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Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details |

Rosalia - The Evil Black Witch of the Harz, Part Seven

Rosalia - The Evil Black Witch of the Harz, Part Seven

The Final Days:  Rosalia’s Death and Destruction
In the wake of such evil, debauchery and depravity what can be said now in the case of Rosalia?

Now in her mortal form the old black witch no longer had the unspeakable power of hell-spawned evil at her instant command. In spite of the victory of the power of goodness and light and the attenuation, if not the dissolution of witchcraft in the Harz, the memory of who Rosalia was and what she had done could now begin to be eased somewhat from the minds of local people and the clergy. But the memory of Rosalia and her evil could never be forgotten.  How could it be otherwise?

After three months of confinement in the dungeon at the Burg Worlerede, a fortress castle, very near to Cloister Marten in the Harz, Rosalia was eventually tried and convicted in a special church court convened at this castle to try cases concerning witchcraft and sorcery, which were beyond the normal jurisdiction of civil courts. Monseigneur Wolfgang Augustus Hardenberg of Cloister Marten was the residing church chief judge with four priests in his assistance serving as subordinate church judges.  One civil magistrate judge from the local Harz provincial government participated, in an advisory capacity, with the five church judges in these special judicial proceedings against Rosalia.

Everyone in attendance at the witchcraft trial of Rosalia knew what the outcome would be. With that said, the testimony of her victims on public record dragged on for several weeks, to include the final interrogation and confession of witchcraft and supreme evil doings by Rosalia herself.

In her rebuttal statement to the assembled church tribunal, Rosalia actually gained some of her old fire back as she spoke to the group—in a taunting and derisive manner. Rosalia showed no remorse whatsoever for what she had done and perpetrated upon others. She still renounced the Almighty Lord God and did not ask for his mercy and forgiveness. Her love and passion for being and existence was still with her god, Lucifer, who had forsaken her at last in her hour of need during All Hallows’ Eve and the Black Witches’ Sabbath. 

As easy as it might have been at that moment to pity such a pathetic and revolting creature, Rosalia’s hurtful words in complete defiance of God and her taunting mockery and snickering at the victims of her black deeds were beyond the pale of any shred or strand of human decency.

At the conclusion of Rosalia’s rebuttal statement, Monseigneur Hardenberg announced the verdict and sentence of the special church court:

“Rosalia, Black Witch of the Harz and Purveyor of Lucifer’s Evil on this Earth, you are hereby adjudged by this special court of being guilty of the practice of Witchcraft and Sorcery, and the murder of untold numbers victims over the centuries to this present one, and for the malicious corruption of your victims’ souls as they died in torment and faced the reality and agony of eternal damnation. And your acts even against young children and babies are so unspeakable and abominable that they readily defy any iota of rational understanding in our human society here on Earth. All these actions reflect your absolute depravity and lack of regard for human life, and they defy directly the teachings of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. All of your transgressions have been entered into the final record by this assembled court.”

“As a priest and a man of the cloth, I would normally ask the Almighty Lord God to have pity on you and your soul. But you have no mortal soul since you have been in very long service to Satan himself. Once more, you have committed the ultimate sacrilege by renouncing the Almighty Lord God yourself.”

“Therefore, there can be no plea of mercy or divine forgiveness rendered for you by this court on your behalf.  Your final fate and disposition beyond the reach of this court lies ultimately with your master—Satan.”

“It is therefore the judgment of this court that you Rosalia—Black Witch of the Harz—be taken on the next morn’ at dawn to the gallows specially constructed here at Worlerede and this is where you shall be hanged by the neck until pronounced dead, and then your mortal body shall continue to hang for three days on public display, for all to see, and then your mortal body shall be burned by fire while it is still in its hanging position. Your mortal body shall burn until it disintegrates into nothing but fine burnt ashes.”

“In God’s name, this is so adjudged and it shall be done!”
 
As Monseigneur Hardenberg finished his verdict and sentencing, before Rosalia was to be bound and shackled for her departure from the court, he asked her if she had any final words for the court.

