He’s the man who comes around once a month. The lunar cycle is his route.

People believe in him. He has power to influence the outcome of events on the lively blue planet below.

Even though men had walked on his turf and found no sign of him, he is there. The catch is that you can only see him from a great distance.

He beams his thoughts of good fortune on all with equal enthusiasm.

Remember not to stand too close, or you may miss him.

Moonstruck

What do you feel when you look up at la luna on clear night, or on a cloudy evening with the lunar light from above poking through?

And what about a crescent moon? There are times when Venus dangles off the southern tip of the crescent like a diamond set in the sky by a master jeweler.

Can you fathom what the moon must have meant to humans thousands of years ago as they gazed into the magic of the heavens? Today we know this satellite scientifically; we stood on its surface?

Still, to know the moon intimately, you must feel him in your soul if you are a woman—and her if you are a man. And like the tides he makes ebb and flow to his mood, the moon will move your spirit into lofty realms.

To truly experience the moon, you must look up.

Once in the forest there was a lady. It was night and a fine blue moon lay against a starlit sky.

She couldn’t recall how she got there or who she was. She looked around and felt the forces of the forest—both ominous and benevolent. She felt alone and off balance, scared of not remembering her name.

As the darkness of the forest seemed to close in on her, a small friendly-looking figure wearing a red kilt to her left cleared its throat. The blue moonlight lady with the long hair was startled for an instant.

“Are you remembering now why you came to the forest on this rare night of the blue moon?” said the small person.

Of course, she now thought to herself. I am the goddess of the moon born every now and then to bring love to all the creatures of the forest.

The small person, seeing that the goddess was getting the picture, smiled and took her hand as they walked toward a path that would take them deeper into the woods.

She feels free, unfettered as she seems to fly high near the canopy of the rain forest. Moon rays barely make it through the dense foliage.

Her mask gives her a certain sense of power. She is making a statement for her self and it makes her float with passion.

Do you want to blend in or stand out? Each has a price, yet only one has value.

What did Sister Moon know that one night?

Was she a complete and unique entity onto her self? Or was she part of a scheme being conjured up by someone else?

She could hear a faint chant off in the distance. It called her with an irresistible and beautiful melody.

Sister Moon, Sister Moon, the chant seemed to call.

“Come back to us . . . Come back to us.”

She turned her head and began moving toward the voice.

That one night in Dublin a full moon followed her as she walked along the narrow cobble street.

Two men wanted her. She would meet one by a lamp post. They would walk along the avenue, hear the poets recite, and watch the jugglers. They would sneak into an inn to have some strong Irish tea and tasty desserts. He would make her laugh with stories of his travels and life at sea.

The other suitor lingered outside. He looked up at the moon through the chilly night air, trying to think positive thoughts. They had been married once and it had failed. He would win her back. She had hinted at such things during quiet moments.

He would wait for her to come out from the inn. Then and there, he would ask her to finally choose.

Knowing seemed better than not knowing.

Under the glow of moonlight there is magic.

They feel it.

They are moonstruck and yet they can’t prove this special feeling to anyone but themselves, for magic is everywhere—you need only be aware of it.

And that is quite enough if you stop and think about it.

She shows up when you least expect her, often on a full moon.

Everyone seeks out justice.

She is, after all blind, and her decisions are pure, unincumbered by favors or attachments.

When Justice soars under the full moon, seeking out what must be done for good to prevail, you can feel her in the air.

With all her great powers, she still relies on the brave to lead the way so she can complete her mission—always one soul at a time.

To play her as if she were his instrument is what they both desired.

They were caught up in the reverie of passion, hot and tasty.

He and she knew that hot things will naturally cool off if the source of heat diminishes.

For now, they would play each other and their music would fuel their desire. For now.

He is the icon of magicians and necromancers.

He is forever connected to Arthur, whom he groomed to become the once and future king.

With all his powers, Merlin could not prevent that weakness in man that tramples upon that good spirit called Camelot.

According to Thomas Bulfinch (1796-1867) in his Age of Fable: Vol. III: The Age of Chivalry: “Merlin was the son of no mortal father, but of an Incubus, one of a class of beings not absolutely wicked, but far from good, who inhabit the regions of the air.

“Merlin’s mother was a virtuous young woman, who, on the birth of her son, intrusted him to a priest, who hurried him to the baptismal fount, and so saved him from sharing the lot of his father, though he retained many marks of his unearthly origin.”

Later in his life, Merlin would see his undoing at the hands of his mistress, Viviane, the Fairy, also known as Lady of the Lake.