Absent Father – Childhood Dreams

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Wildest dreams of Silverstone, I saw you win the race.

Fist clouted air, but I never saw your face.

You brought champagne and flowers to a seven year old dream,

I know you came; you knew how much it would mean.

First mate upon your dream ship. A Merchant Vessel spent;

Swallowed the essence from a telegram you sent.

A box of cards to open in a teenage romance,

Tracing letters where I know your hand once danced.

Flew with you to Africa and saw zebras on the plain,

Real, in colour, father, brought to life again.

With babe in arms, a mother. I looked and thought I saw,

A beaming grandpa peering through the door.

Now life without the hero who’s eulogy I see.

Very much missed by wife, kids, grandchildren. And me.

Two lives you lived. The one you knew; with wife and family,

And the one that I created and kept alive with me.

So, am I to mourn you? To kill the childhood dream.

Allow your death to tarnish my imagination’s gleam?

No. I’ll never say goodbye, since we never said hello.

Kinship passed us by like a wing of wicked crow.

I never will imagine you lying in a grave.

Nor deny your presence and the love you gave,

To bring this soul to being, to let me have my dream,

Of absent father hero on whom my whole world leaned.

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Loving Well

Image result for the white spring lisa

A heart is held enthralled by stone and water,
It’s beating pulse is fed by constant flow,
In face of threat or danger, it won’t falter
And even when disaster bucks the bow.

Once, twice, thrice, by strife, a love is tested,
This love requires utter sacrifice,
Lay down my self, my life, at once invested,
Embraced and held by otherworldly sighs.

Defying definition, Oh my love,
To make of me the novice, and the brave.
Release all inhibition, not enough!
To walk into the darkness of the cave.

Living on the edge of a cold chasm,
Allowed to put the grapes upon the vine,
Driven by an archetypal passion,
Swallowed by the taste of love divine.

And hidden in the shadow cast by candles,
A heart trips on the strings of pure delight,
And bidden by the hallows of the deep well,
It brings a loving presence to the light.

Lisa Goodwin, Bard of Ynys Witrin April 2014

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The White Spring re-opens 5th April

From 2014 when we got new gates at The White Spring.

Wizard News

When the White Spring was vandalised on 14th February, I was angry, hurt, and much like the building; felt exposed and vulnerable. As the custodian of this sacred space I felt the need to create a positive outcome. Not just for myself, but also for the vast spiritual community of all backgrounds and traditions who appreciate the sanctity of The White Spring. As a transformational coach I felt compelled to transmute this destruction into something exquisite. I must confess that a part of me wanted to just walk away, and I knew that was an option, but my passion for this place won’t let me.

In the face of crisis our capacity for transformation and spiritual growth is realised. This is one of those times. This is a powerful teaching that has grown out of my fire-walking training and is a core truth that I have experienced and witnessed on many occasions. One…

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Poisoned Apples – #Napowrimo 26


apple icon.jpg

Since the dawn of man,
the apple has been eaten,
divested from the garden,
ingested with poison,
turned into a tool of wickedness
and sweet hot apple pie.

Five black magical seeds
hidden in white flesh,
wrapped tightly in red skin
as if to hold the magic in.
From blossom to fullness
the apple inspired.

The first fruit taken by woman
twisted into a chewed core
of what she was before
the pomegranate transformed,
forever more to be
grossly misappropriated.

The gravity of the situation
should not be understated,
this rose tinted fall of man,
ripened full to fall again,
Seeding in Issac Newton,
a scientist of notable influence,
universal gravitation and a deeper
understanding of planetary motion.

But for one time in our history
when the apple was overrated.
Saint Steve had just one job,
to bring the apple to a mob
of hungry eyes, seeking evolution
to feed…

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Night-time Stalking

I am the hunter,
chasing Awen, stalking
the folds between dreaming.

Ever watchful, tender muse
tucks me into seams of
story to rock me awake.

Dark, tactile images,
driftwood, dismissed as cliché,
dancing to soundless beats.

Icons safe in solitude;
pursuing perfection with
no pen to pin them down.

No paper to unwrap them.
Words conceal shadows
free to taunt the mind.

