Who Do You Serve?

For all of those who tend the many altars of the Faire
through our rituals of recreation --
offering communion and making sacrifice ...


The Pantheon
Who Do You Serve - I

The worshippers arrive in all their festal finery.
The altars are arrayed, the hierophants prepared
To chant the liturgy of Faire.
Mars' devotees perform the rites of morning;
The warriors on parade begin their drill.
Great gleaming blades and polished armor catch the sun,
Bright pennants flare and standards billow on the breeze
As men of war repeat their rituals of weaponry.
The smoke and scent of powder rise in homage
To the power of the militant.
A service thus is offered to the Battle God.

Vulcan is here to drink the incense of the forge,
Enjoy the sacred music of the beaten metal.
His acolytes, with straining sinew and with rhythm,
Work the altar, tend the flame of craft and of creation,
With the breathing of the bellows, hymn the harmony of labor.

Aye, and there the train of Bacchus rowdy reels from cupshot revels
Though the day be but begun.
These celebrants their voices and their chalices uplift;
Of precious metal or of humble clay,
The spirit flows as strong within the one as in the other.
This merry god embraces all who do him service with a lusty throat.
Now with the practiced skill of chantry priests
The cries of merchants and of mongers fill the air,
And Plutus, god of wealth, moves in his fur and velvet
Through the crowds; his sacrament of pence and pound
And crown and angel passes hand to hand. His blessing
Like a wanton's fancy, ebbs and flows among his dedicants.

And there be Lady Venus in her gay green gown,
With all her youthful serving maids about her --
Tresses wild and loose, and garland-girded --
Moving to an ancient, timeless rhythm,
Houris dancing in her honor.
Her full-blown beauties draw the eye to sink in reverence
Into the secret places of her worship.

And there he stands whose proud flesh honors Lord Priapus;
Rooted in profound response, beyond intent or thought,
His wand of office rises in invocation of primal epiphany --
Sacred sword searching, finding silken sheath --
Bursting forth in self awareness of myriad being of
One source, one great eye bringing forth a tear
In which the world is swimming.

And over all, the Sun, Apollo's chariot, rides high --
The patron of all Art, the Muses' master
Smiles at our plays of passion and morality,
Our comic dramas, and our doleful farce;
The dance of life and death, of loss and gain,
Of triumph and of tragedy is in his service
Instrument of artistry.

How many gods are here to greet the congregation!
How many mysteries are here concealed, revealed
Unto initiates alone, or blazoned to the multitudes
Who pay the price of entry?
We gather here, in all our great diversity,
Our difference of devotion and degree, and still --
Each here is servant to some force which rules the ritual of life;
We all tread measures in a sacred dance unto our deities.

Some, puppet-like move in the patterns all unknowing,
Yet -- they dance as well;
While others lead the liturgy, and some perform the sacrifice,
Or humbly tend the trappings and the vessels and the forms
The adepts then will use to call down holy fire;
And some but mediate with gnostic inner eye
The priestly functions. All are votaries.

The Faire embodies Pantheon, the temple of all gods made flesh
By our attendance, in our offered service honored and displayed.
Come, celebrants, the cup is raised!

Your Servant

Who Do You Serve? - II

The tradesmen and the sycophants, the clientele
With politic display profess their most profound respect,
"Your servant, Milord," quoth they.

"Your servant," a minion in picadils and pansied slops
Murmurs with a courtly gesture that conveys
A nicety of knowledge
In the ways of precedence and pretense.

A maid, with eyes that lift in arch regard
Beneath a lowered brow, both coy and brazen,
Avows herself "Your servant to command."

What earns, what buys, what is the price of such devoted service
As is found in these who offer with such easy speech?
What is the worth of such, when value is defined by substance,
And when words are based upon
Naught but the air that gives them voice?

Yet Service is the very cornerstone of Mystery
In which is found the substance that endures;
Doth not the golden chain of Lordship and responsibility,
Of grandeur and of power, define exalted status
By dependence on a greater power?
Doth not the regnant Prince derive from Greater Power still
The potency and privilege of that office?
Each in his place, a link upon a chain that stretches to Divinity
And back again.
So each a servant stands before his master,
Whose power and position thus devolves in some degree
Upon the heads of those who own allegiance to that Lordship.

Perhaps a servant may - by rightly served apprenticeship -
Gain entrance to the Mystery of the master, and attain
Thereby a wealth beyond the threat of theft or loss.
Or yet, perhaps for righteous service giv'n may honored be
And lifted thus -- for chain is also ladder
By which men and angels both descend and rise.

Philosophers and mystics may thus muse --
Yet all about are faces full of cunning, fear or avarice,
With smiles and reverences made by skillful computation
Of the gain.
Whose servants these, in truth?

A Service to the God of Commerce

Who Do You Serve? - III

Shattered on the dry stones, tattered by the hedges of enclosure,
The ragged mongrels of society appear to mock
The pomp and pageantry
Of prosperous reign upon a happy isle.
And from the wilderness that lies outside the walls
Come outcasts seeking, like foxes
As they near the well-stocked roost.

Methinks the modest village in its giving o'er to Commerce thus
Brings fire to the altar of the god thereof.
'Tis Mercury, quicksilver god of coin's exchange and flow,
And of intelligence conveyed with speed and wit --
Not always kind, yet ever deft and expeditious --
The god of tricksters, fools and miscreants --
'Tis he that rules the Marketplace.
How then could it be otherwise? The ritual evokes
The shadows with the light.

