The Words of man, returning to form and a Silver star.

Journey home by John Caple

It is often quoted that " A picture paints a thousand words", a truth indeed and one that has spoken to mankind since its arrival into the world, in fact, it is a form of communication embraced and used far before words themselves ever made the pilgrimage from the mouths and into the ears of our ancestors.
Privileged we are, those of us who now dwell in a world where the spoken or written word is able to create images of divine beauty in strange symbols upon paper, screen and parchment,that which within past times (not so far away) we may not of understood, either through ignorance upon that level or because of the tyranny and oppression of our overlords and governors, who, in the grasps of power wished to keep us poor and uneducated , enforced intellectual cruelty in order to maintain their status and imposing position within society, leaving many to never to have the understanding of the letters and the knowledge of how to answer to them. Common language and the written word is a blessing to treasure.
There are so many forms of writing, the simple poem to the six volume novel, each and every word has its value, the arrangements of some are so perfect as to paint the most glorious masterpiece upon the canvas of our minds, brush stokes that will tantalise the soul, images that will burn into our very beings , conceived and understood ,perhaps as memories, formula, love and brotherhood.
Barriers of race, religion and Creed are like dust to be blown away between the reader and the author, forever to hold a place within the hearts of both.
The word becomes a rhyme that would teach, a story to give council, or a record of this place and time, just as the scenes that we find roughly drawn on stone would remind the hunter of his place in this world and the tasks he had to perform, the paths we were hopeful to take, gold and turquoise effigies found deep beneath the sand within covered tombs, the words of the past for all to see and understand.
There is sadness in these facts, for many today the word has no value, newspapers are discarded daily and other media is rushing to fill this void, the written word is undervalued in favour of film, photo and poorly educated morons who would also seek to keep the people simple and peddle terrible advise, the picture is becoming the medium for communication of the masses once more, sadly not artistic splendour bought about by love and inspiration, but more throwaway tat, shall we burn the books or make sure that our children continue the devotion to locked in carbon and the wise beauty that languishes in the countries libraries, will it be that one day we shall become the overlords watching over the uneducated ignorant masses, I know the answer- Do you?

It has been an interesting couple of weeks, as I have mentioned the feeling of detachment continued far beyond my own wishes, yet accept it I had to. Acceptance bought about some strange feelings, to voluntarily climb down into the pit of despair, willingly fall into the dark light, a fools mission it might seem, another leap, yet faith has proven that I now have the means to climb out, never now to return wholly to the worlds of man I have been forced to walk in the space between the worlds, not one foot in either, a path none of us would choose, a test of faith upon the crooked path, and one that shall very soon come to a close.
The rising lunar tide brings home those connections and I am very ready to dive back into the stream that awaits, a trip to the wilder aspects of my home, ash and thorn await as beacons within the mist, a glance a tonight's lunar spectacle would be a boon yet unlikely I think, as the sky is almost slate with cloud, yet virtue demands no eyes to behold.

Thirteen years ago there came a storm into the life of the cunning man, my youngest born at the time of shortest night, tempestuous beauty, passionate and caring, my time with her has been a wondrous adventure, perhaps to learn as much about myself as I have learned about her.
As she embarks upon this next stage in her life she will be given a gift among others, a symbol of her own heritage, often maligned and most certainly abused, the silver pentacle I have for her acts purely as a recognition of her own heritage, from father to daughter, to know who we are and to enable her to remember, a gift from one of the old path to one who has yet to find their own, irrespective of whatever road she is to walk upon, it is a symbol that she will be able to look at and remember the spirit in which it was given, a token of our love and a spark that will always be welcome to join the fire at our hearth, bright blessings J and may you continue to teach this dinosaur a thing or two.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Summer rain, Fate's plan and the drumming of a thousand maniacs..

