These are the Watchful faeries who have been perching up high in the trees here abouts. They are watching for rain which we desparately need so badly. When I see them spring up and whirl about in a frenzy I will know its coming closer but right now they are sitting there so couourfully eyes on the horizon wiching the rain towards themselves and the land and us... 

A Christmas faery who turned up at our place...a bit confused... she'd just arrived from up north - where Christmas is held in the depth of winter... and so, attracted to Australia and the south she came in with bells on to help us with our Christmas and although we gave her a glass of milk (organic of course) , and a big slab of homemade fruitcake, we had to tell her that just because we are going into winter..., doesn't mean its Christmas here... but we told her we really hoped she would come back in December when its hot, humid and spend and Australian Christmas with us... She said she'd think about it...as long as we had airconditioning! 

My Faeries are not sad. As with earlier ones...these are wisedom tears and we need to cry as many wisedom tears as it takes to restore some plain old common sense and gentleness back into our world. The Faeries are known as the true and real "Gentry" in Celtic (irish) mythology... and this faery cries beautiful blue tears just because she knows..thats all. 

This shy little member of the elven race is very well known to our family. He is extremely fond of eating seaweed, stewing thistles and listening to Presbyterian sermons on Sundays. Home and hearth is most important to him.. but do not dare to leave extra lights burning or you will be soundly and roundly ticked off repeatedly. he's weeell known for loudly telling off local politicians with a megaphone which his good wife is instructed to hold out the window, motor idling for a quick get away - for this is the frugal and very crusty but somehow loveable grey beard of the faery family called "Tartan Don"... not known for his tact but with a grumpy heart of gold...once you dig through the many layers of grit!!!

An Angel visited me today. Her prescence touched me with warmth; my earthly pen cannot touch her beauty. Where she came from and to where she went how could I know... but she was here smiling for a time and as she must on she went to those with much greater need. 

These lovely late autumn faeries drop down in front of my window from time to time. Just sometimes when I am feeling a bit too serious I look up and there they are a sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine and giggling away over some shared joke... methinks it could be about me... but not to worry, there's no harm in these two whatsoever. They are as light as the air and as bright as day and when I see them all my cares go away. 

The Growing Tree faery. 

The Gathering

The Gathering.
A stream of lights in midnight blue flows off my shoulders and flies true.
A ruby cloak over all, flies like wings so I don’t fall.
An emerald green is at my throat; its gleaming eye keeps me afloat.
My feet are pale as opal sheen; no one can know where I have been.

The faery mound on mountainside, is where I am bound this airy ride.
There stands the guardian rising free, a very special growing tree.

It’s gnarled and whorled of ancient age,
with leaves dark and light, of green delight.
Its boughs spread wide, twist and writhe, with birdsong and sparkled life.
With blues and greens and red and gold, a powdering of gems the branches hold.

Inside each gem faery children wait the call, of life and so they fall,
one by one from pod to womb, through life, to learn and then to tomb.
From tomb to spirit, more lessons learned, in heaven’s halls, a rest is earned.
From rest and peace, again to feel the plea, of the Faery Queen who seeds the tree...
...with gems of spirit, pods of child, of colours rich from forests wild.
There grows the fruit of love and joy, into each Faery girl, each Elven boy.

Each child is blessed by Faeries all, who bring the gift when they hear the call.
The gift ... a globe within a star, within the darkness from afar.
To touch the surface and for a time, inside a star and so to shine.
To feed their hand inside the shape, to feel the light make its escape.
To learn... light is life and by its needs, it gives and takes... is fed and feeds.

Then as they fall each child is offered the wisdom from the chalice proffered.
The learn to sup before they sip, the nectar deep from chalice lip.
The nectar tastes like honey diluted; Like peaches, like water of life ...all fruited
Upon one vine and turned into warm and amber liqueur wine.

Inside the chalice, a burnished glow, a measure of this to help the flow.
But of this sweetness drink no more than one, or dreams from moon
and dreams from sun will bloom too soon, and die before they have begun.

Each child pod learns the lesson needed, in times upon the tree that’s seeded...
“Take time each day to kneel and pray, for that time throw cares away.
  Look to the light for what you need, within the light you find the seed.
  Inside, outside, above, below. you find  what you need so you can grow.”

I climb the sacred growing tree and don a new cloak that’s just right for me.
First it’s small and new and as it grows, it gathers light and so it glows,
and tattered though it will become, I’ll bring it back where I came from.
then lay my cloak around the growing tree, to feed its roots and then fly free,
till again I hear the faery call, and lodge again in pod to fall
to find myself wrapped anew, in a cloak that’s small and bright and new.

