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

A Dog's Tale.

A Dog's Tale.

Born of the sun beyond the veil of mist,
disinherited bastard child of the earth,
beloved of the world.
Water, thick with dark peat hurls toward the deep,
silver ingot that leaps to prove his glory,
fulfilling his doom.
A shadow upon the rising sun,
one tortured soul, clings to the tree,
cruel carrion tear at his flesh,
returns him to whence he came.
Laughter and children's games,
bring tears amongst blood an splintered bone,
joy and woe,
it is I who stand triumphant upon this scarlet field.
Within the dark of night I met that hound,
I did take it's soul for my own,
I bore it's teeth to serve lesser men than I,
loyal to the last.
I became fear,
I became Death.
Born again on the field of wood and bronze,
twisting and changing,
fury hot and fierce courses though my veins,
I take it all,
this dog he feasts upon the slain.
A slave to none yet master not,
to the mist I must return,
a leap of faith as the salmon does,
to prove mine own glory, written in stone.
A beauty, copper scaled and fearless host,
the arts of war , the Arte of love I did learn.
The bringer and the thief, the lover and the beloved,
servant and traitor am I.
And yet with wisdom's gift did I goad my horses.
Toward mine own doom in the haze of glory.
A sacrifice, myself to myself,
Headlong towards this fools wyrd.
I hear the rush of the falls,
I feel my blood as it weeps for the loss.
Somewhere the master of the water makes his leap,
bright colour reflecting from a radiant sun upon the scaled armour.
A sigh upon the wind as he claims his glory, as carrion he lies by the waters edge.
An I.
Strapped to a rotting tree upon this heath,
this setting sun, as I knew it would be.
The raven, she tears at my flesh,
eats well of this bastard son who leaped as the salmon leaps.
I who have known glory, I who have known love, I who have known death.
It is I, that she takes home.

Unknown artist.


Flags Flax and Fodder. Tony.

For my youngest Daughter

It was in the Summer of 1998 that you came into our lives.

Foxglove high upon the hedges of the purple moor, full of promise, bright and beautiful, not unlike yourself.

As far north as we have ever lived, the silent whispers of midsummer holding our radiant Sun within the heavens through out both Day and Night.

A Child of light,of land ,sea and sky you came into our world with all the passion of those hot summer storms.

Thunder within your heart finds it's balance in love and harmony, then like the storm fades to brighten the world once more.

Our dearest Jen.

Like the flowers that were the heralds of your birth, be beautiful.

Like the wild storms of summer, embrace your passion.

Like the bright sun of midsummer ,be radiant.

Like the Ocean,shape the world and rise to all challenges.

Carry all this in your heart,.

for together with our most dearest love you will shine.

The brightest star in the night sky.

A light it has been our privilege to love and to hold.

We have had fortune indeed to know you my sweet girl.

Follow your heart yet always know that it will have a home with us .

XXX.

A fool's errand

A Fool’s errand.

It is a fool who would think, that to know the many names of god would grant him dominion over the crowd, the high seat at the table and an honour among men.

For the divine she is known by so many names it would choke the mind to know them all, cloud the water and blind the eyes to the vision said fool might seek, a thousand epithets and yet none would truly suffice, for in truth she has no name and yet is all names.

The Sword she cuts both ways, a severed cord as we draw our first breath into the world yet, poised above us she waits in judgement of our being, our conduct through the Wyrd, Death stalks us at every moment, from the first light of dawn upon those innocent eyes until tired and weary of life we are weighed and measured.

We live our lives upon the point of that blessed steel, pursuit of the hare leaves us not as hunter but the hunted, chasing our tails in an ever circular motion until we melt into the Lethe and forget who we are, why we are here and how we are to break this cycle.

These names we seek, are but breadcrumbs in the forest, easily forgotten when the servants of wind find sustenance in the bounty, the paths are still there amongst the arboreal home, it is distraction that renders the traveller lost, laden with so many words, burdened with so much weight it becomes a chore to move, she would bid the wanderer to remove this cloth and feel his way through the trees, feel the wind upon his face and move without the hindrance of useless knowledge that will afford him nothing in the final swing of that weapon. It is mastery of the self and not over others that will make the case for the defence within the bounds of that final Thing.

It must be said, that to fully understand the destiny of one’s life, the journeyman must know what it is like to be lost, to realise the delusions and to find that thread that his own kin have layed within the labyrinth to enable the return. For to be amongst one own, is to have a shield, not to protect from the piercing blade, but to better understand that tripartite edge, to perhaps wield it’s hilt and serve its master. It is only ever a poor man who could ever really appreciate what it is to have wealth and only when he comes to recognise his own poverty, for there are many who would count their riches yet few who would take that coin.

Truly blessed are those, who behold that light of day, those who can spot the thread of gossamer that has been placed before them upon the morning dew, glinting bright web of silver spun from the blood of the ancestors. To then gather it in, wind it upon one’s own wyrd and take that leap into the unknown that is known. Delicate at first, the more that is taken in the thicker it becomes, dense hemp rope that would tether a great ship becomes as wolf’s folly, Fenris bane, unbreakable. Thus the fish becomes the fisherman, the hunted becomes the hunter, the thread becoming a tapestry of much Wyrd woven together, the Rainbow bridge itself that will carry us to our ancestral home, to the very halls of the gods themselves.