The gleam of coin, of gold and silver, thus draws brass
As also steel and iron and baser metals yet.
So mark you mercenaries everywhere,
Merchants of many wares and services, vendors of pleasure,
Or of power, or of precious symbols
Of an empty virtue;
They gather to the call of Faire.

Two Queens

Who Do You Serve? - IV












Two Queens on but one isle --
And o'er the water a distant voice chanting anathema,
Invoking murder as a gentle service to the greater Lord:
Shall our elysium then be known Virginia
Or Mary-Land?
Two queens - two women in whose service men will die -
Two crowns, two royal wills unable to unite
Divide the loyalties of our Faire Albion.
It matters little which side hath its say
When each of them holds forth that one be harlot,
One be Virgin blest.
(The which be which dependeth on allegiance.)
How many souls will answer to each call to kneel?
How many will remember the old ways, and to them cling
In face of all adversity;
How many will the magic of Faire Avalon embrace
And gather in to Gloriana's vision?
Think you it matters aught
Which queen, which crown, which hallow
You may choose? It is the mystic fane of Mastery
You serve in such election, and each one who sits upon a throne
Is but a cipher for a greater Truth.
What greater woe than this be known:
To live and die outside the chain of fealty,
Being masterless and all adrift
In seas of self-importance?

Who Do You Serve?

Who Do You Serve? - V

A gesture is required - a service to the Crown -
A ritual, an oath - allegiance sworn unto the head of government,
The head that bears the symbol of the realm, the body politic.

(A body wears that head, indeed --
And bears the title, "Prince,"
And rules in mortal realm with mortal power --
Yet cannot stay the claim of Death's taxation.
When thus the prince falls subject to a greater empire,
Doth not another body rise to meet the burden
Of the Crowned Head?
Is this not more than mortal mastery we bow unto?)

Who do you serve? Is't Queen, or King or Pope -- ?
Is't crown or cross, the grail or Roman chalice?
What is the more than mortal master of your fate?
Who do you serve?
To whom do you give reverence and love,
For whom would suffer, to whom sacrifice and still
Sing praises when petitions fail?
In whose eyes seek you to discover glory?
Who is your ruler, who the human measure of that grace divine
That rests on the Anointed?
Before that one, bend you -- and take the impress of that Will
Unto you as your own. Prove then your trust and fealty
With word true given, and deed well done.

Self-Service

Who Do You Serve? - VI

When all seems venal, honor bought for brass,
And service sworn with but an eye to self --
When service is to grasp and hold, to heighten one's own glory
In reflected splendor, not to surrender
To a righteous mastery, but venture rudderless
Upon a mercenary quest and find such company
As suits the moment, serving only when and where
The gain to self is greatest --
What mystery is served, what knowledge gained
From this apprenticeship?And who is lord and master?
I kneel and choose the golden chain of servitude
By which I live, by which I die to be reborn in perpetuity --
In which I find godly reflection in a greater eye.
Master is he who by himself hath mastered been,
Hath embraced all, and in this truth embraced
Hath ceded separate sense of errant seeking,
Finding greater Self to serve.

Faire Vanity's Conceits

Being a few reflections of Faire
through a dark mirror
&
for my much-loved partners in the interplay of Light and Shadow

The Vanities

Conceits
Faire Vanity's Conceits - I

Good honest usage doth beget fine form
And simple, with an elegance of line --
But Fashion breeds a fey, unruly swarm
Of impish, impious conceits. Design
The face to suit the moment's whim; the hair
Imbue with gold, shape, stain or pluck, or add
Another's to thy own. Where swart, paint fair,
Add color to the pale. Be in rags clad
And think thyself a peer to princes who
Require no robe or jewel beside their grace
To be themselves. Pride, Vanity -- in sooth --
The host of sins that do beset our race --
These are the children of Dame Fashion's feast
Of passion, and her mating with the Beast!

Caveat

Faire Vanity's Conceits - II

Is all the world but Vanity? The crown
Of life but brass and glass, the mantle rags?
The sad-hued crow would have it so; his gown
Too wide, his mind too narrow, his tongue wags
Condemning all he sees. He paints the world
In black and white and somber shades of grey.
With fear of joy his brow is creased and furled,
Seeing Satan's work in colors gay
And laughter, and all pleasures of the flesh.
'Tis Vanity, indeed, to bid the lark
Be mute, the rose but white to bloom, the fresh
And youthful spirit damp its vital spark.
There is, I trow, in God's true artistry
A rich joy and a gay variety!

Venetian Ceruse

Faire Vanity's Conceits - III

Ceruse: Used copiously for over 200 years, this cosmetic was a mixture of powdered white lead and vinegar.

Thou fair -- indeed, more fair than ivory
In whiteness -- nay - more like the drifted snow --
With yet the rose's creamy hue to thee --
Guarded from sun, in candlelight aglow,
Bejewel'ed and bedeck'd. All hearts before
Thee fall in homage to thy beauty's grace.
Can'st fault thee then if to enhance the more
And to present the finer fashion's face,
Thou should'st with powered artifice display
Thy pride? From Venice comes finest ceruse.
'Tis dear, in sooth. To sumptuary pay
Adds greatly to the cost -- as to misuse.
And Bella Donna, eyes made bright by death,
Ingested in a mere cosmetic dose,
May dance with leaden eye and poisoned breath
The Danse Macabre -- by Vanity brought close
And held by fleshless ivory claw. Thy fate
Is sport to fashion's form Italianate.
In southern climes death oft wears beauty's guise:
A richly scented glove, white face, bright eyes.