At that very moment the wily old hag became extraordinarily animated, and in a wild-eyed uncontrollable manner, jumped high into the air with an energy she had not possessed in a while and made this very provocative pronouncement to the Monseigneur and all concerned:

“Monseigneur you may have me hanged and burned into nothingness, but I shall once again triumph with Lucifer’s will and power behind me for I lay eternally in his bed and seek not Jehovah’s forgiveness and the rapture of Heaven. My Master will restore me once again and resurrect me to return and execute his evil deeds once again here on Earth. It is I who renounce you and all the people assembled in this court. I renounce what all of you stand for. I curse all of you forever, and I shall be there at the very Gates of Hell awaiting the day when I can greet all of and condemn you to eternal hell fire and damnation on my Master’s behalf. A curse of death and eternal damnation be upon you all, and all of the relatives who follow you for future generations to come!”

End of Part Seven

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (September 20, 2014)


Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details |

Rosalia - The Evil Black Witch of the Harz, Part Two

Rosalia - The Evil Black Witch of the Harz, Part Two

Rosalia’s Instruments of Evil and Debauchery
Rosalia needed certain tools or instruments of evil and debauchery to successfully pursue her nefandous plans of bringing the people of the Harz countryside under the dominion and control of the Devil. The following instruments could be construed as weapons in and of themselves and were integral to Rosalia’s practice of Witchcraft and Sorcery, and were central to her fervent desire of accomplishing this dastardly goal as she actively sought to corrupt and destroy the souls of her victims. Her bright gems of evil and debauchery included:
 
Necromancy  
As Rosalia expanded her power, control, and influence among the people she became involved in Necromancy, that is to say, the art of predicting events by communicating with the dead. She would use her channeling efforts to enter the spirit world, and in an act of true malevolence, would prompt her spirit contacts to conjure evil dreams and have them pervade the consciousness of her unsuspecting victims. She would, at times, summon Lucifer himself in the midst of all of this to directly maximize her channeling efforts.      

Moleosophy and Wartology  
Rosalia had mastery of the arcane art of Moleosophy and Wartology, whereby she could divine the temperament of people and surrounding future events by spiritually sensing and reading the moles and warts on men and women in a stream of consciousness. Beyond this divining and sensing aspect, this power was also amply reflected in the use of her Black Wart and the use of its bile liquid contents to inflict irreparable harm on her victims and engender absolute fear.

Witch’s Broom  
Rosalia had a Witch’s Broom, serving as her primary mode of transportation for traversing the Harz and for frightening and wreaking utter havoc on her unsuspecting victims.

Black Hen’s Blood
Rosalia used a Black Hen’s Blood gruesomely obtained by beating a black hen to death, and then smearing a small portion of the blood on her human victim or the victim’s clothing— in effect, to transfer the agony of the hen’s death to her intended victim. 

Magic Wand
The Magic Wand made of hazel is another invaluable weapon used by Rosalia as an instrument of indomitable evil force and power as personified in its likeness as a phallic symbol.  Rosalia’s mastery of her Magic Wand enabled her to instinctively react in casting black magic spells on her victims and conjuring an aura of evil spirits to plague and ultimately destroy her victims’ families.

Black Potions
Rosalia brewed alchemic poisonous potions to a horrifying hideous effect,
using them to startle, stun and paralyze her victims with unending fear
while unmercifully taunting and tormenting them with equal evil effect,
and using Witchcraft to destroy once innocent souls and harvest fear.
Rosalia employed her alchemic masterpieces to great effect in gaining control of her victims’ will or desire to resist her evil intentions. Rosalia sometimes used her Black Potions to immediately subdue and poison to death victims who had insulted her and driven her anger to an insatiable lust and frenzy.

Witch’s Dagger   
Rosalia’s Athamé was her special coal-black-colored ceremonial dagger, of course, with a double-edged blade, but in her instance totally black to include the actual blade itself, with the sign of the Pentagram firmly engrained into the dagger’s handle. This was Rosalia’s magical dagger, her tool which she used for ritual black mass ceremonies and to direct psychic energy and to even exact both torture and murder—beyond the normal expected use of such a dagger in a witchcraft ceremony.  

