Author Archives: maskednative

There is a gazebo at the end of the garden. It overlooks the estuary. When the tide is in, sea water pools around seaweed covered rocks. The sound is peaceful, meditative. I drink an early morning coffee, listen to the birds singing morning songs, watch a spider spin his fragile life between timber beams above my head. Even in the harshest of winters, the rise and fall of tides, sun-light on water, movement of sky, cloud, moon and stars, allows an awareness of nature behind the mask of perceived reality. I offer my words and pictures in celebration and gratitude to God, for allowing me a glimpse behind the mask. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Bio: Teri Flynn was born in Wales of Welsh and Irish Parents. Educated in England, she moved to Co.Waterford, Ireland in 1997 where her Poetry has since appeared in “The Turning Tide” – an anthology of new writing from Co.Waterford. “Southward” The Journal of the Munster Literature Centre and “Imagine” The Tallow Writers Group quarterly review. Her poetry appears in “Sticky Orchard”, a group effort with Alan Garvey, Jim O’Donnell and Anthony O’Neill and grant assisted by Waterford County Council’s Arts Grant Scheme. “Listening To The Grass Grow” with Jim O’Donnell and Anthony O’Neill was published by Edward Power at Rectory press and most recently, in ‘Murmurings’, Remembering Anthony O’Neil, with Jim O’Donnell and Alan Garvey. Her poem Queen Of The Sea was included in the Chesapeake Exhibition at RUH, Bath, 2011. Figurehead Carver, Andy Peters. Photographic display of Ship’s Figurehead Carvings by Richard Sibley – http://www.tallshipsgallery.com A themed display of her oil paintings and poems entitled Cynefin, were on display in Waterford during The Imagine Festival in 2017. Cynefin-pronounced kuh-nev-in is a Welsh word meaning habitat or place. A place where a being feels it ought to live, where nature around you feels right and welcoming.

Prayer

A prayer for the well-being and peace of my Mother, and her Mother, and her Mother, and her Mother, and all the Mothers we are descended from.

A prayer for my Daughter, and your daughter, and her daughter, and their daughters, for their peace and well-being, for the spirit and soul of the Feminine, without which we are lost.

A prayer for my Sons, and your sons, and their sons, and their sons, for their peace and well-being, for the spirit and soul of the Masculine, without which they are lost.

A prayer for our world, for everything in it, for the peace and well-being of all its peoples and all its animals, birds, plants, trees, rocks, mountains, rivers and seas and all the fish therein.

May we live in peace, love and harmony with gratitude to the Creator of our universe, and all its suns and moons, stars and planets

and for all those gone before us, all those with us and all those yet to come, may all be blessed in this prayer.

(‘Prayer’ by Teri Flynn)

Barefoot In The Sacred

Step outside the garden door,

fill your eyes with morning light,

your whole body with dawn fresh breath.

Sink your bare feet into the green cushion

of dewy wet grass,

your toes tingling with surprise.

In the heart of everything before you,

be still.

You are in the presence of The Sacred.

Castles In The Sky

When I was a child, I climbed walls, just to see what was on the other side, it didn’t matter how high, your friends always climbed with you. We could throw a ball against a wall, or mark it with chalk as the goal posts for a game. Sometimes we just sat on the wall and told each other jokes and stories about the mystery of secrets in the wind.

A wall was just a wall made of bricks. Brick coloured bricks. Brick shaped bricks. Bricks that smelled like bricks. Real bricks.

When I was grown, I built lots of walls. They were like jig-saw pieces with holes where the bits were missing. I made square pegs to fit into round holes in the wall but when I realised that none of them were real, that they only existed behind the walls of my mind and no matter how high I tried to climb, they were only made of paper.

So I built a smaller wall, to sit on while I dreamt about castles in the sky and secrets in the wind.

Pine Wood

Leaving the path

I walk into the woods.

Sit on a fallen branch

within a circle of

pine trees, twigs, sticks,

rotting wood,

pine needles and

fallen leaves,

layer upon layer,

composted.

A decay that

nourishes these

silent giants

whose spongy

trunks soar to

reach the light

high above.

There is shelter

from the wind,

but beneath

the evergreen canopy,

the silence is total,

like death, yet

it calls me

to listen,

to strive

for the

light.

Three Signets

Donegal

Folding mist,

blurred edge of land and sky.

Roads twisting, turning, falling, rising,

each curve a poem.

Where are you leading me, I asked?

Just keep walking came the reply.

Wavelets bright as stars in a night sky

flashed around a large, grey rock,

grounded in shallow water.

What holds you so still I asked?

Contemplation, came the reply.

The bright river flowed swift and sure,

singing to low-lying fields swamped

in quiet pools, to stones on the river-bed and

under the hump-back bridge in answer to

the distant call of the wild Atlantic Ocean,

its song familiar somewhere in my heart.

A scattering of cottages dotted hillsides,

wandering sheep grazed, their wool

snatched on brambles and littered on

muddy ground like dirty snow.

Curiosity brought them running to the gate,

allowing my brief human touch before retreating,

like goats, scrambling over hillocks and in-between

thorny bushes to watch from a safe distance.

Where do you belong, they asked?

The answer came in a light-filled puddle ,

with my reflection, held, in water, rocks and stones,

mountains, fields, sheep and roads that bind and lead.

Druantia

Through a weave of variegated ivy leaves,

upon which light and shade played games

with my imagination, the truncated tree presented

a face of hollow cheeks and hollow eyes that

questioned my beliefs.

During long winter months, while rain and gales

rampaged, scattering and flinging in a whirl of

winter chaos, the trunk held fast to its roots,

small creatures sought refuge in the dense

and healthy growth but what were my truths.

Thoughts of Celtic Gods and Goddesses occupied my mind, until spring came shyly

through a cloud of leafy tendrils that framed her face and a crown of green was placed,

for a mythical Goddess Queen, Druantia, protector of trees, grounding my beliefs and responsibility.

Perfumed Trails

In Johnstown Castle Gardens, swans glide serenely on a lake of green algae,

their nest hidden by the burst of growth along the swampy waterside.

Giant Gunnera and black stemmed Chinese Bamboo plunge their roots into the sodden bank.

Blush of Pink and purple Rhododendrons, Camellia and the perfumed flowers of Mock Orange Blossom. Pine trees soaring above a canopy of glossy green Laurel and the surprise of Flag Iris in glory of sunshine yellow while ferns, buttercups and all kinds of wild flowers fill the gaps below.

Shady earthen paths, small birds whistling from hidden places, scents of woodland and a damp bench for pause and reflection.

At the entrance to the courtyard and cafeteria, a pheasant atop his lofty perch commands attention, his screeches echo,

another struts purposefully in the courtyard, tail feathers fanned, he struts his stuff.

Photo taken at the middle lake in Johnstown Castle Gardens, Wexford, by Teri Flynn May 2019

A Delirium Of Wildness

In an unruly, extravagant wild,

weathered golden rocks crown a precious land.

Bluebells burst through scrub, moss and brambles.

Nests are built and slept in,

oft times disturbed by approaching footsteps.

The occupants rise up in startled flight,

Roots stir, a greening bud opens and

you are held in awe of a tiny flower,

unaware of its presence

until it comes upon its beauty

with the connection felt.

Photo taken on Great Saltee Island, Wexford – by Teri Flynn (MaskedNative)

Halfway

It was good to stop and take a halfway moment, allowing my mind to wander into forgotten dreams, surrounding myself with thoughts of softness, kindness, strength, and the pleasure of just being here. The unfolding was encouraging,

halfway