Blood Sport

Faire Vanity's Conceilts - IV

Blood sport! Blood sport, you say! And shall I then
Make wager on how many dogs shall die
Afore the bear is tethered in his pen
Or in his entrails and his blood doth lie?
Blood sport! The young blood courseth hot; horned beasts
In rut make clashing in their time to win
The bloodline, and the carrion-eaters' feasts
Are made upon the casualties. Shall then
We wager, thou and I, upon which blade
Shall taste first blood, which taste the honeyed cup
Of victory? Upon such risks are fortunes made --
And lost. The hazard of which card comes up,
How falls the die, which doth in skill prevail
In honest contest -- these begin to pale
Before blood sport. The salty taste upon the lip,
The catching of the breath as talons rip
Or bone doth break, or blade thrust warmly home --
These pleasures of the game enhance the play.
So shall we wager, thou and I, and some
Amusing sum or bauble 'fore us lay
As hostage to the fates?

Renaissance

Faire Vanity's Conceits - V

Dead things -- undying, with an eldrich life
That makes a sport of petty human span --
They are among us. Dead dreams -- alive again!
Look you -- the poor wretch, homeless, on the road
Struck down by careless death, not even known
By name -- now one among the faceless dead
That are returning. And there -- the workman
From all work released, whose hands repeat
Unceasingly the motions of his craft.
Or there -- the goodwife herds her little brood
Again, all counted and accounted for;
And there the merchant counts his gold and sells
His soul again. They all return.
And those who pranced upon the stage of life
In finery of every sort, and pomp,
And circumstances of the chosen few --
They come again to make their gaudy show.
Aye -- with them come the gentle and the good,
The cunning, and the cony-catcher sort,
The gay, the grave, the scholar and the courtly
Non-pariel, the maiden coy, the bold
Gallant. They prance again, or caper, stroll
Or whirl in giddy eddies of delight.
We walk among them, moving in the space
Between the worlds, a graceful pagenatry
Of light and shadow, color, tint and hue,
Of shape and silhouette merging anew
With Life. The hopes and fears of common men,
The fancies of the great, the fate-betrayed
Bedeviled and the Self-begot are here
To live again. Among us, moving, merging
Life and long dead dreams that never die,
They are within us.

Faire Fashion's Way

For those who

in the fashion of our Faire
meet constantly the changing face of Fate

Fashion
Faire Fashion's Way I

Fashion doth change; 'tis like a woman thus.
It waxeth warm, then cool doth blow upon
The sight of former favorite. Discuss
The subjects, wear the styles of day by-gone
And find thyself by Fashion found passe;
Yet enter Fashion's eye with novelty
And know thyself a favored protege.
Then should'st thou move in Fashion's coterie,
Prepare to move like wind, like perfum'd air;
With speed and yet with grace from face to face
Of Fashion's whimsey glide. Let thus thy flair
And Fashion find themselves in close embrace.
Who would hold Fashion constant to his heart
Must in like fashion play a changing part.

Great Show

Faire Fashion's Way - II

In velvet and in sparkling points of light
From gems and jewels cast, and rich array
Of plumage you parade, great in the sight
Of all who doff and bow upon your way.
Behold the courtier -- a paragon
Of grace beyond the run of common men!
A peacock strutting on the palace lawn
Is such a sight, a royal pet -- yet when
A feast is spread and some great show requir'd
Of Majesty, beware. The fatted calf
Is also greatly favor'd and admir'd.
Each earthly glory hath it's epitaph.
All things do come to pass, and this we know:
The greater fall doth make the greater show.

Favor

Faire Fashion's Way - III

A favor he would beg of thee, faire maid,
And wear it proud and bold upon his fame
That thou had'st smiled his way, and mayhap bade
Him closer in thy favor's light. Still, dame
Or damsel, know ye in the sight of all
Thy favor lightly laid and gayly giv'n
Is ofttimes not so easily recall'd.
When ardor's heat is sated oft 'tis driv'n
To find new fuel upon which it may feed,
Leaving its mark where it hath pass'd. Firmly
Such favor loosely giv'n may lay the seed
Of weighty matter yet to come. Then see --
Though memory of favor past be dim,
The babe within thy arms shall favor him.

Masque

Faire Fashion's Way - IV

A masque is held before the great; the air
Is ancient and to haunting strain the dance
Is done. The lowly in their awe do stare
And quake, the foolish in their folly prance
And caper to the tune. In antic bliss
The dancers whirl, enacting ancient rite
Of precedence and place, their artifice
And practiced grace portraying their delight
While 'neath their veils lurk visions of the dark.
The fairest face is flesh as garb to bone;
The dearest held ambition shall be stark
And with all lust be laid beneath the stone.
But faceless skulls shall answer at last call
Of trump. A mask is held before us all.

Next Dance

Faire Fashion's Way - V

A sour vision now they say I cast
Upon the world, I -- who in youth was fair --
With years have grown and with the years amassed
The twists and wrinkles of a gnarl'ed, bare
And ancient tree. I see the world cavort
Before me in its colors gay; I see,
And I remember, and I know the sport
Full well. Such passions and such levity
Did move in me -- I who now stiff do stand
And smile awry. The dance without me spins
And I am still within: I understand.
Where ends Life's dance, a greater dance begins.