A gentle sprinkle of summer rain has fallen upon the baked earth of our home, so hard the ground, that most of the tiny droplets run off into the streams and ditches, cracks and crevices, depriving the thirsty plants much needed nutrition, the sun hides behind smothering cloud and warmer clothes are worn into the refreshing air to halt the chill.
On those moments when he does return from imposed exile, his blistering heat scorches the skin , said thirsty plants turn to marvel at the brilliance, some only to wither beneath roofs of glass. It becomes harder to function within the high humidity gifted to us by the June showers, an uncertain time which may leave us in need of a coat in one moment and stripping off within the next if sensibility and modesty will allow.

All seems at first glance to be the portent of a time of pestilence, who is to tell, yet if one reaches out beyond the skin it paints a far different picture, the beat of Nerthus's drum pounds out a different tune to the gentle, consistent pulse that we could all perceive in the weeks that seem so far behind. An army of drummers thump upon the dry skins a rhythm so hard and fast as to become a vibration , each beat no longer truly discernible from the last, to dance to this tune would bring insanity, this song has a far different purpose, a herald of the life and fecundity that fills the ether, the dry earth, all realms that now clamour for attention.

Care is taken, meditation brings the most confusing of signals, a wild spinning vortex of life that is hard to define, whirling and chaotic, exiting, yet there would appear to be some danger within, to dip into this pool is joyous indeed, although there is the temptation to dive in completely, to swim and explore the world within the depths, to escape from the mundane reality completely, however, wiser council might suggest that to do so is to willingly have ones soul ripped out of the body through the third eye perhaps never to return intact, again, Prudence within ones actions is definitely required, until the time when guide and mentor might furnish me with the armour or perhaps a lifeline to enable this one to swim safely. Until then the pineal shall remain tugging upon the brow and crashing against hard skull like a trapped animal, desperate to escape but ultimately safe in the knowledge it cannot fall into another Hunt's path.

With the seasonal confusion, the maintaining of all the connections made becomes harder, it is though many the voices all shouting at once cannot be heard for the raucous noise they all produce, they become one with the vibration, indiscernible, difficult to single out, lessons merge and other sounds distract the traveller from the path, true Faith steps in to unite the parts of the shattered soul and simple pleasures bring mortar to the unstable masonry, art and poetry bring inspiration, the beauty that lies within an other's words or within the gentle strokes of a brush calm the water and filter out the detritus, so clarity and solidity may return, the seemingly impossible is not as far out of reach as any of us might imagine.
Faith becomes another key, to unlock that door that leads to gnosis, it is the support that will aid the injured man, the horse that will carry him home safely and the hearth that will warm the heart, never blind, for that is the domain of the usurper, the charlatan that demands allegiance without assurity, the fools paradise, to see the truth one one has to open ones eyes, heart and ears and it is there for all to see,feel and hear. There is no need to follow blindly, doubt and delusion are the liars seeds planted by those who lack a faith of their own, and they are keen gardeners in that respect, with only a false calling to their names, at least in this calamitous time their voices are not easily heard.

And so a note to those lost souls within this strange brotherhood, brothers we are and through our blood we are bound, to the both of you separated by the great Atlantic I send my wishes, what you both have is precious and rare, turbulent oceans will not break that bond, time and patience will see you right in the end, have faith my kin, for fate has a plan for you both, as does she for us all, I truly count my own blessings that I do not have to endure that pain that you yourselves endure, but remember that it will not last.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

The Mighty Oak, a clumsy boot and a gallic Crocodile

The fire crackles into life and smoke entwines itself through leaf and branch.
Green and proud, the sentinel stands, keeper of secrets and herald of the chthonic realm, king of the mound and guardian of the abyss, watcher and shepherd to those that would approach that sacred realm.
Mighty Oak, adorned in life, majestic tree of ages three, one to grow, one to live and one to die, as above as so below, the hidden door to a world of deep knowledge, ancestor and home, defender of the fugitive, protector of this realm, I salute you at this time of your splendour.

