Thoughts of a life in love.

Some things remain unsaid, sleeping dogs left to lie, far happier in ignorance than to be awoken in sadness , only then to rage and bite with vengeance's bitter whip.

Not our story my love, this was never our way.

Do you remember?

That fated moment, caught between the dust and fumes of the city,

the smoke grey sky that cast no shadow that day.

Beneath the concrete towers when fortune smiled and our eyes met for the first time,

I still feel the tremble of my heart, that knowing.

I still hear the stolen voice that whispered “She's the one”,

It whispers to me still my love.

The greater part of our lives within each others company, yet we tire not of that gift,

How could we reject such as Fate has given and as such we celebrate still.

I can feel the impatience, waiting for that telephone call.

do you remember the letters we wrote?

The songs we sang?

We sing them still my love.

We have seen peoples rise and others fall, feast and famine.

Yet within your arms it can all be forgotten.

We were children then, amazed by the flames beneath the bright night sky,

never feared of the fires tongue, a forge to weld our love,

Nocturne's witness within sight of the Hare's dance.

The Dance continues my love.

The wheel turns.

Our own forest has truly blossomed.

Yet still we walk these wild hills, gaze in wonder at the stars,

bathed in the light of those dearest souls who love us for who we are.

The fire casts its light upon the face I love,

my heart jumps as the salmon leaps when you come into my arms.

This fire she burns still my love.

The best may be yet to to be seen.

For it is the beauty of your being that never fades,

I raise my cup to you, may it flow eternally as our love has done.

For at the end of days, I would give it all,

A thousand lifetimes for one look into your eyes.

I would tear down the halls of the gods,

To hold you once more in my arms.

My Love.

Sweet breath upon a bitter wind

Wild Wood.

Far from speechless within the Moor.

Tortured, Twisted, dressed in rags, the Ghost of our ancestors stand.

From holy seed, once borne upon and ancient wind.

A promise faintly whispered, far beyond the haunted dreams of Abraham's fated son.

This treasured truth does stand as like and yet within the moss covered stones,

when all else does seem as futile noise,

falling amongst the bitter dust of civilisation's angry grasp.

Sweet honeyed scent, soft and warm descends from the high Tor.

Flowing Blood and bone washes into the wood,

standing tall Oak, Ash and Thorn stretch to take it all.

An Arboreal sigh, welcome relief, a deeper breath and a remembered thought.

The Granite Giants shift themselves as memory stirs,

they rise and turn with the fond recall of lives never to be forgotten,

Ancestral voices raised in triumph .

Gently I walk, within the footsteps of the wise amongst the hidden paths.

I glimpse the shade of a white hare, I hear the song of the wish hounds pushing me further.

My soul grasps at the rock, reaches deep into the loam, I am anchored to this place, rooted.

Lost in the wilderness, I am home,

foundling far beyond your space and time, one with all that matters still.

It is I who would haunt this wood, I that would sing the song of fear.

It is I who would hunt the weary traveller and draw him to his doom.

For I am the eyes that follow you, the noise that makes your heart leap.

Foe, Fiend or friend, what would you have me be.

For I am at one with the wild wood

As for yourselves, who knows ?

Rise up and unite in the merry month of May.

The May tree is fat with promise in the garden of the Cunning man, blooms ready to burst forward and display their wonder, perhaps as soon as next week the crown upon that thorn shall shine.
And that sign alone shall pass as time to dance, to feel the loam of the woodland glade beneath feet that long for this life, a relief from the harsh trudge of the day to day, an escape into that elusive place that becomes as our souls, perhaps greater, we are entwined, enveloped in nature, our salvation if you will.
Yet how many do carry this gift at all times, have our own forays into the wild wood become as shallow as those who frequent other temples?
Has the Queen of the May become nothing more than a holy distraction from the world and yet do we have the right to block out everything else in search of our own indulgence?

Are you separate from the madding crowd, shrouded within your temple of green? do the masked rites of May shield you from the political rantings of an election battle or is it that you consider yourself to be "above and beyond" such concerns. Fool indeed if you believe so.
Do you think that your praxis actually benefits any other than yourself? that your time well spent in meditation and ritual might change the world?

Your world perhaps but not mine.

The rite is a crucible, meditation too, we learn about the self and prepare for the real world, it moulds and forms the self into being, what you do from then on is how you will be judged, there is no separation twixt here and there, one place within one time, out of space and out of time, all one thing, to separate it and box it up is to proclaim values that are irrelevant, further pointing to your own delusions.
But you like them don't you? it is why you persist in them after all, them and us I hear you cry, so where is that shout for true humanity in your world.