(I'll in a vision sweet and glad 'wait Thee,
The One at last who comes to partner me.)

What Power

Faire Fashion's Way - VI

What power is here evok'd
That from the dead of ages past a new life is awoke?
What calls them here to sport the while
And spread before us pageantry, and then like smoke
Disperse into the air?
What magic this that raises ghosts of long past lives
And dreams of honors or of lands,
Of lover's kiss or enemy's chagrin?
The sunlight gleams upon the fabric of the faire,
Reveals the patterns of the tapestry,
Falls sharp upon the polish'd steel,
And then conceals in dappled shadow subtle threads,
Like harpstrings singing several
When but one is pluck'd.
A power moves within the light and shadow of the glade,
Full in the sun of village streets,
And hidden from the sight in cottage
And in craftsman's stall,
In tents set round the gypsy camp,
In alehouse, inn, and guildhall proud.
The power moves through rents in time and space,
And shows the picture as it was before,
Yet never was, yet is;
It plays upon the ancient and the babe
And all betwixt, and though all flesh decays,
This spirit seeming magic-wrought doth call
The very soul of by-gone age again
To life and lust and gain and loss, to pride
And place, and thus to pleasure and to pain
Long gone to dust. It seemeth naught hath died,
But hid within the depth of earth's dark womb
A little time hath waited call to play
And weave anew such scenes upon the loom
Of life, and pluck such tunes as we today
Find moving in our hearts. What power is this
That sounds a note to set in motion all
Of kindred kind?

What D'Ye Lack?

A Musical Play of Words

For all of us who made that magical transition from traveler

to member of the tribe ...

and especially for my parents

Overtures

What D'ye Lack? - I & II

I.
Horsedung and woodsmoke are sharp upon the morning air,
And criers' calls are all but lost within the babble of the throng at start of day.
The mongers and the traders and the craftsmen must with lusty voices
Vie to catch the traveler's eye.
What d'ye lack?
Come hither - spy these melons, ripe and firm --
Salt fish for sale - Fresh buns --
Here, my lords and ladies -- Here
Bright glass, fine leathers, rare and well-wrought wares to grace the hall
Or homely hearthside service do --
Here's iron and steel, here's brooms and pots;
Here jewels, and baubles, ribbands colorful and gay
With which to honor and to enter the festivity.
What d'ye lack?
Here's victuals and drink, here song and sport --
Here be the very prodigy of humankind, the marvels of an age
Alive and dancing in their revelry.
Draw near - and view the drollery of fools and fops,
Of maids and gallants, and of simple folk
Amidst the stalls and shops that spring up in our British Brigadoon.
Come nigh - and join the play of spirits loosed
In woodland fantasy.
Come buy - come try your luck --
Come, Traveler, to the Faire.
What d'ye lack?'
Tis here. There is a rich supply
Available - and at such price
As you may well afford - or no --
No matter - come --
And drink the sights and sounds
And feed the soul on Dionysian revelry.

II.
What d'ye lack?
What brings you, Traveler, to the faire?
What would you have
Your modern world of reason and of science and of artifice
Cannot supply?
What would you find? What would you pay
Where time is rent, and worlds collide in merry meeting,
Where the faire folk weave their magic spell
And raise the pennants of Titania's bower,
Where new and golden ages merge and flower!
What d'ye lack?
And in what quarter of this wondrous realm awaits
Your faire adventure?
You cannot - in good faith - deny
You come here seeking.
You come with purses at your fingertips to buy,
And hard pence to cast away - to feast, to play
At lordling's games, to find amusement.
Or yet, mayhap, with youth and beauty as your coin,
You come to barter for the current heart's desire.
You come to join the play --
And for a long, enchanted day, a season out of time,
To move upon the stage of Shakespeare's mind,
With rogues and vagabonds, with ladies and with lords,
With virtues and with vices all writ large
And broad in icons of the Human Drama,
With majesty -
And deep, intriguing counter-current flow
Of common urgings --
You come to see - to be
Bathed in the flow of festival.

Sotto Voce

What D'ye Lack - III

Enchanted --
Rapt away in out-of-time --
The soul finds freedom to define itself anew.
And yet, wrapped in the golden Chain of Being,
Freedom is close akin to discipline.
Where order is, freedom exists;
Without is chaos.
In sooth, what then is freedom if no rules apply?
Where then is joy, if there be no release?

Scherzo

What D'ye Lack? - IV

Come - play our games!
Come try your luck -
Or skill, or strength --
Come vie with steel - or strategy -
Meet challenges, and test your mettle!
Come nigh - the play's the thing!
Here dance with simple folk in country style,
In figures rich with twists and weavings,
Or pause and give your ear to vulgar washer women's songs,
And wander on --
The play of color dances in the dappled wood,
And beaten gold and silver notes dance in the air
About a singing dulcimer.
Come you -- step through the milling crowd
And join the players.

