theworldismagick:

Brighid is an embrace that ends with the gifting of a sword. She is the morning greeting from the cat, the steam coming off the pot of soup, the vibrations humming from the crystal. She is the fluttering of pages and the smell of wet ink. She is red hair and a green dress with hot-iron burn marks–she is cadence and comfort and coal-sparks lighting the night.

paladinkit:

Hi world! life may be hard, but you’re welcome to come hang out in my good warm corner on this stormy day 🙂

LOTS going on today – it’s time to #walkinred (see more about that here), I’m looking for a new home starting sometime this summer, I’m planning the best party EVER, and trying to get ready to deal with another loss while still trying to wrap my mind around losing a friend this fall. 

Hugs and tea party all around?

I.
In a heavy smith’s apron, she strikes
dark iron pressed to the forge, cherry red,
throwing sparks with every clanging blow.

Molten gold is running through her hands –
she is unburnt, her skin is shining
dawn-bright and fierce as a summer day.

She sings a sword’s edge, works a whetstone
along the new-forged blade. The hilt fits
a warrior’s hand, whispers his name.

II.
Dried herbs and fresh go into the pot
and health comes out: pains ease, fevers break.
Cool poultices soothe weary patients.

Her hands are aloe on sunburnt skin
and a memory of warmth in the
winter. Her hands are a battle cry

in the battle we all fight, against
time, death, and the ultimate darkness.
Brigid is a lantern in the night.

III. 
Her voice is beyond song, bards’ desire
given pitch and tone as if it were
something you could write, something a man

could sing. Or a woman. But no one
can sing Brigid’s column of glory,
goddess wrought of flame, of poetry

molten as gold, potent as daylight,
whiskey set alight and shot, goddess
of poems, sear my heart, let me feel you.

“Triptych for Imbolc” by opalborn

lebornaciar this is the thought I had – I was going to post one section a day today, tomorrow, Monday, but then I figured it would be better to put the whole thing up now in case anyone wants it for the actual holiday

(via winebrightruby)

A poem for Brighid please?

winebrightruby:

(poems for Brigid always)
(I’m not even remotely an Irish polytheist I just have a Brigid Problem)

Her eyes are candles.
Her hands are callused and wiry,
smith’s hands pockmarked with tiny burns
from sparks and cinders.
Her hair glows.

Where she passes, pain eases.
Summer reborn in the rustle of her skirts;
sunlight falling from her lips.
When she speaks, every word flames.
When she speaks, my voice scorches.

When she sings, brighter than gold
and hotter than hilltop bonfires,
there is nothing else in the world.

——-

Reminder to all you lovely people that I take poetry/prayer commissions year-round for just a few dollars!