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 four poems I wrote and one of my all-time favorites. Hope you enjoy ! ~Raven  Precious little foundling, You came to us and found your way into our hearts, And you will always be there. Sweet memories never forgotten.... Lying with me at night, Tucked under my arm or on my chest, Singing me to sleep with your sweet purr-song. Loving cat smile, so warm and tender. But Bast called you home, And into her loving arms you went.... Live forever Mao-Mao, My little red angel.  High up in the tree, Surveying his domain, His domain now, His, and his, alone. Gone are the glories that were, The gold, the cities, the people, Gone the Gods, exacting their due, Flowing in riverine torrents Down sheer pyramids. All gone now, Taken by one they thought a new god, Another prophesied one, One who deceived and lied, And captured their king, Then destroyed with disease. Now, all of them gone, Except for this one, Who never will leave, Brave warrior, he was,and still won't desert, He stays and he guards, And roams crumbled ruins. But far in the distance, A sound is now heard, The jaguar looks up, The birds stop their songs, And all round is hushed, The jungle now listens... And the lone Aztec cries...  Thanks James, for this gorgeous picture ! THE LYONS DEN ART GALLERY! 
Dank and so dark. No escape, No hope. Forsaken... Forgotten... Nothing but these cold walls, Hugging me close. Left to die and rot, Still conscious now. But for how long ? No one to hear or care. Where is my God's mercy ? My soul screams to the heavens, Sweet Jesus, take me now ! But no help comes. Forced to stand, Unable to move, I face the living death. Hopeless and resigned, I await the inevitable. And now... Breath slows... Life flees... Eyes...close. FYI..."The oubliette must have been an incredibly brutal prison, with or without the physical tortures that may have accompanied imprisonment. Known throughout Europe and even in the Middle East, these early castle prisons were usually shaped like slender cylinders. The doomed prisoner was tied to a rope and then lowered into the oubliette through a trapdoor in the floor of the guardroom. On occasion, the pit was designed to fill with water seeping up from the earthen floor, making survival almost impossible. The Scots fancied the bottle dungeon, a type of oubliette shaped so that the prisoner could never lie down." Information from Renaissance Magazine And I do not know why, My friend next to me, And she's starting to cry. My thoughts start to drift, And as I look back, I remember the pain... The torture...the rack. For a great many years, Good people, they kill, All in 'god's' name, O, the blood, it does spill. Wise women we were, And skilled in the arts, Of healing and birthing, And helping sweethearts. All manner of herbs, We knew them quite well, But they said we must stop, Or go straight to 'hell.' But our ways, they are old, Not easy to leave, "You go against 'god', And do not believe." They said we have sinned, And broken 'god's' law, What god would do this, Now they're lighting the straw !!! The fire is now creeping, And I'm fading so fast, My friend, she is shrieking, But I'll stand steadfast. I yell to the crowd, With all of my might, The smoke and heat blazing, My eyes burning bright. Now, who is the 'devil' ? And who is the 'sinner'? We're roasting alive, As if we were dinner. They laughed at my words, And shouted with glee, "Burn, Witch, Burn"!! We'll not hear your plea. With my one final breath, And through all of my pain, I whispered these words, "NEVER AGAIN".  This poem is written in memory of the millions of innocent men, women and children who were slaughtered in the name of religion. N.B....The "Burning Times" is a term used by Pagans and modern witches to refer to the period in Western history of intense witch hunting and executions, generally the mid-15th to early 18th centuries. Fire itself is the element of purification, and nothing less than fire could negate the evil that was said to be witches. This poem was written by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878). (It's a long one, but worth the read.) To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language: for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around Earth and her waters, and the depths of air Comes a still voice: - Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. Yet not to thine eternal resting place Shalt thou retire alone - nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world - with kings, The powerful of the earth - the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills, Rock ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green; and poured round all Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste - Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound Save his own dashings - yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep - the dead reign there alone ! So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living; and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before shall chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men - The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray headed man - Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. Niala's Web Graphics for this beautiful background ! 
maintained by RAVEN 
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