Accelerando

What D'ye Lack? - V

Look how the pageant moves, in slow procession
Or in tumbling torrents of delight.
The gypsy tribe is here, the players -
All the faire their stage, their playing board --
And how they roar and bluster in their bellicose array,
Or in their vair and velvet strut and posture.
There, shambling in his rags, a madman mutters imprecations
And the gay stream parts to let him pass
Like a dark leaf borne away on unseen currents.
Here the jewel-encrusted courtier, and the merchant and the soldier,
With the blacksmith and the cooper, and the alewife and the maid
Flow together.
In a magical parade the travelers mingle;
Here and there a pool collects, reflecting
Light and shadow.
Lads in their manhood's youthful thrust
With bawds or blushing maidens jest in sunny shallows,
While padded merchants and their merry wives
With sumptuously-clad nobles and their entourage
Gather in deeper, shaded spots to take their ease,
And find their pleasure or their meat.
The alehouse garden fills, the innyard teems with visitors.
What would you, Masters? Mistresses?
A brief diversion? Some ripe comedy?
A drama of high life,
Or death? Of gain or loss? --
A romance then?
In dancing images the play unfolds,
And you within.

Coda

What D'ye Lack? - VI

How fare you, Traveler? Friend --
Companion in this mystery play --
Fellow initiate --
Come, let us sit the while at end of day and talk
Of what has been. What have you seen?
What do you carry home with pride or satisfaction?
What memories are yours that were not yours til now?
What have you won? What lost?
What gift found you?
What prize? What cost?
What priceless knowledge have you gained?
What ransom paid?
What did you bring to Faire --
What leave behind?
And what now do you bring away?

The sun dies rose and golden,
And the shadows creep and lengthen
As the tide of weary travelers streams away upon the ebbing day.
Sit here -- the wardens will not spy you
Hidden in the gypsy camp.
A little longer stay and watch
As wind dies with the sun,
And banners droop and colors fade
Into the night.
The lamplight rises here
Before the moon climbs high above the world
And bathes the wood in silver.
Here, in pools of warmth and fellowship
The good folk gather to recount
Their faire endeavors,
And to make wild music,
And to doff the day's personas
In a candid cavalcade.
The shades of past times melt away
With merry partings.
Now slow, reluctant shadows break away --
Away -- the day is done.
The still'ed clock begins again to run
And time to turn
Back to the future.
Come, Traveler, friend --
Let us depart the gate
With heart-felt promises
To merry meet again.

In the Realm of Gloriana - Faire Friend

Faire Friend
(In the Realm of Gloriana, I)

Faire friend! --Well met again.
Hast been a year? --
Or only yesterday we met here midst the revel?
Well met again,
In any wise!

How fare you?
As a visitor again?
Or has a part of you become a native to the realm
Of Gloriana?
No matter, friend --
We are all travelers here.
This world we here inhabit is illusion,
And in a trice may change or disappear.
That is the way of it -- and it is faire.

Each year the sacred celebration calls us here
To meet our fellows - merry meet
And merry part
To merry meet again --
To ply our trades,
To barter and commission and receive,
To weave, to paint, to carve,
To form from formless mind
A manifest to market.
Each year we revel and we move
Together like the threads of Great Faire's tapestry,
Which then at end
She will unravel
To begin again.

Con Gusto

(In the Realm of Gloriana, II)

We come, as needy travelers to the faire --
Replenish here our store of magic days and wanton nights,
Of memories and dreams.
We wander and we gape, we strut and caper
In our faire apparel, or stately tread
In reverie; we thirst and hunger --
And here - for a faire price -
Such needs are met.
Like some great feast before us spread,
Courses present themselves.

A shady path leads toward exotic tastes;
The scents of Araby invite, the primal rhythm of the drum invokes
Both awe and action. Earthy, warm
Full-fleshed and sinuous,
The green-gowned dryad disappears into the throng --
And appetites aroused must follow.

The broad way of the faire is lit
With heated, open eye of day;
The light - more glare than gleam - glints
On the steely grace of warriors
Wearing their pride and wealth in metal --
Of a baser sort, perhaps, but highly valued, still.
These are the men of iron and leather,
Of sweat and blood and knotted muscle,
Rough and powerful - tools of war
At ready.
Met to slake their thirst.

Turn now and see, at next remove,
Fey maidens voyaging together on adventure --
Fresh faces soft, unformed,
Reedy bodies wrapped in gauzy fantasy;
Not yet awake, yet not quite sleeping --
They scamper - then pause like wary fawns
When predators draw near.
(Such game is tender meat, indeed.)

Gypsy lads, lean beards and flashing teeth,
In packs convene, converse,
Then through the faire
Disperse to gather what they may.
On such a day as this the sport is easy;
Unseen,
Fondle the velvet where the treasure hides,
So gently - touch -
And then be gone again into the moving stream of travelers;
Handsome knaves, deft-fingered,
Plucking hearts
Like sweetmeats from the banquet's rich display.
What flesh do you prefer? What game? What dressing?
And with what relish is your palate piqued?
Behold, the feast is spread - your eyes devour -
Then shall you with a ready tongue
Not enter in?

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

(In the Realm of Gloriana, III)

Well are you sated, then, my friend?
You rest upon a golden bed of straw
Strewn on the forest floor,
And the faire intangible pours over you.
Your eyes have feasted, and your body
Tasted new delights,
And now you, resting from the sights you sought
And found --
All vulnerable and spent --
Are ravished by the sounds.

In darkness, sweet moanings,
Music of the shadows,
Rustlings, movings --
Ancient airs wafting songs of celebration
Of the wheel of life and time,
Of birth and growth, of sex and death
And of the wax and wane of sap and vigor.