Beneath this opulent canopy, it comes once more to pass that summer madness is upon us all, endlessly trying in vain to maintain some kind of order from among the chaos and distractions at this time of insanity, yet often to fail and get caught by the traps and pitfalls littered throughout the world of man.
Many folk descend to this coastal haven to to take the sea air and rid themselves of the burdens of everyday existence, busy roads and cluttered streets, the lifeblood for a county that has Little else to offer, so a smiling face and a touch of courtesy would go a long way to help fill the county's coffers.
The older children within our society, having served their time, prepare to take the first steps into the "real" world, work, college and all the cruelties involved, the next phase in the lives of the innocent, talented shapers of creation one and all.
Chaos all around.

The season of Loki is here once again, at least for this traveller who would stumble along the crooked road, more diligence and care is required, as the digital world of communication serves to teach this one a lesson once again.
Perhaps I have become far to comfortable with this electronic medium, forgetting on occasion the subtle nature of words and of the perceptions that are born of them, a statement that may be intended as a question becomes as an insult if not properly worded, care must be taken when opinions are thrust into the realm of another who perhaps we have never met, unable to see the smile on your lips, or hear the inflections upon the voice, words alone will perhaps deceive the reader from their true intent, hurt will then manifest itself in incorrect assumptions, anger and emotional discomfort, such a snare has had me by the neck this week, but lesson learnt and endeavours will be made not tread so heavily when walking in the gardens of others, for if we should refuse the invite or jump over the fence to safety we shall be denied the fruit of wisdom and there is nothing to be gained.

Brief contact and deeper thought with my own dear brother serve to bring great strength to this would be Cunning man, separation by distance overcome, we work and explore the darkness together, the sun returns to mark another year upon his life and I for one shall raise an Ale in his honour, bright blessings my true kinsman and may you have many more.

Finally, if one should ever wonder what it might be to live within the realms of Mr Punch, then please feel free to spend a few days beneath our own roof, as our home would adjoin that of "the Punches" there is much verbal abuse toward the children, shouting, screaming and most certainly the consumption of sausages, no policemen although I suppose I could become the devil within the mix, I shall let you know if and when a crocodile should make an appearance, and if it does it will most likely be fluent in french as are the rest of them.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

The Dog that climbed a tree and a fool's sacrifice..

Gone and past now, the Rites of spring, all headings are firmly fixed toward the feast of the Baptist, the true heat of the midsummer sun and the unknown dangers that lurk within Salome's captivating dance.
The Blossom upon the white thorn now all but gone, blown to into the air by the warmer winds of early promise, yet outside this home of mine there is a silent call, a precious gem within a sea of fecundity, the blushed tint of our dear friend Rosa Canina who has climbed to the top of the now green May to once more crown her with a jewel worthy of her beautiful spirit, perfectly complementing her gown of emerald green with true virtue.

Perfection!

A creature of the darker months, or so I would like to think, the cloak of winter now a distant memory yet this surrounding vision of Nerthus at her most radiant never will cease to captivate and distract.
Is it not true, that in order to truly appreciate what we have and hold dear, is to have lost it within some unforeseen or foreseen moment, can we truly enjoy the company of others if we have never felt alone, love, if we have never felt loved, bring Justice, if we were never the victim, good health, if we have never felt pain or acceptance if we have never been rejected.

Perhaps, yet those moments that we have, the ones that tear our fibre apart serve a purpose, for without them we could become emotionless fools, incapable of learning the lessons strewn upon the path, the trials and tribulations of this life may be looked upon as blessings and not a curse, if the human mind will allow.

Lucky is the soul who would blunder it's way through this existence and never need to pay good heed to these lessons, a good life indeed for a foolish one, never to stop and take note of the flowers that he has so carelessly trodden in his wake, while a wiser being might stop to smell the scent, hurt and angered by the fact that another had so carelessly turned the blooms to dust. Regretfully, this is the way of things.