I am the hunter,
chasing Awen, stalking
the folds between dreaming.

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Everything we worked for is at risk by Maya Horton

Source: Everything we worked for is at risk by Maya Horton

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This month I am taking part in NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month. The aim is to write a poem every day for thirty days. I know lots of people haven’t signed up here to get political poems and experimental wordplay, so I am not posting them here, occasionally a poem comes up that is relevant to Wizard News. For those of you who are interested, my Napowrimo poems 2017 will be put here. Eventually, I want this page to be a showcase for poets and storytellers who are writing from, or about Avalon and Glastonbury UK – so if that is something you are into, please follow AvalonVox.

This poem was inspired by a prompt from day five, to write about a natural feature that you know well. I thought you might like it.

Water has memory.
I thought it would remember me.
But why should it?
My insignificant brevity
in dedication to its purity
is just a drop in its millennial flow.

People come and go,
filling their bottles,
quenching their thirst,
tying their clooties so well.
In my memory,
sacred space,
a temple,
‘For the Love of It’
I remember it well.

Swift flows of remembrance
when ‘Welcome home,’
trembles through the bones
because well, here you are!

People come and go,
filling their bottles,
quenching their thirst,
tying their clooties so well.
sharing a story,
a prayer,
a ritual,
or worse,
loud angsty rants.
I remember it well.

Velvet strips of remembrance
a swift tease by candlelight
reflecting times passing
where stone trembles
with tribal shouts of grieving.

People come and go,
filling their bottles,
quenching their thirst,
tying their clooties so well.
riding through history
a chance
to heal
a miracle cure.
I remember it well.

1539, when the Last Abbot was done in,
and the Abbey dismembered,
here they cleaned the bloody tools,
that’s worth remembering.

1751, a gentleman’s magazine states,
‘ten thousand people drink for healing.’
The Mayor of Glastonbury reports,
Matt Chancellor endorses the healing waters.
And so increases its fame.

1872, George Wright writes
of pretty caverns clothed with moss,
fairy dropping wells on Well House Lane
before the Wellhouse was built to contain the water
and pump into town the cure for cholera.
And what was Glastonbury like then?
I remember it well.

Still, the flow keeps flowing
and people keep showing up
with their love for the gift
that pure water gives.
Feeling uplifted,
many lives lived, many lives taken.
promises made,
broken and unbroken,
rites of passage softly spoken,
misunderstood intentions,
machinations and inventions,
and mistaken prophecies,
does it remember all of these?

Does it rise up in remembrance of every story?
If you froze one drop for a moment
and magnified it a million times,
would it form into symmetrical shapes of love
or twist around in agony?
Surely it remembers both sides of the story.
It doesn’t remember me,
it just goes with the flow while
people come and go,
filling their bottles,
quenching their thirst and
tying their clooties so well.

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NaPoWriMo 1 – Alfie you Fool!

It’s the first day of NaPoWriMo – National Poetry Writing month … now it has grown to include Global Poetry and we have GloPoWriMo.

Anyone can join in, from anywhere. The idea is to write 30 poems in 30 days. You can do what you please with your poems, share them, stuff em in a drawer, blog them and discuss, send to a friend.

This will be my third year participating, and there have been some outstanding gems among all the words. Some verses came out all shiny and ready to be performed, many more still sit there wanting to be tweaked.

I love the rawness of it, not spending days fermenting and editing, just sharing what inspiration comes each day- often I get a passable poem, sometimes I get poetry, and occasionally one will make it to the stage.

Today’s prompt from the website ( http://www.napowrimo.net/ if you want to join in) is to write a poem with short, tight lines, rhymes interwoven throughout, maybe an animal or two, and if you can manage to stuff it in, a sharp little philosophical conclusion.

This is a sad one because, this morning as I pondered the prompt and started to write, there was a crash outside the house. Our beautiful cat was hit by a car. He’s gone now.

Alfie was the most loving cat, his only loyalty was to the lap. We bought him as a ‘ratter’, his ‘Wanted’ poster on The Cat’s Protection website said definitely not a lap cat. How wrong they were. Alfie was a lap skank.



