Is, I do believe
Wrapped in a shape, our minds can see
But in our hearts, we can well feel
That They are more, than what we think

So, our Forebears, of distant Past
Came to these thoughts, of Holy Ones
Powers beyond, our earthly lives
Powers within, our earthly hearts

Later folk came, to regard tales
Of elder kin, as awe filled words
Taken on Faith, taken as Fame
Taken as Truth, within Belief

Talespinners drink, deep from the Well
Walk o'er the Worlds, deep into Dream
Tales become Lore; men become gods
But Truth abides, within our Wyrd

Black earthen mounds, at edge of town
Bounded by grass, lush meadow green
Pebble flecked sides, packed hard and bare
Grey mists arise, as if they breathe

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A glimpse of one thing CAN trigger thoughts of other things.

Be open; write!