A whisper -- heard in chorus
Of a thousand thousand voices:
"This is our destiny - yes, all of us -
To come, to pass
Like wraiths within the seer's glass,
To taste but briefly of our golden age
And then descend into the memory
As coins into a sacred well.
'Tis well; 'tis faire --
We revel and we disappear, and yet
We shall arise again when comes the Call;
A mighty hand shall draw us forth
And shape us to a great design
With magic weavings ...."

Suite Sacrifice

(In the Realm of Gloriana, IV)

I have heard the music at the heart of faire,
Heard it in the throbbing harp, the bell,
The lute, the trumpet and the lowly rumble-pot,
The drum and dulcimer --
Heard it in laughter at a clever jest,
In common cadence and in noble rhythm wrought,
Heard it in the gay parades and staid processions,
In the murmur and the babble,
In the cheers and in the rabble's raucous roar.
Heard it in the silence --
When the breath is stopped by beauty
For a moment out of time --
In hawkers' cries, in pleasure-seekers
Finding gleeful harmony with others of their kind.

I have heard the singing of the soul of faire,
A siren song sung in sun and shadow,
Whispered, sibilant and sweet seduction --
Then clear and high and sharp,
A silver knife
Drawing my blood.

Epiphany

(in the Realm of Gloriana, V)

Our lives are woven, intertwined
In faery fabric
Made of space and time and magic.
Homespun dun or popinjay turquoise,
Sanguine red or quiet grey,
Or richest gold - or blessed, foolish motley -
Each essence has its hue,
Each life its essence.
We are light and shadow, living colors
On a goddess' loom,
Making in our interplay
A wonder-full design.
Faire wonders rise unshrouded from the dust
That all things mortal must become;
The Faery Queen and all her gallant band,
The demigods of grove and glade,
The horned ones, the nymphs and satyrs
Rise and wander through the midst
Of this enchanted realm;
And gentle knights and bold adventurers
Pursue their quests, both holy and profane.

The tapestry is rich with shade and symbol;
Mystery and clarity combine --
History and fantasy and dream
Become a Vision.

Communion

(in the Realm of Gloriana, VI)

And are you now awakened, then?
Arisen from your sylvan slumber
As the faire draws to a close,
And the tapestry unravels --
Come, friend, and take my hand --
We are all kindred here,
The children of One Mother;
By her we are born, and in her we do rest
At last,
To rise again when she would draw us forth.
Come, friend, and join our circle
As we mourn the end of revel.

Give the Green Man of the goblet his due honor;
Let the land drink of our spirits
As we hallow it in memory --
Let the Vision with us evermore remain.
We are kindred, thee and me,
By a blood of sacred substance of ourselves --
Drawn and commingled
And returned.

Go we may into the wide world
But our memories are with us,
And the magic is within us,
As the marrow to the bone.

Fair Trade

(In the Realm of Gloriana, VII)

She has gone now, with her minions,
Queen of Faery, Gloriana -
Passed before us, bid us follow
In her never-ending progress --
And a part of each of us
Within her train goes willingly.

We have come to faery market
In the realm of Gloriana,
Come to trade or come to barter,
Come to fill an empty larder,
Come as guests unto the revels of the Queen;
We have feasted at the table she has set

Here in the green wood;
We have mingled with the spirits of the earth.
We have risen from our drowsing
And have wakened to communion
With our kindred,
Found a mystery of rebirth.

In our veins a magic courses that is with us now forever;
In the mundane daily doings of the grey world of unknowing
We are fed upon our vision,
And our memories and our dreams.

Yet, a Queen requires her homage,
And of fealty the token -
And a part of us is ever rapt away in her enchantment;
Thus in unseen hosts we revel, in the wind
And in the starlight, in kaleidoscopic colors
Sensed at midnight round the moon --
In her retinue our spirits travel on.

We have come here with our hungers
And our thirstings and our cravings;
Found a host here to appease our appetites;
There is little to complain of in the bargain
We have made here,
And for what we have received
It is faire price.

Sermons from the Elect - Preface

Poetical exhortations upon the
Seven Deadly Sins
with
Preface & Epilogue

For all those who pass through the gates of Faire

with cheek --and tongue firmly planted therein!

Preface

Against the bright and merry pallete of the Faire

The somber messengers of doom are there to feed our merriment.

We pass the gates; we cast off care

And come to play between the worlds of Then and Now.

The struggle 'twixt the dark and light

Seems ludicrous when all about is revelry;

The Faire is colors, gay and light

Or rich and deep, awhirl.

Here we touch ecstasy, a swirling tapestry of hues

Converging on our Faery Queen

In whose name we carouse.

The strident sermons of the pious few

Are but dark notes played in a merry air.
Where there is light, a shadow too is cast

That giveth form.

Darkness defines, as day from day be marked by night,

And on the parchment,

White is given meaning by the black ink.

Drawing lines, making distinctions.

Sermon I - Envy

The peasant would to rise and yeoman be;
The yeoman would likewise change his estate,
And gaining arms attain gentility.
The gentleman to bear the knighthood's weight
Aspires, and knights would lordlings be; barons
Would earls, earldoms would duchies be. Certes,
It hath been known dukes would to sit upon
A throne betimes, however fate might these
Honors obtain. God's Order is disdained
By those who would their own estate deny.
Each place within the chain hath been ordained;
Yet men would change, Envy to mollify.
Seek not for what by nature is not found;
We walk the safest when on solid ground.