Black Cat   
Whereas a vampire has the power to command his or her “Children of the Night,” and to take the form of a wolf or a bat, similarly, Rosalia could transmute her human form and soul appearance into that of a Black Cat, or on occasion, into that of a White Cat to better mask her nefarious activities and evil intentions.

Black Witches’ Sabbath
Given her power and authority from the Dark One (or Satan himself), Rosalia was so anointed to conduct a Black Witches’ Sabbath two times a year:  April 30th on the Great Sabbath of Walpurgis Nacht and October 31st with Halloween (All Hallows’ Eve). These were the events during which Rosalia summoned the “Goat of Mendes” by which Satan would appear in physical form as a goat or a ram. Rosalia used these special witch coven gatherings on Walpurgis Nacht and Halloween as defining events by which she would give over the souls of her trusted disciples to Satan. She would also recommit her blasphemous Faustian eternal allegiance to the Dark One made over centuries before when she existed in other evil reincarnated soul being forms before becoming Rosalia.

Black Mass 
Intoning, in a shrill repetitive manner six times:  Rosalia recited the Satanist Prayer (Our Father, which wert in Heaven . . .) during monthly Black Mass celebrations and the Black Witches’ Sabbath with her Coven. Rosalia used the transformative power of these events to further energize her disciples and to call directly on Satan to inform him of her evil activities and seek his continued influence and support for her acts of terror, torture, and debauchery—all in his name. Tragically, all of Rosalia’s disciples were lost souls and faced eternal damnation because of their continued association with her.  At the end of the Black Mass rituals all of Rosalia’s disciples were left in a state of unfettered “Humicubation,” whereby they lay on the ground in a state of submission and penitence to her for ever having worshipped the Lord God.

End of Part Two

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (September 20, 2014)


Long poem by Robert Stoner Jr | Details |

Scene Of The Crime - Trilogy

Scene Of The Crime :   Part I


tap, tap, tap, print faded as the worn ribbon
why am I doing this, I’m a detective not a secretary
the streets are my beat, not this rhythm of tap, tap, tap
a mouth full of day old coffee, too late to spit out

stuck doing night reports, hard chair
endless information, unsolved case
tap, tap, tap, time: 10.45 pm
place: 156 51st Ave. S, bad end of town

distracting radio playing Stormy Weather
new guy Sinatra adding to my headache
single gold earring ,strange where’s it’s twin
two bit room in a sleazy strip, tap, tap, tap

camels burnt low in the ashtray
victims cheap lipstick red as blood
not all butts stained by her lips, companion
dames probably a hooker working a john

packed bags, air line ticket to Miami in worn purse
cheap seat, one way trip, tap, tap, tap
one last trick for the road, smiling
one last trick for life, just another night


Scene Of The Crime: Investigation  Part II

second cup of coffee, half eaten lunker on the car seat
miserable drizzle matches the fog within
mornings are not my time, I’m a creature of night
perusing leads of last nights murder, unsolved case

follow up visit to the sleazy motel, worse by day
roust desk clerk for information, withholding ,evasive
name on guest log Mary Smith, obvious alias
what was she hiding, who was she hiding from

checked in alone, butts in ash tray tell different story
10:30 pm disturbance in room 18, scream, loud noise
room 19 called clerk complaining, can’t sleep, stop noise
door open woman on floor, blood , silence, noise stopped

drivers license, name Mary Hurte, appropriate
record check no priors, clean slate
no witnesses, everyone blind and deaf to questions
usual police cooperation, old news

rain now, the slap, slap, slap of wipers 
across town to airport, ticket to Miami, next lead
worn top coat and fedora to feign off  rain
appearance of hobo fresh from a box car

bring out the badge, flash the gold
records are open, passenger manifest checked 
connecting flight to Miami, light load
Mary Hurte 4:45 today, she’ll be late

one other passenger, Tony D’amato, rings bell
back to station to for records check, Tony D’amato
this old cop still has it, fresh on the blotter
fish fresh outta the can, robbery ,extortion

last address unknown, nothings easy
stake out at airport, follow up only lead
4:00 no lunch, grab cold dog and stale coffee at airport
officers staked out, gate 3, scanning for suspect

field of people, similar faces, no value to me
yellow cab stops at cab stand, tension, expectation
exiting large man, grey top coat, black fedora
cigarette hanging from droopy wet lips