We are born to this blade, we live by its law and we will be slain by its edge.

A grim tale it might well seem, yet one shared and rejoiced, to know ones end is to embrace all of ones gifts, that is our blessing and also our curse. Yes, to ride upon the shoulders of Giants is an honour indeed but slaves to their need we are, willingly by our own free will do we make that promise, sworn oaths at the point of the law bring both tears and laughter. Ignorance and deception, the lies and arrogance of the “would be” usurpers, become as grist to this mill, tighter those bonds become and far stronger for it becomes our merry band.

This Ship she sails with a chieftain, the embodiment of the law and all that it carries with her, that steady beat of wood upon skin that drives us through the rising oceans of the year, the sunstone of the ancestors will bring us home, a thousand bright jewels perfectly stitched into the dark blanket of night which call gently to our inner being, whispers in the abyss that remind us of where we are and where we need to be.

All this I see twixt the horns of our Stang, this is our holy child of arte. The family gathers, fire meets ice above the sacred Rose as brother and sister become as flames to the heat of gnosis, a favourable breeze that carries us to our destination, out of space and out of time.

Through life, love, severity and mercy we must all die, as certain as the tax collectors demand, yet within the weave we choose how we are to embrace this gift. That is who we are, that is what we do. Dispense with the many names of god, for there is only one word, it lives within the beat of the heart, the rising of the chest, the foot as it treads along the paths of this world. It is seen within the night sky, the rising tide and the flames of our holy fire. Born upon the wind to those who will listen, whispers that flow into the soul, I choose to listen, I choose to do so in the company of my brethren.

Perhaps one day we shall be carrying others upon our own shoulders.

Fags,Flax and Fodder.

 Tony.

A sharpened blade at the coming of age.

 A letter, to my daughter on her eighteenth birthday, hopefully dispelling the myth that the gift of steel could possibly be a curse. Based on superstitious nonsense and nothing more, it is the gift of freedom, responsibility resides in the hands of whoever wields the weapon, the gift of that symbol marks the passing of time and trust gained through reciprocal love and loyalty.

Look to your ancestors people, reason and not the broken words of fools shall be the true scripture.

To My eldest Daughter.

Well, here we are at the turning of the tide; it is now Eighteen years since You chose to be a part of our lives.

It has not always been an easy ride but no voyage worth its salt ever is, for it is by the traps and pitfalls that we truly learn, the mistakes we make and the difficulties we may encounter, all serve to ultimately enrich our lives and forge us into the creatures of potential we are.

But you were no mistake my love, through good times and bad, it has always been a pleasure to share this life with you, and long may that continue, but now it is by your choice that you stay and no longer ours. In reality it was your choice all along and I thank you with all my heart for choosing us.

I give to you the gift of a knife, this is more than a tool to cut, it is a symbol of your right to bear a weapon, a symbol of trust and given in love, you will carry this symbol for the rest of your life and remember who it is you are. It is shaped like a leaf, it may be blown upon the winter winds far from home, but you will always remember the tree from which it fell, our tree my love, of which you are no small part.

Remember that leaf in difficult times and it will bring strength, remember the branch from which it unfurled and you will find your way home. For whatever you do and wherever you are I shall be always watching for you, a warm bed and a hearty meal shall always greet you and my home is your home evermore. If you need me, look to the Hawk and I am there, if you are lost, look to the sky and my star will guide you.

So tread with care my own sweet child and the world will reward you with riches beyond compere, perhaps not gold and silver but those denied to other folk, Love, companionship and trust is the greatest wealth, action not circumstance will provide, you know this already, as your own heart is your greatest virtue.

This world is a greater place with you in it, so once more I thank you for choosing us, for if I were to make that choice having known you this long, I would choose you again.

t

luxxg

 

So, Time passes, the wheel turns. As another young woman takes her steps into the world, responsibility does not end here for this student of eternity, but to know I must still watch and guide as my precious little bird takes flight upon the wind, as to which way she flies, well that is up to her.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

 

A Fool at journeys end.

Upon the rough twisted edge of the abyss I stand.
Dawn breaks the change of man.
Beyond the reach of the beloved and upon the wings of destiny,
we Fly.
Head long, straight into the arms of Fate.
To stand upon that distant land,
To knock upon the castle doors.
Many rivers to cross,
many mountains to climb.
A road less travelled to a destination rarely seen.
That blessed isle, that perilous realm.

Pray be with me now,
for this holy fool does stand or fall at your will.
An Infant soul, to the arms of his mother goes.
I would beg you now to be kind,
to hold me in your love,
not brush me aside as autumn leaves to the wind,
Ash to this storm.
I am the clay to be shaped,
the sword in the stone.
Mould be, Temper me.
I am yours.

Until we meet again.
Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony Macleod.