The one world philosophy is vital if we are to succeed as human beings, to allow separation is to fail completely and utterly, you are no hero if you are to let the world and all its terror pass unchecked while in pursuit of divine gifts.You are no Warrior who walks away from inevitable conflict. When you meet your God or stand before your ancestors and proclaim your priestly virtues, do you think they will be impressed, in awe of your pompous virtue? or will you stand agape when they ask "what did you actually do to make a difference to this hell", account for your world or be damned by all.

Small things do matter, the gift of kindness and understanding to a stranger, the provision of safety, a warm bed and a meal cost little and the rewards are great . We are Mankind and we should celebrate our commonalities not be fearful or disdaining of our differences. We should protect the weak, defend those who are unable to defend themselves, spread love and light through this world by actions and not ritual, that is for the self. So be it by the bullet or the ballot box, the sword or the pen, Act.

This world is smouldering, ready to burst into flames and does so in no small ways all the time, thankfully there are those who do their best to smother those flames and keep this castle from turning to ash, those who do not need to look beyond their comfortable middle class occultist lifestyles and act, those who are prepared to forgo the safety of this modern world to actually fight real demons who would torture,rape and murder others with whom they do not share a world view.
People who would travel thousands of miles to provide shelter for others whose homes are destroyed by war or nature.
Heroes indeed, and far form what I have witnessed within the world of Occultism.Within that I all see laziness, sloth, ego and very little of what I might consider virtue, thoughtless actions to benefit thoughtless people, have or want attitudes, nothing to benefit humanity, them and us, it is a farce and I laugh in all your faces for you cannot see the truth, you don't even want to.

So rise up and unite in this merry month of may, prove your humanity or be damned to your castles built of sand, and if there you remain then I do honestly hope to see you washed out to sea for this tide is upon the turn.

Flags,Flax and Fodder.
Tony.

Winter sun caught within the mist.

 

The Bright February sun burns away the hanging mists that touch upon the body of our land, when the cold wind abates there is warmth to be found within its embrace.

The Candlemass fire burned bright and fierce, yet like the storm touched solar rays it held little heat, but then it rarely does.

It speaks only of promise and promises, the bright mirror and the dark one, the light of the way and the beacon that is the hearth of the clan. Shelter from the world and hidden aspects of the self it offers not.

This world is on fire and yet we patiently await the rising phoenix as she blows away the ashes to reveal that splendour, that renewal and makes good her promise.

Patience may be a virtue indeed but do not mistake it for the idleness of waiting for her gifts to come to you, reward is never without work, to know love and joy is to experience the frustrations of pain,hate and anger, if we stay atop the mountain we forget the life in those forgotten vales. To embrace all that she throws at us is the key to life and true enlightenment. To await it's arrival without toil, thought and care is a sin that should have been consumed by he who would devour it.

There are still far to many prophets who sit within their halls of dust, upon thrones built of lies and deceit, amongst vast libraries of over priced tomes, rarely to climb down and live among those whom they feel shall be eternally beneath them, that tradition of the over privileged occultist, fat and rich upon the money of their kin, idle in the true work of their cause, the blind that would lead the blind, lemmings to the sea indeed.

I say jump and be done, for you are of no use to this world, unless you live within it. Of what use are you to the homeless man frozen by the winter winds? or the elderly one that lies upon her floor unable to move behind the closed door of your street. How does your work or lack of help the man who will lose his head at the touch of an Arab's sword or the woman who is brutalised for her God differs from your own?

Become human. Pay attention and walk in the world. Listen to the wind but do not shut out the voices of mankind. All work is prayer and therefore sacred, it is an evil man who does nothing to change the fate of the oppressed if it is within his grasp to do so, humanitarianism, environmentalism, the true vocations that will elevate the soul, ignorance only serves to lengthen your time in hell.

There is no medal of honour to be won here, none will gift you with rewards and riches, it is beyond where the gifts manifest, gifts of reciprocation that cannot be bought, sold or traded, for once given they are your own, your keys.

Every tradition within the craft started with a voice upon the wind, listen to the voice that speaks to you, it serves nothing to listen to translations of another's whispers, belong to yourself and you will find kin upon this path, make contact for there are others who would listen to you.

The Clan of Tubal Cain may be a closed order but we all wish to hear the stories of another's journey, to find and recognise our kin within the craft. We all belong to the stream, if we cut away the petty trappings and the badge wearing mentality of our occult past we may yet become a true community, but until that time we remain fractured.

Live life as a servant to it, to do anything else is to make a mockery of existence. Look to the old ones and their ways, for Odin's own sacrifice would be for nowt if you don't.

Speak upon the wind and someone will listen.

Flags, Flax and Fodder

Tony Macleod. (Man in black to the Clan of Tubal Cain.)

thecunningman@gmail.com