The best cat
we ever had,
eternal fool,
the road
on All Fools Day
before mid-day.
All that’s left
is a whisker
on the mat.
Black and white
hairs on
my jacket,
he napped.
The haunting
his absence
in the garden,
magpie’s relief.
A world turned
rolled over
stained red.
Across the
a sign said
‘A361 Lighten the Load’.
I wish it was
a joke.


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Equinox Blessings – Into the Light

Look to the places where balance may be found. In yourself, in nature, in other people, and in your environment. There is harmony, duality, parity, proportion, symmetry, but are these not just projections and reflections of equilibrium?
This time of shifting tides can be unsettling. Balance itself is a transient thing. Everything is in flux – moving, growing, changing.

Does balance not bring stagnation? If we manage to maintain a perfect balance where would the impulse for movement come from? Like weighing scales with the same weight on each side, remaining still, the movement only occurs when we add or remove something from either side.

This transient, ever flowing dance of life is always in flux, ever-changing, and here is the paradox – the times of Equinox more often reflect where we are out of balance.spring equinox

To dance on the ebbs and tides of life, moving to a place where harmony is felt may be more realistic. A sacred synergy of life flowing together, not seeking or grasping an illusory concept of balance, but simple surrender.

Perhaps instead of seeking balance, we seek to go with the flow of these shifting tides. To acknowledge that imbalance is its own perfect force. To understand that transformation requires movement.

So as the days progressively transform towards summer, here is a poem about the increasing light.

Into the Light

If you’ve been hid away and feeling lonely
and no one out there understands your plight;
the grieving time is passing very slowly.
Now comes the time of equal day and night.

If you’ve been lighting fires with damp tinder
and every step has turned into a fight.
If you’ve been hiding in the dark all winter,
it’s time for you to step into the light!

If you’ve lost faith and clarity is drowning,
You’re beaten by the struggle and the strife.
If your feelings have taken a good pounding,
while dancing on the ebbs and flows of life,

Know warmer summer days are coming in now,
there’s more chance to find your heart’s delight.
It’s time to gather with your kith and kin now,
so all of us can step into the light.

Let’s share the treasures of the winter’s reaping,
let’s bring the light to truth found in the dark.
Together; in our laughter or our weeping.
Let summer sun ignite our youthful spark.

Now, all of us have taken some refining,
while healing all the wounds of what is done,
oh I can’t wait to see your eyes a shining,
reflected in the warmth of summer sun.

Lisa Goodwin, Bard of Ynys Witrin – March 2014

Happy equinox to you lovelies – please do get in touch, I love it when I hear from folk who enjoy the poems and musings.
Brightest blessings



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Pantheacon – For the Love of It

In February 2017 we flew to California and attended our first Pantheacon. Max and I were invited as guests to talk about the White Spring Sanctuary in Glastonbury and to take part in a Double Dragon Ritual with RJ Stewart. I was mega excited, what an honour!

“What, us? Really?” the playing small part of my brain said. Then reason kicked in and I remembered that we have been working with ceremony and magic for over 25 years, nine of which were dedicated to tending the White Spring. So, why not us? It felt like a gift for our time in service for the love of it.

swans.jpegWe set off on our journey to Heathrow early and as we traveled through Bath, two swans flew up alongside the bus and kept level with us. I made a little prayer that we might fly with such grace. It was my first trip on an airplane. I was like an excited child and my face was glued to the window for much of the ten-hour journey.

So we flew direct to San Jose and took a shuttle bus to The Double Tree Hotel which was practically across the street from the airport. RJ met us in the lobby and after dropping our cases in the huge hotel room we went to register for our talk.
We soon began to settle into a huge serving of ‘culture shock parfait’. Layer upon layer of magic and mysticism in a fancy hotel. It was like a big festival in a most unusual environment. We chatted in the bar while watching the delegates, hosts, and presenters arrive in all their vibrancy and glory.

beehive-carpetPantheacon is a magnificent gathering of pagan kith and kin, a heartfelt sharing of skills, teachings, and hospitality. The whole place is a hive of activity with beehive patterned carpets to reinforce the feeling of a great community working together. There were so many presentations and curiosities that it was hard to decide what to do.