bag unloaded, bills thrown to cabbie
suspicious nature, quick glances, stiff posture
suspect in sight, dangerous, hand in pocket
fingers fidgeting relentlessly in pocket, possible gun

approach with caution, big surprise my job
eyes meet, time stops, uncertainty
slide my coat open badge flashes, cold steel shown
suspects hands move, bag dropped, a reach for inside coat 

crowd screams, people run, cops shout
my weapons drawn in a flash, experience pays off
suspect freezes, pressure on my trigger
in gods hands now, not my choice

suspect stops, relief, caution, deceit
slow raise of hands, smiling like an innocent kid
slap to car, frisk, 38 snub nose inside coat, one gold earring in pocket
crisis averted, life goes on, just another day


Scene Of The Crime: Arrest  Part III


slap, slap, slap of the wipers, will this rain ever stop
suspect arrested, bracelets on in backseat, rides too long 
smell of fear, sweat, tension thick with windows up
questions to be asked, lies to unfold, truth torn out 

Name: Tony D’amato
Place of birth: Brooklyn NY
DOB : 1908
Age: 32

this bird has a wrap sheet like a Mozart Symphony
fan club of the N Y P D, career criminal 
regular tenant of the Grey Bar Hotel, jail bird
going to see he doesn’t miss his reunion at Rikers

Evidence: one gold earring, matching  gold earring at crime scene
                  two tickets to Miami bought in his name 
                  one in his possession, one in victims purse
                  one 38 caliber pistol, ballistics match to murder weapon

overwhelming evidence, confession forth coming, reluctance
events are told, same old story different day
small value to big events, wasted effort
anger, passion of the moment, thoughtless actions

Mary’s infidelity while Tony cooled his heals in the slammer
search to escape, changed plans, reluctant partner
anger, hate, vengeance, destruction
Toni’s pride, manhood, battle of wills, murder

tap, tap, tap, print as faded as the worn ribbon
endless information, hard chair
stale coffee burning a hole in my stomach
distracting radio, Stardust, hate Sinatra

another late night, reports, always reports
too many cigarettes, no sleep, bad food, lousy wages
why bother, get a different job, easy life, tap, tap, tap
justice done, case closed, just another night


Robert Gene Stoner Jr
12/6/14 ©


Long poem by Catie Lindsey | Details |

Judgment, Bloody Judgment

When before the throne the Lamb advocated,
For those countless Souls in arbitration,
He reached for the Book without hesitation,
On the altar the Lamb's blood inundated.
God's chosen Lamb being consecrated,
Present at the Earth's foundation,
Then witnessing her mighty cessation,
This Lamb of God now mediated.
For a moment the time seemed to stall,
As blood from the altar spilled to the floor,
Many there were, in search of a door,
But the serpent, on his belly, crawled.
Each Soul stood complacently consigned,
To Hell's fire or Heaven sublime.

To Hell's fire or Heaven sublime,
Every head bowed, every Soul felt speculation,
Be it Heavenly bliss or eternal damnation?
For by righteousness or sins defined,
What was forgotten was in the book to remind.
As time after time, each Soul fell to temptation,
No stone left unturned in this lengthy investigation.
But for the glory of God this moment was designed.
Minions of Souls, of every nationality,
Pale and cold, as dripping sweat insinuates,
The guilt, the shame, the fear that alienates.
Not jot nor tittle removed from prophesy's biblicality.
Sins of darkness were brought to light,
From Hell's fire the demons took flight.

From Hell's fire the demons took flight,
Swooping down low upon the congregation,
As the fire flamed higher in Hell's orchestration,
While Lucifer's laughter offered no respite.
The smoke and the ash suffocated the light,
The sins of the Soul weighed heavy in condemnation,
Then each Soul experienced the evils of segregation.
Isolated, and shamed with immobilizing fright,
Some Souls did faint, their strength grew frail,
When out of the smoke came the Rose of Sharon,
Bound and tied, bloody, whipped, and beaten.
Countless Souls saw plainly where they gained or failed.
Composure denied, though the Soul struggled diligently,
To loose the bonds of sudden accountability.