Success within our modern world is often measured by financial wealth and accumulation of useless possessions, those with a clumsy foot willing to walk roughshod over the treasures that truly lie before them are rewarded (or so they would like to think), with wealth, property and prosperity, the Fool is king in this world, yet one day that world will end and where will the fool be then, these riches are the trappings of a false world, a human construct that has no bearing upon true spiritual growth, in time the King will be the sacrifice once again and the wiser folk will dance with joy upon his bones, as they shall become dry and bleached beneath Lucifer's own flame, lying trodden in the dust with the skeletons of the underdogs.

So, Simple pleasures are torches that light the way, friends who would walk and play within the light of the moon, the wiser words of another that bring a smile to the face and the treasured company of those who you hold to be dear, bright lights indeed to chase away the shadows of hurt and regret, the finest of dancing partners.

And how we shall dance upon that day my dear brothers and sisters.


Flags Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Sweet Mead and the Cunning Arte

All lies quiet and still within the walls of our home, beloved family safe and warm beneath the blanket of night, recharging the tired and weary bones, to rest and to sleep in order to face the morning sun and all the trials he may bring once again.
There is no such repose for this one however, as the heavy heads of his own kin lie with eyes shut, minds flying into the realm of dreams, there is work for the Cunning man to do.

Heavenly wonders remain obscured by the cloud as the early summer winds threaten to remove the fresh leaves from the tall branches of the trees, thick trunks weighed down with the flowing sap sway and bend to the rhythm of the world, echos of that beating heart as it pulses across this land, the sky, a Granite and slate tapestry reflects in awe the geology of this county, yet beyond this heavenly canopy I see her shadow, still cast, she lies upon the path I need to take, so as moth to the flame I go, and with great joy I accept her as my guide.
Along the well worn track I trudge, fully laden with feast and fuel, night birds throw silhouettes above my head, silent still in their flight yet a welcome company all the same, further across the fields and down to the woodland edge I go, Celeste lights my way and the White thorn that graces my chosen spot now fat with over ripe blossom serves to mark my destination, a beacon to bring me home.

The Oss stands tall, bejeweled in the finery of the season, ever present companion to this one, guardian of the rose and finest of steeds, patiently it stands to watch, as from the axis the compass unfolds, to the East I place the spear.
No circle is cast, this is a flower that must open, and open she does, one petal at a time until she stands sublime beneath the veiled nocturnal glory.
As the sacred Fire springs into life my mind journeys far to the lands of my dearest family who will kindle blazes of their own on this night, across the hills and moors of our island we are one, together within this act of devotion and celebration, and though we may appear the solitary creatures of the night we are never so, as by these acts we are united as kin.

The Mill turns to the beat of the pulse, the sacred wood burns and above the sounds of our babbling brook there are names upon the wind, Hecate, Hermes, Lillith, Lucifer, Cerridwen, Cernunnos, Nerthus, Ing and Pan, words that travel through the ether as they have done so for all of mankind's history, the sound of the witch blood awakened in the souls of mankind.
Continuing within the round, the rose lies fixed and stationary, it is as though the whole world turns on this point, that it is my compass that remains fixed and the land spins around it, from my steady view point I feel no motion as the trees and bushes continue to pass my eyes, I am strangely removed from our world and existing beyond, outside of space and time, an observer of things that happen in another world perhaps another time.

A leap of faith and over flame I grab the spear and hold it aloft, my being a surge of energy as the worlds collide, movement stops, and the ground almost shakes in its wake, somewhere close by I hear there is another who does dance within the midnight shadows, yet on the pulse continues, waves of pure sound that match my every move, thump, thump, thump as the Spear strikes the dry earth, I match the beat, I am the beat and we are the same, that primeval force that will persist even when the Sons and Daughters of Cain have long since departed this Land.

United in one, Spear and Cauldron, the sweet mead cast to the watchers and a shared meal with the divine, I attempt to replace this holy weapon to the earth from which I took it and I am told in no uncertain terms that it is now mine to wield.
The journey home is longer, a stop made and an offering to Hecate is placed at the crossroads, I turn my back and walk away, never to look behind.