The Double Dragon ritual went rather well. Robert is an accomplished ceremonialist and teacher. I knew it would be high quality – it was impeccable. We’d smuggled in the red and white waters of Avalon and a stone from Glastonbury Tor. The stone, the centerpiece of the ritual, looks more and dragons jen.jpgmore like a dragon each day. It is a large lump of sedimentary rock from the ancient seabed with traces of ammonites and clam shells evident on the surface. Stained red and white it will remain in the White Spring, taking its place in the holy of holies.

The double dragon image here is created by a wonderful artist and our new forever friend Jen Delyth who gifted us with t-shirts to bring home for the children. How we met her and her beloved, Chris Chandler is a great story I will tell you sometime. For now, check out her astounding artwork here.   http://www.kelticdesigns.com/
Robert asked me if I would do my Glastonbury Poem at his concert on Saturday night. Blimey, I would be sharing a stage with RJ Stewart! I was suitably whelmed, but I think the poem translated well. With hindsight, I probably should have said booger instead of bogey. My accent was morphing into some kind of American/Irish mash-up (what was that about?) I began to wonder whether I should channel Dick Van Dyke to help. It was funny to hear our co-celebrants

My accent was morphing into some kind of American/Irish mash-up (what was that about?) I began to wonder whether I should channel Dick Van Dyke to help. It was funny to hear our co-celebrants Sally and Jessika reflecting our English accents, they were less ‘gurt lush’ Somerset and more retro-cockney. We shared some wonderfully British phrases with Sally who delighted in writing them down.

The White Spring talk and meditations caused a few leaky eyes and I am taking that as a good sign. We created a community field and, safe within it, journeyed to Fae realms to meet with the archetypes of The White Spring. At the end of the class, Max gave the group a choice. We could have 10 minutes of Q&A or we could chuck water at them. They went for the water… hoorah! So with joyful abandon, we threw waters of Avalon around the room.
All of the talks that I wanted to attend and missed looked great; the ritual misa (mass) for La Santisima Muerte, Crossing Stony Ground, The Bawdy Divine, The Sock Puppet Scapegoat Ritual, Working with Difficult Gods, Into the Labyrinth, and The Magic of Grace. All remain highlighted in my Pantheacon programme as a testament to the fact that I must return next year.

Was it the drunken divination or the absinthe party that distracted me?

I forget.

It definitely wasn’t Naked Kabala Twister; I had no intention of taking part in that and I wasn’t going to sit in and watch because that would be weird.


Seriously, there were such a plethora of quality classes on offer. The hospitality suites and temples that had been created in hotel rooms were great places to meet people and have a few deep meaningfuls.


Where are all the pictures? Well, Pantheacon has a no photography policy. No one can take pictures without asking permission first. The result of this was that I saw hardly any phones. All the connections were face to face and wholly human. What a blessing that was.

What is most impressive at Pantheacon is the attention to wellbeing. The whole place feels safe. There is guidance on keeping grounded and advice for those who might succumb to spiritual overload. Everyone there knows about ‘621’: For every 24 hour period, you must get a minimum of 6 hours sleep, 2 meals, and 1 shower. Now Glastonbury Festival could do with having that little gem of wisdom out there … especially the shower part!

If anyone was still feeling out of sorts after taking care of their 621, there were flow charts to direct them to the right ways to get grounded. There was 24/7 support and plenty of volunteers ready  to help out. We felt safe, welcomed and nurtured for the whole of our stay there. Unity in diversity … it sings out at Pantheacon.

On Monday morning, as everyone was getting ready to leave, we were invited to have breakfast with Tiffany (Yes, I know). Tiffany is one of the worldwide Sisters of Avalon, benefactors and close companions of The White Spring. I really wanted to spend some time with her, so we missed the talk at 9am, ‘The Magic of Grace.’

On Tuesday morning, the presenter of that talk, Orion Foxwood, caught up with us in the lobby to tell us how he had observed how we all walk with such grace. He shared some of his teachings on grace with us before we left.  What a nice farewell from Pantheacon. Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again.

The United States of Amazing Grace.


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