To loose the bonds of sudden accountability,
Each Soul, a nail in fleshy augmentation,
Slammed into a beam of bloody fermentation.
Throwing stones at a young woman's assailibility,
Convenient doctrines demanding public proclamation,
Heresies and Pharisees in close association.
Each Soul bore the weight of responsibility.
Loud wailing was heard with gnashing of teeth,
While Lucifer's laughter rang out over all these things,
Then more demons took flight, with great and mighty wings,
As a burning sword was loosed from destruction's sheath.
The Lamb opened the Book of Life, judgment to confer,
He called out the first name written, "Lucifer."

He called out the first name written, "Lucifer."
Then an army of Angels appeared in mighty demonstration,
To witness Old Lucifer's final eternal annihilation;
Around the throne sweet incense was implored,
As Lucifer came forth with his minions to proffer,
"Take these," he began, "some of my closest associations,
Take dishonesty, theft, and the greed of the nations."
Then these sins on the altar were offered,
As Lucifer grinned with sheepish beguilement,
The blood of the Lamb arose in hostility,
Covering those sins with absolute capability.
Each Soul experienced honesty and enlightenment.
With the truth now clear for each Soul to discern,
Old Lucifer grew tempered with anger to burn.

Old Lucifer grew tempered with anger to burn.
Displaying murder, lust, and war's devastation,
The blood on the altar covered these evil manifestations.
But within himself, Old Lucifer's patience churned.
As the cosmic wheels of divine justice slowly turned,
Lucifer became enamored with his own amplified palpitations,
Biting the heel of humility, in his moment of greatest tribulation.
"I AM GREATER THAN THOU!" The Lamb, he spurned.
Then an Angel brought forth keys, as the Lamb was inclined,
To protect the Soul from sinful separation,
Due to Old Lucifer's dishonest inclination.
The Lamb held the keys, and to Hell, Lucifer was confined.
Then the Lamb came forward and smashed the Serpent's head.
Now that Old Culprit, Lucifer, was eternally dead.

Now that Old Culprit, Lucifer, was eternally dead,
Received in the end, the Lamb's final summation,
As the Soul was washed clean of sin's sedimentation.
Each sin covered on the altar where the Lamb bled.
Never again would a Soul know sin or experience death,
The Soul felt it's worth as the beloved creation,
Brothers of Christ, in eternal salvation.
Filled with brotherly love, the Soul, felt blessed.
A new Heaven and a new Earth appeared,
Where Eden was restored to it's celestial estate,
Of the Tree of Life each Soul was free to partake,
But having knowledge the law was revered,
Eat not of the Tree in the midst, mandated.
When before the throne the Lamb advocated.


Long poem by J. W. M. Earnings | Details |

The Insane Lane

You healed me…you saved me with a kind, kind heart of sympathy
With well-spoken words (and you deleted the history of my endless rage)
Of empathetic wisdom and positivity…erasing the negativity and rehearsing accord in my mind of past grief and poverty
My tension releases like a billion birds (out of his ribcage)

You dragged me down with bad news…
You had everything to lose…
I had so little to win for…
But, you made me have this bruise
In my heart…you hit me to the core…
With cheerfulness and affection 
In my young, hopeless, genuine heart,
You are my illuminated night – show me some direction!
I was that dim light bulb from the start

Catch me before I fall
To tell you the truth, I have tried to stand tall
And give it my all…just answer my call
My heart is pounding in appall

Pound to the rhythm of my heart x8

Oh, I am going insane
Anxiety and curiosity brewing in my brain

Going insane…
Driving in another dark lane
You were loved
In the bottom of my heart
You were in chains in my heart
I tried to smile bright tonight
I wish you were gone in my life
I tried so hard…to take wing in the light
I wish you the best in life…
I pray for peace to murder the strife

You’re my – 
You’re my sunrise
You are – 
You are the one I prize
I am – 
I am the sunset in your eyes
I am – 
I am the nightfall before your eyes…
I unveil my beauty and I memorize
Every word you utter…
Your words – as smooth as butter 

Catch me before I fall
To tell you the truth, I have tried to stand tall
And give it my all…just answer my call
My heart is pounding in appall

