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Midsummer: Midsummer: The The Turning Turning of the Year
(A (A Poem Poem by by Mary Mary Siegle)
Siegle)
My Father’s strong today.
The Earth awaits his dawn.
Our Mother slowly turns in her dreaming sleep
And, waking, finds him there to share her bed.
My Mother slowly turns,
And, in turning toward her lover,
Gives a day of playfulness and ease.
And all the stirrings in the womb shall cease—
The ripening of the grain and labor in the fields shall
pause.
The singing of the birds:
The peep; the scratching from the egg—
The grasses steady pushing from the earth—
All will stop for one full day.
The fullest of our year
And meant for naught but love.
But if the God comes shining,
And the sun beats down
And Earth opens wide to receive her Lord,
If this day lasts so long,
Why can’t it go on?
Why does the Mother turn now
Not toward, but from;
And turn more quickly every day from this?
Sisters, look how your own lover comes
To lie down with you and love
And love again.
He asks a pulsebeat’s pause,
A moment yet of time
for strength
To begin again
And spend the day.
Thanksgiving Grace
(A (A Poem Poem by by Mary Mary Siegle)
Siegle)
Oh Goddess, giver of the grain—
Your rich rewarding of the rain—
Our Father the Sun looked down and blest
The fruits of your sweet Mother breast.
The harvest done—and to this end.
We sit to meal with a cherished friend.
And thanks be to the plants and the beast—
For the offering of this bountiful feast.
Our Father Who art in Heaven,
We give to you one day in seven;
And then to acknowledge Your Loving care,
We give to you one day a year.
Amen.
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The Falling Asleep of the Mother of God
(A (A Poem Poem by by Mary Mary Siegle Siegle for for August August August 15th)
15th)
For the children—so that they will know what feast it is today,
and how the ancient festival time came to be given to the virgin.
She fell asleep today.
The Mother of God—
She who wept so—
Madre Dolorosa!
She fell asleep today.
And the angels came.
They bore her up on a breath of wind.
A sky-blue cloak
Of air against air against air—
To heaven the fairies bore her up.
She who wept so—
On this day she was taken up.
Mother don’t weep today.
See, we’ll take this festival for you.
See, this feast is yours.
Our Lady of the Harvest,
The first fruits are yours.
The 13 Days of Samhain
Words by the Berkeley Grove
Sung to the traditional tune
On the first day of Samhain,
the cailleach sent to me:
a lios in County Tipperary.
On the second day of Samhain,
the cailleach sent to me:
two water-horses
and a lios in County Tipperary.
Three Mor-Rioghna
Four Pooks
Five Silver branches
Six pipers piping
Seven harpers harping
Eight hunters riding
Nine Sidhe a-sighing
Ten Druids scrying
Eleven washer-women
Twelve mortals dying
Thirteen beansidhes crying.