The Cunning Arte of the may tide complete for another year.

Two become one, a Branded cow and a Jewel among the thorns.

Britain stands glorious, adorned in its gown of emerald green, Lucifer's jewel sublime within the crystal beauty of Mari's turbulent waters. The late springtime rain brings radiant fecundity to all that stand within the fields and hedges of our ancient isle as once again the chthonic realm forces it's way to the surface of our land.
There is a pulse that beckons to those who would acknowledge, for some a beat to hear, for others a wave of purity to feel or see, yet all those who see, feel, or are blind to it all, still walk within it's passion and flame, it is life, it is love and it comes direct in it's path from the source of all things to reach out and touch rich man and beggar alike. It does not recognise the bizarre human constructs that govern our world, it surpasses the myriad ego's and sense of the self, it will not discriminate twixt wealthy and poor, man, woman or child, we are one and it brushes upon us all, we only have to stop and pay attention to it's advances and only then will we feel the presence.

Our own journey once more takes us back to the home of our past, time again to stand beneath the hallowed shadow of the island of Avalon, the purpose on this occasion to bear witness to the joining of two souls that with great blessings will remain as close as family to my beloved and myself for a great time to come.
Deep inside these hollow hills we stand, kith and kin united in purpose before the Old ones, pacts are made and blessings abound, the life giving waters of the hill pour with great abundance into the sacred pool that which takes pride of place within the darkened halls of this temple, the Black Madonna witness to all who stand before her, radiant within the candle light vigil in this moment devoted to love and union. Two separate souls that have overcome the barriers of time, distance and space, to become as one before the eyes and ears of those who would gladly give them all they would desire if it were in their means to do so, the word of this bond still echos through my being and shall remain for as long as I remain, longer than that in truth as an eternity stretches out before them both.
A true bloom within the lives of this Cunning Man and his own dear love, a total privilege to be a part of this and my thanks go out to them both for allowing us to be so.
Ash and Patrick, may you truly be blessed with love and devotion as I have so been, fate has smiled upon you both and all those who were present, long may she continue to do so.

The commerce and bustle of this once small Somerset town astounds us both, the new age has not only left it's mark upon this magical place but has branded it as one who would mark their cattle in ownership. It has been many years since I had walked the streets of this overgrown village and I find that so much of what it has become disappoints me, religion is for sale on a grand scale, integrity has already been sold and profit is the king, yet even within this seemingly largely Pagan haven there are gems to be found, those who produce wonderful things do exist within this wholesale world, between the golden Buddha and the dark iron cauldron there are jewels that will hide, once again in plain sight.

Out of the main town Victoria and I were to meet one such artisan, I had arranged to pop in as I was in the area, and I have not seen John for nearly thirty years, we were at the same school, nestled within the heart of the Mendip hills and we have both come of age within the bosom of that dearest of lands.
This gentle fellow does not go into the woodland realm at night to tread the mill as I would, his own ritual lies within the work he does and is no less potent than any I have witnessed, influenced by a love of the land, folklore and his own rich ancestry, he creates devotional pieces that overflow with that same Craft as I feel within the night time rites of my own existence. Another aspect to our craft heritage that could easily be overlooked by those who perhaps have not had these experiences, of course this allows John to sell his paintings to those who will appreciate them as the works of art they are, I personally see perhaps something else within them.
The hills of the home I grew up in, the tales the old ones used to tell of how you should not venture to certain places upon certain nights as there would be Witches there, this was not spooky storytelling to scare small children but matter of fact advise, born out of respect for those devotees of the elder paths, the ghosts that walk the lanes at night, the midnight forays and simple rituals the country folk of our past used to perform, all this and more elegantly captured within the pigments brushed upon these boards, a shared upbringing in a land I will forever love, and proof that no amount of paraphernalia will bring you closer to your gods.
Thank you John Caple, for your generous gift and I for one recognise another true brother of the craft by the parts of your soul that permeate through your work.

