The Song of Alma*

I was born a harp for the One Mind

Never have I wanted more – or less

From Iowa’s womb was I birthed

In rich black earth was I planted

to grow tall and strong

Soundbox, pillar, and harmonic cuve

carved, shaped and smoothed

by delicate and loving fingers

But my tuning pegs

were hammered at a forge

in a fire so hot

on an anvil so hard

they could have been weapons

My songs swirl sinuously

flutter like leaves in the breeze

and bite like blades

Eight fingers have I

and two thumbs

two perfect ears

a mouth for singing

feet for tapping

a gift for timing

eyes that see what

the world does not reveal

I am but a bud on a branch

of a tree that has more rings

than any human can count

and branches reaching in

every direction

known and unknown

It’s roots reach down and touch

the World before the Word

I am made of stuff

from the birth of stars

from stone and metal

from wood and wyrd

from thought and intention

from light and vibration

from a womb ever-birthing

from Cerridwyn’s cauldron

Nine cycles slept I

in Arianrhod’s Tower

Nine cycles more imprisoned

by dull masters

My feet on the road

fleet as shadows

Nine years yet before

my womb birthed a new Bard

Nine more years, and nine again

I was hammered and honed

at still another forge

until my feet

fleet as shadows

found the road I now travel

with the best companions

I could have imagined

I became myself then

and belonged to myself

complete, sovereign

Not of mother, nor of father

was i birthed this time

but of determination and will

Whole at last, though orphaned

I accepted the mantle left to me

Another birth, after a death

Darkest night, not even the moon

comforted me then

But as the sky paled

I returned to myself, and watched

as what I no longer needed

washed away, seeking the depths

where only the Mother waits

Now with imperfect grace I stand

at the mouth of a Cave of Wonders

I look into inky blackness and see

my uncertain future

I see what has been done to the Mother

and my heart screams for vengeance

My tuning pegs, that could have been

weapons, could still be

Inside me, generations of ancient Bards

fists raised in the air

implore me to use the power

that has been entrusted to me

I feel my strings vibrating

sympathetically

as words spill forth unbidden

as music becomes magic

My will rises like a sword

in harmony with my fire

This is why I was born

This is the way of all star stuff

Three hundred generations

of Bards stand with me

I am now a twig on this branch

My songs are their songs

We live and we die

We are born and reborn

We change everything

by becoming our truest selves

I was born a harp

and I became a Bard

What I shall become next

will change the World again

*In the style of many of the old Bards, this was written years ago as I began this journey of Freedom. Today, I celebrate 11 years free from a situation that could have broken me. Music = Magic, and don’t you forget it. I encourage you to write your own myth, your own legend, and embody it as fully as you can. Be true, aim high, breathe deep! You are made of star-stuff, too.

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