Sermon II - Lust

Lust lifts her skirts, swells at the root of him,
Links them by heated breath and knotted gut
That writhes unto release. Lust coils from limb
To limb entwined, tumescent flesh aglut
With fevered blood. Lust crushes lip to lip,
And beats with frantic thrust and draw; Lust drinks
The sweat-salt kisses, holds the prey in grip
Of pleasured pain. Fair Virtue wounded sinks
Beneath the sea of Lust. Vainly the soul
Caught in the fire flails against Lust's toils;
Once tinder's lit, the flame is in control,
And without rein all fuel soon despoils.
Though passion may with sweetened speech arouse,
The breath of Lust is borne from charnel-house.

Sermon III - Gluttony

The feast is spread, the revelers sit to dine
From golden plate and rare Venetian ware;
Soft velvets gleam and gold and jewels shine
By candlelight. Each bauble for the hair,
Each gaud, each gown, each chas'ed goblet might
In selling feed a town. The common sort
Are long abed; their toils begin ere night
Hast fled before the dawn. While nobles sport
With horse and hound, their lands are worked by hands
That ne're shall know the touch of gold, whose wealth
Is measured by a bit of brass, whose plans
And dreams are circumscribed by harvest's health.
How noble is the vaunted class that thrives
Devouring of the common people's lives!

Sermon IV - Sloth

The husbandman must go unto the land
As to a wife. must plow and seed, and needs
Must oft cajole unwilling limbs, expand
The ground to bear new life. He heeds
The moods of cloud and rain and sun; he knows
The moment to the ripe fruit pluck, to take
The scythe unto the field. He knows the snows
Will come, and doth prepare therefor; the ache
Of cold will enter not his home. From fool,
From rogue that heedeth not the call to toil
For his own sustenance and from the school
Of Life is truant, Virtue doth recoil.
As action doth, Sloth bears a harvest, too;
Yet such doth make a thin and bitter brew.

Sermon V - Wrath

A florid countenance oft anger wears,
Infused with wrath, engorged with heated blood,
Dire oaths the mouth by hate enkindled swears;
From the enraged heart doth venom flood.
Alike the poison of the frigid fire
Of rancor chill, with icy veins and thin,
Pale lips more like to bite than burn. Such ire
Can slay the soul. The soul that savors sin,
That feeds upon the bitter spleen, and gall
Doth have for drink grows dry and bent and knows
No nourishment. Such soul is devil's thrall
Long ere among the coals of Hell it glows!
Wrath is no wholesome dish, be cold or hot;
Far better Mercy, and the wrong forgot.

Sermon VI - Avarice

The merchant in his fur-lined gown his purse
Doth clasp and finger lovingly; the Lord
His yield would multiply nor mind the curse
Of commons dispossessed; the knight his sword
Would ply in any cause to win his fame;
The miller with both dust and bone will eke
The corn, while for enhancement of the name
Of Family, with children's lives will seek
The dame to treat. The yeoman will covet
The fairer field; the scholar will his soul
Trade for forbidden lore. 'Tis all to get,
To hold, to keep, to clasp nor to unfold.
What value gold, or earthly fame or power?
Each grasp is loosed when comes the fatal hour.

Sermon VII - Pride

God's Will it were that I should thus be born
To honest and hard-working folk, and pure
As sinful mortal sort may be. Each morn
We did ere dawn arise to sin abjure
In orison, to kneel in fear of God.
And I, in like wise, lead my household; all
From dawn to dark, in sinful vale do plod
And must cast off the veils that do enthrall
The damned. The loathsome signs of Satan's sway
Are seen in vanities, in painted face,
In colored hair, in velvet's fine array.
Our sober garb bespeaks a higher grace.
In golden pride these peacocks make their way,
That shall stand naked on the Judgement Day!

Sermons - Epilogue

The gathering is complete, the harvest home,
The rituals enacted; Faire is done.
The progress passes on.
A little while we linger in the afterglow
To savor Life
And Time, like fabric folding,
Stretching, raveling out --
As Then and Now begin to merge.
Sweet darkness comes; the players doff their masks
And shed their garments of degree and class.
Distinctions disappear with Faire day's light
And we are all but shadows moving in the night.

In Order

In this, our Faire academy, we learn
Through service; we are Order taught, and then
Through service we our characters do earn,
And rise in station through our acumen.
In order each doth serve; from baseborn churl
To reigning prince responsibility
To others flows, and thence, from prince and world
To that one Sovereign Source of all degree.
As each is servant to that One above,
By virtue of descending Grace we rise
In orderly ascent. Fealty and love
Are met in graceful service in this wise:
Obedience rises from the lesser state,
And meets with trust and mercy from the great.

Novus Homo

Our Master Glenwood's an ambitious man.
So typical these days. Her Grace's reign
Gives such as he the mind to grow. He can
Forget the yeoman's home from which he came.
Now he is tradesman; Finding profit there
He can aspire to grow beyond that state.
Already he courts favor everywhere,
Seeking faire connections with the great.
He thinks to leave behind his humble past,
To acquire wealth and civil honors til
He finds gentility within his grasp
By dint of arms. And so, mayhap he will.
Ambition's not importunate today;
Let each man rise and profit as he may.