Life goes on, fully refreshed by the company of all those wonderful souls who have crossed by path over these past years, you all bring a greater richness to my life and knowing you all has given me so much inspiration and clarity, the family continues to grow as this world I once considered an empty place devoid of such riches proves me wrong, and this does not disappoint.
I know not what lies at the Rainbows end but my visit proved it was not a decent cup or coffee at that particular place in Glastonbury.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.


Paintings by kind permission of John Caple
John has a published book of some of his works available on Amazon for those who may be interested, it is called Somerset and is well worth a look.

Flags, Flux, Flowers and Frivolity.

All out of your beds,

For summer is acome unto day,

Your chamber shall be strewed with the white rose and the red

In the merry morning of May.

Where are the young men that here now should dance,

For summer is acome unto day,

Some they are in England some they are in France,

In the merry morning of May.

Where are the maidens that here now should sing,

For summer is acome unto day,

They are in the meadows the flowers gathering,

In the merry morning of May.

"Oss Oss"

(excerpt from Padstow daytime may day song)

Flags and flowers fly high above the small town that lies to the northwest of this beautiful county as once more coaxed from the mouth of a golden lion the Old Oss does emerge once more from its winter lair.
The busy celebration shall pass this one by in body, though not in spirit this year, not unlike the blue ribbon that brings temperance to the frivolity, mine is a waiting game still, there is time yet before this warrior shall mount his own oss spear in hand to greet the changing tide.
Reminders of the flux adorn the great oaks of my home, the crowns of green splendid upon their noble brows, as the world tree that stands proud beside still forces its own emerald fire through the pale brown skin of its branches, the bridge that crosses all the worlds resplendent within a sea of may.

The first of May and the arrival of the May bug, after three years of subterranean voyage he emerges from the chthonic earthy realm to fly for but a short time among the summer breeze of our land, welcome Billy Witch your arrival heralds greater times ahead. Dionysus walks amongst us once again and those that cannot face his gaze scurry back to the holes and beneath the stones from whence they came, now fearful to attempt to hide within plain site, blinded by the light of wisdom they retreat.

Gifts an blessings showered down upon the heart of the Cunning man upon the muted marking of another solar return, a white rose to stand beside the red and a black one that points toward dearest of kin, green fire from Lucifer's brow and wishes in abundance, proof to this one that emerging from the shadows was indeed the right choice to make, although when having lunch with my beloved, there were two of our pagan sisters (adorned with the correct jewellery)who noticed a symbol upon my lapel, then drew visual daggers, perhaps mistaking it for one of those they despise, it bought a smile to my heart at the ability to hide within plain site from those who would feign wisdom and forsake the truth for ignorance..

Within this time of union my own voyage will once more take me to my old stamping ground where another union shall take place, two souls from different worlds, separated by the great Atlantic ocean shall be united, a chance once more to meet favoured kin and those of like minded spirit, as this one ventures further into the light of company unknown, what blessings shall be born of this union I have yet to see, but they have mine and all that goes with it, and they shall relish this short time together upon the shores of Avalon.

As the children of the land prepare to undertake the acceptable face of the rites of spring, the wind howls around the vicinity of our home, the village bunting might well be in the neighbouring village by now, I shall venture forth soon to find out. The Pole erected every year finds the company of youth from the young of elsewhere as the village itself has not produced those of appropriate age for some time, another place's offspring were imported to dance the round last year and I imagine the same will occur this time, a retirement village that heralds the end of tradition and the death of the rural communities, it would seem that as with everything, it is those who would complain of change that force its very being after all.
A bitter lesson that we should treasure the young and the changes they bring, evolution occurs at so many levels and if we were to praise the children for the advancement they make, instead of criticising them at every turn then, refusing to accept change, then this land would be all the better for it, we have much to be proud of in our youth, but to see it we must all open our eyes, for it is there to see, Art, Music and dance, right in front of us, primal skill and evolution of the species in action.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.


(Cockchafer, (colloquially called may bug, billy witch, or spang beetle))