Sometimes A Wild God, by Tom Hirons, is an amazing poem.
The Hermes and Hekate Road Show, Episode 1
On all my social media outlets…
The Hermes and Hekate Road Show, Episode 1
This is awesome. It is even more awesome, in my view, because the folks playing Hermes and Hekate are my defining priest and priestess for those roles from Spring Mysteries in years past.
Steer wisely.
Something about cycles.
These are pieces of advice from those deities via that priest and priestess, dispensed to me over the last 6 years. They are also statements that relate to the content of this podcast.
Check it out, y’all.
Poemlet that popped into my head this morning…
Mirror, mirror,
made of stone,
polished antler,
brass, and bone,
Tell me truly:
on my own?
Seated, silent
lifeless throne.
My Art: Thunderstone
I illustrated the cover of a book!
THUNDERSTONE (paperback)(Kindle ebook)
, by Shawna Walls, is about a young Dwarf woman who goes on adventures. It is an awesome YA novel set in a fantasy world that is based on the Pacific Northwest; the dwarves live in the Mountain! *grin*
I actually researched Russian dress and embroidery for Mirya’s dress and for the engravings on the axe. The author had specifically said that the Dwarves should be Russianesque, so I really wanted an authentic feel for her clothes and the axe design.
Please check it out!
Someone Else’s Words: The Sincerity of a Child
Here’s a light for you
You can put all of your secrets in
And they will never come out again.
My little 6 year old housemate just said this to me. <3
Filk: Filk Halls of Harmony
Filk Halls of Harmony
Words: Based on those written by Al Frank
Music: “Farewell tae th’ Creeks” by Hamish Henderson
Written while at the Columbus Airport after OVFF 2012
The Toastmaster’s saddened. The con’s gone away.
There’s no Dead Dog whiskey to be had today.
The skies up above us are clouded and grey
And all of the filkers are leavin’.
And it’s trudge, trudge, out to the landing,
And set down your packs while the lift’s on its way.
And it’s fare ye well ye filk halls of harmony.
All the poor filkers are leaving.
This contract’s fulfilled but next year’s has been made.
The hotel has told us our time’s overstayed.
Goodbyes if you haven’t said them all today.
When our carpools arrive, we’ll be leavin’.
And it’s trudge, trudge, out to the breezeway,
And Tetris your packs in the most fitting way.
And it’s fare ye well ye filk halls of harmony.
All the poor filkers are leaving.
No plane’s movin’ eastward, it’s covered in storm.
So only the ones who’re bound elsewhere go home,
Don’t sweat when your flight is, can’t leave still it’s done,
It still rains on the day that we’re leavin’.
And it’s trudge, trudge, out to the airport,
And check all your packs, make sure they’re squared away.
And it’s fare ye well ye filk halls of harmony.
Most of the filkers are leaving.
Some filk for the singing, some filkers just play.
But we are all filkers and filking’s our way.
It’s a hard thing to leave, but employment means pay
And like all of your filk friends, you’re leavin’.
So it’s phones out, check on the landin’
The flight has come in, walk aboard, come away.
And it’s fare ye well ye filk halls of Harmony,
For all the tired filkers are leavin’.
Character: The Atacarthian Manticore
In her den, the Manticore snarls and rages. She hates everything, even while loving it so tightly that the broken edges cut her. She would destroy it all until every creature around her suffers as soul deep as she does, bleeding her love out on the foundations which are all that remain of her home; even they are nearly gone. The great City Atacarthia has been destroyed, desecrated by a new queen, her consort, and the Order in power which deems that nothing that the City was previously is good enough for it. They raised her hopes at first with talk of cooperation and slow but needed improvements, then razed it level, only to raise up their own pathetic mockery of the beauty and ancient pride with which the City once held up Her head. The Manticore would love nothing more than to see it burn.
Do not approach that cavern, child. The Manticore is no less deadly for her sobs and screeching than she was at the height of her prosperity. Manticores still sting, roar, sing, and kill as their fathers teach them, and New Atacarthia would do well to remember that.
Lyrics Snippet from 09-10-2008
I won’t be Wendy to your Peter Pan
I’ll not be Mickey to your Rose
I bow to none, catch me if you can
This is how the story goes
Posted originally in my LJ.
Poem: On Being An Adult, Sometimes
Welcoming reality
“bye, for now” to fantasy
“Hi, Responsibility”
not just what I want to see.