Pound to the rhythm of my heart x8

Oh, I am going insane
Anxiety and curiosity brewing in my brain

And now I’m…
Now I’m…
I can’t say it…
I’m chained to this pit…
Of shame…
Without a name…

Going insane…
Driving in another dark lane
You were loved
In the bottom of my heart
You were in chains in my heart
I tried to smile bright tonight
I wish you were gone in my life
I tried so hard…to take wing in the light
I wish you the best in life…
I pray for peace to murder the strife

I’ve lost the race, 
I haven’t passed the test
But I’ll keep trying (trying)
Though, I’m frankly dying x3 (flying)
I’ll make it up to you, radiant friend of mine
Wipe off the grime from my face…this anger and envy becomes serpentine
To my heart…to my young, once-innocent heart

Pound to the rhythm of my heart x4
I tried to keep pace with the rhythm of my heart
Pound to the rhythm of my heart x4
I’m rolling in the deathcart…into the abyss, I go…take heart, foes that drag me down to the ground heartlessly… vicious night hunts me down like I’m its next prey…I pray x3 my life won’t transform into strife…blooming blasphemy in my young, anguish-whelmed heart 

Catch me before I fall
To tell you the truth, I have tried to stand tall
And give it my all…just answer my call
My heart is pounding in appall

Pound to the rhythm of my heart x8

Oh, I am going insane
Anxiety and curiosity brewing in my brain

And now I’m…
Now I’m…
I can’t say it…
I’m chained to this pit…
Of shame…
Without a name…

Going insane…
Driving in another dark lane
You were loved
In the bottom of my heart
You were in chains in my heart
I tried to smile bright tonight
I wish you were gone in my life
I tried so hard…to take wing in the light
I wish you the best in life…though it slits you like a jagged knife
I tried to search for you with all of my remaining might
I pray for peace to murder the strife…to end this miserable, chaotic life
Death isn’t in this grand land of ours 

Close the corridors of your blue eyes
Tell the truth and sift out the lies
I was black and lonely,
But, now I’m white and carrying with me the attitude of gratitude
I’m wearing an upside down frown of sunlit glee
In my heart…you hit me to the core…
But, you made me have this bruise
I had so much to win for…
You had nothing to lose…
You uplifted me with your good news

Your priceless words gave me ecstatic happiness
Your helping hands brought me out of the abysssssss
I was gravity-bound in the chambers of my mind…I was once numb…and she spit me out like tasteless, gross gum
Can’t help, but wish for God’s kingdom to come x4
You dug deep into my soul of anguish and cheer - thank you kindly for your empathetic words of wisdom


Long poem by Mariya Pinchuk | Details |

A Story of Rape

I am a fifteen year old girl 
Raising two children in a poisonous world 
One is barely learning to crawl and the other
Watches my parents pay the bills with alcohol
I depart like always to buy the usual
Groceries: Apples. Yogurt. Milk. And maybe some hope
To keep going
It was eight in the evening and the stars were shining and grieving 
That was the night I did not make it home
I still remember it clearly

Walking past street lamps, colours of dull pastels 
Shadowing the fear inside of my soul
My fingers gripping the sturdy interfacing fabric of my jacket while I
Outer faced the darkness of what would soon become “Molest Me” street

A lonely leaf slumps beneath my feet, spit out from beneath
The electric gas guzzler controlled by the man with the dusty hat
Warning me of an unfamiliar situation that I did not ever dream 
Of encountering
Suddenly. The daylight is stolen
From my eyes replaced by the lantern of his hatred as he
Closes my consciousness
For a little over thirty seconds

My mind races with the thought of my hungry little girls
Safe and warm in the comfort of a broken home
My arms, tied behind my back as he reaches forward
And boils black marks upon my lips 
I try to spit, to fight, but his grip
Holds me still
And I am a fifteen year old girl
Stronger than most, but not strong at all

If his hand were not suffocating my ability to breathe or to comprehend
I would turn to him and scream
“How dare you place your filthy hand upon my breast
My heart is screaming, fleeing inside of my chest
I am the one with my hand around the gun
And I am not afraid to take one last breath
The one who deserves to live longer would rather be dead”