To learn truth and feel compassion, are tools I need to begin to fashion
a stream of lights in midnight blue flowing off my shoulder to fly true.
To laugh with life, and show it kindness, the gift I take for my dying blindness
a ruby red cloak over all, flying like wings so I don’t fall.
To fail sometimes and still keep on trying, its own reward as I am dying,
an emerald green at my throat, a gleaming eye keeping me afloat.
To be brave and take a stand when evil takes the upper hand
with feet as pale as opal sheen, no one can know where I have been.

Always there will be the gathering free, of growing souls at the sacred tree.
As weary as the human grows, we all have a coloured cloak that glows.
Some glow not much at all, their ears blocked against the call.
Some hear but have not yet heard, the light around them that holds the word.
And few there are who light the way, from garbage dumps, and troubled day.
Their cloaks and gowns outshine the sun, one life we’ll go where they have gone.

Therese Mackay      

Jerusalem

Jerusalem
by William Blake.
And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire.
I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land.

The Magdalene

The Magdalene. 

The Sacred Dance... 

The Sacred Dance

The Sacred Dance.

I write the words of the sacred dance
The rhythm of the Universe inside the spoken rhyme
In dream I danced with a smiling trickster,
Myself a man; myself a woman; myself, myself.
My eyes to my eyes, nose to nose (ha!),
Male and female both but two were there…
We danced the sacred dance
Upon a floor with no floor
In a room with no walls
Under a roof with no sky.
With no sound but the words of ancient rhyme
A deep, rich rhythm of the spoken Word…
The Word creating the sacred dance.

Colleridge wrote from a dream of Xanadu.
And woken by the Pastor’s knock…left incomplete
A secret source of truth. He dreamt and then forgot…
But at least he knew it was there.

He reads the sacred Word for my dream.
A Universe created within the Word
Did join our feet and hands and body,
In cross formation like the sacred Hindu cross;
We danced the sacred dance of complete and total stillness
A union.
Feet becoming one as we slowly turned about the room.
Bodies joined in sexual counterpoint,
Balance perfected still, and ages still, and ages still.
Inside the rhythm that saw no movement,
Felt no time or feeling…
Heard no sound but the thrumming of the spoken Word.

Our feet and hands outstretched like spokes,
Joined palm to palm, toe to toe,
The perfect rhythm of the Word our feet followed.
I thought…no thought.
Then I thought, “So perfect. So perfect. So perfect”
Unable to describe the hours long, as we became a universe
Of our own but not.

I thought too much and fear stepped in,
“What if I break the rhythm?” and with the thought
The rhythm was broken.
Unfinished, but undiminished,
There was the moment…ages long of perfection.
The dance slowly losing grace, the words slowing and disappearing.
Perfection disrupted by the very action of my thoughts.
To be inside perfection is completion.
To think; to limit; to fear; perfection crumbles into chaos..

The dream evaporates with a tolerant smile
Of understanding…
But evaporate it does
No blame from the trickster that was I -
Man and woman  - all myself.

Perfection cannot blame; nor criticise; nor fear; nor limit.
Not put upon us its own failings.
All these destroy the sacred rhythm
That binds the universe together.
Like the beating heart keeps the body from decay.

To some, much more is given.
Of them much more is expected.
I know how to wait!!!
For inside the night; inside the stillness; inside the dream,
The spoken rhythm remains, perfect in its beauty.
There is no tiring; no weakness; no age;
No heat nor cold; no needs of hunger and thirst;
No sweat; no yearning for completion as on earth.

I think I was in heaven for a moment…
In some Angelic waiting place.
No words describe perfection nor explain the unexplainable.
And left with joy, not loss
I sense again the plan unfolding that is too easily forgotten.
Understanding that the perfection of the rhythm of the dance
Is easily disrupted by my doubt and fear of limitation…
But only for the briefest flash of time.
That perhaps it is also part of the plan to have disruption,
For without the lesson learned, would I understand
Or would it be a dream forgotten?

A dream forgotten that once I danced in sacred halls,
A sacred dance, upon a sacred floor, without walls,
Nor roof, nor sound but the rhythm of the sacred word.
Therese Mackay

These are my two little lovely faeries... If not watched they might snigger at me fumbling my huge black handbag in shops, or I might spot them going all red faced as I talk to shop assistants as nauseum. These two flighties have their own language and are kown to be happiest when they have a huge bowl of nachos, advocado, cream, cheese and various yum yums on the coffee table...along with an olde worlde movie and NO BOYFRIENDS!... I love these two little lovely faeries more than words can tell. 

Nefertari beloved of Ramses II 

Two Queens .