The Righteous Prince

A Prince is made as all of humankind
Is made -- of bone and sinew, and of flesh,
And as such, feels as others of the race
Both pain and pleasure in the daily lot.
The Prince, no matter power and pomp, cannot
Stay Time, nor order Death. What frailties
Are human, those the human prince must know.
And yet -- about the Monarch there is more
Than human grace on human can bestow.
As base extends in rightful place beneath,
The ordered tiers above support a point
Of prominence preeminent. And sooth,
Upon that point, like lightening to a spire,
Descends the righteous monarchy; the truth
Of Majesty is more than mortal made.
The Crown might thus be said to wear the head
Of him who bears it righteously; and though
The flesh dissolve in time, the Crown endures.
What rite can make a righteous king, indeed?
What ritual invokes descent of grace
Like holy unguent poured, humanity
Immersed in this immortal manifest?
What alkahest removes the peer to leave
A golden majesty enthroned? What is
The righteous Prince if not divinity
Imbuing corporeal form?

Alms

You touch your forelock, bow your matted head
Before the prancing throng of fools in silk
And velvet, grateful for the bit of bread
You have this day. They notice not your ilk;
Their minds are bent on pleasure like the hounds
That merry made by ale within their dish
Make chasing of their tails in frantic rounds.
They pass and note you not; it is their wish
To see not that which doth offend their eye
With poverty or pain. Again you turn
Toward home, clutching that crust both hard and dry
Which twelve hours honest toil for you did earn.
Yet still you shall sleep hungered on this day
For meeting of one needier on your way.

Poseur

No matter that thou think'st in such a play
To hide thy baseness in a tinsel'ed gown --
Or in a tucked and padded panoply display
An height of grace from which thou may'st look down
On those whose place thou'dst have among the great.
Thy soul's array is sad and tattered, mired
With fetid pride, and thus thy true estate
Be known. No matter how thou art attired,
That silent witness gives the lie to all
Pretense. Defense from that great knowing eye
Thou hast not, though the blinded fools enthrall
Thou may'st. A noble soul thou can'st not buy.
As earthly kingship comes from holy throne,
Nobility by God-graced heart is shown.

A Poem Seen

I saw a poem at the faire: a maid
With flowing hair unbound at end of day --
Whose day'd begun in modesty array'd.
I saw a bud unfold, and merry May
Adorn October's harvest like a rose;
I saw the ancient Muse in all her youth
And beauty, saw her grace that thus bestows
Her inspiration on the Bard. Forsooth --
In every phase of life is beauty found,
For life and art belong to every time.
Yet hymn we loudest that which doth abound
In change, and praise in poesy and rhyme
When seed doth burst to life, from bud to bloom
Doth move, or soul with wisdom
Dance twixt womb and tomb.

Errant's Return

My eyes begin to blur with age. The near
Is lost; my focus on the far away
I see in mirrored vision childhood's clear
And vivid dreams of time to come, the day
Ahead when we should stand as knights agleam
And ladies fair, and pledge ourselves to God
And Majesty. I see again the dream
Of bright adventure on that path untrod.
What was the grail I sought that brought me here
To stand and see myself so clearly now
'Twixt youth and death and at the turn of year
Remembering my errantry, my Vow?
My vision bright and new I see unfold
Within my heart the chalice of the soul.

I stand beneath an ancient oak and gaze
On times gone by; in reverie I move
Into a timeless eye where age's haze
Is banish'ed, and life's true self doth prove
Immortal, though the flesh may age and die.
Though actors on an earthy stage we play
At past and future, yet soul gives the lie
To this, for all is now and no decay
Can'st touch the spirit's living art. I see
Before me ageless order in all things
Displayed, and where before was mystery
And dark -- a vision of the source now springs
To life. To light, to laughter, and to joy
I inward raise mine eye, and Death destroy.

In Fealty

There was a land I visited betimes
When I was young and moved in time and space
As in a river of delight, when rhymes
And stories took me far and wide. The face
Of that land bloomed with health and grace; her folk
Made celebration at the season's turns
And for their Faerie Queen all hearts awoke
In joy upon her festival. One yearns
As years amass to feel again the thrill
Of childhood's awe and childhood's power to know
Enchanted Kingdom; there is in me still,
But masked with age, that child of long ago.
Youth's heart, renewed, leaps forth to bend the knee
And honor sovereign liege in fealty.

Totentanz

The Dead come dancing through the streets; their bones

Make clatter, but their fleshless lips are mute.

Their music hath no song, no need of moans

Or cries. The wind may whistle like a flute,

Bleached wands make drumming on dry skin pulled tight;

No words escape the shrouded band. Their eyes

Are mirrors of obsidian, the light

A pinpoint in the dark, a dart that flies

Straight to the heart of fear - and laughs. They dance,

Macabre visions in a parody

Of life. Prepare ye all for Totentanz!

Embrace the face of Death, your destiny.

All things at last that maw must pass into,

For all things change: in Death doth Life renew.

Mother Death

Mother Death comes dancing with her brood,
Their little skulls agape, their great, dark eyes
Like ebon pools reflecting midnight mood.
Close there beside the horned huntsman cries
His call to follow with a soundless throat;
The beasts that bay and howl before his steed
Do so in eerie silence, shredded coats
Half covering wounds that have no blood to bleed.
The monk's bald pate shines ivory and bare;
The armored knight doth rattle in his steel;
The maid's thin fingers comb through flaxen hair
That comes away in clumps. Their lips are sealed;

The dead tell not what lies upon the way,
Yet more there is to Death than Life's decay!