There is no one around me
I am in another world
And in the morning, when it is all over
An elderly woman walks past me and 
Glares in disgust
Because my bloodshot eyes and ripped apparel
My inability to stand or to move whatsoever
The dirt in my hair and my black and blue skin
Are not a sign of trouble but a sign of stupidity 

I remember myself as this girl, artificial flowers covering the bruises on her throat
She is trapped, captured, a victim of a crime that she did not want a part in
She lies on the ground with stones beneath her breasts and in her throat
She chokes on the blood trickling down her forehead as the man rips out her hair
Her legs have been parted and she refuses to speak
She refuses to listen because all that she hears is whispering
Of the man, he is grunting above her
Threatening to kill her if she utters what happened that night to another
Bruises lace her skin and her heart
Is bursting from within
She cannot take this any longer

Scared to walk at night
Scared to walk when the sun is shining
Underground a man is burning his love, burning like the cement above
He is burning his love into a woman who does not want
To open her heart or her legs for this stranger
He forces her to feel his wrath but
She is innocent
So why must the innocent lose her innocence to a want to-be citizen
She is said to be free in legality
So why is she pinned beneath a man
Does the strength of muscles overpower the strength of morality?

I question the world silently, for no one is there to listen
Why are drug dealers sentenced in jail 
For longer than a rapist
People choose to do drugs, it makes them feel better
I never chose to have these scars choking my skin forever
Drugs last for a day, maybe longer
The after effects of rape, everyday they become stronger
I felt unwanted and useless, more than before
And even if I had gone to court
Society would have dropped the case 
Telling me it was my own damn fault
For wearing too much of what is called revealing
I never once imagined a winter coat and black sweat pants to be so appealing

Justice was not served
Did this happen to me for a reason or am I undeserved
I was never given the chance to move on
While he roams the streets, walking free
I struggle with depression and PTSD 
I could have been beautiful, but where is the beauty in a shattered, scar crossed wrist 
Society scoffs in disgust and tells me to forget already
But how am I supposed to move on
When I had to murder his baby? 


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

The crime is snowed over, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel s Il neige sur le crime

The crime is snowed over, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s  Il neige sur le crime

Are we buried under snow holding our silence
in what immense Cimmerian (collision) of terror ?
The mouth kept open in the shriek of interminable shade 
lips held fast in the frozen depths
we disturb the slumber of the Dead with our yelling
mute – calling Whom, alas ? We howl by the sepulchre
the absence of a name stretching towards a solitary Name : 
but the Voice suppressed down our throat strangles
the liberating Name which could call back on its feet.
The head in the tomb and touching our lips
the lips of these the dead that we shall become tomorrow,
we continue to live in spite of it all but let’s conceal our 
                                                                                     breath
for fear of dispelling the silence gathering around us
for God could oblige us to confront ourselves
and more than the Fear of Him, we are (indeed) afraid.

Fire over the snow
Fire at those still alive
What matters is that blood saturates this land/Earth
Words enough snow down to cover up the blood

It snows over the Shriek of long sighs of absence
the glossy smiles over twisted lips
It snows over wounds of pale hands, capable
of simulated caresses like those of naked tortoises
It snows weighted flakes, the glaring white of the blind
which fill the great orbs the eyes of the dead make
It snows a gentle down of murder on the plains
just as troublesome as the slumber of assassins
The Shriek sans end reaches up to lunar heights
where trees are shorn of their barks : listen
the strident whiteness of vast deserts populated by men
where abandoned stones howl in the face of death.
The Night, the immense snow Pièta of an ebony Christ
looks at the shadow cast by rifles pointing towards her 
                                                                                 dead son
the shadow of murderers projecting over the snow
-- she feels the breath of that Shadow on her feet                                
the horror freezes her over up to the stars ah crying
« Fire » so that at last the salve explodes and downs
these shadows of rifles these over-sized canons
But the tears of this great Death
shall alas get the better of this snow.

     (from the collection : La liberté guide nos pas, 1945)

© T. Wignesan – Paris, September 28, 2014

Note : Pierre Emanuel, b. May 3, 1916, d. September 22, 1984 at Gan in the Basses Pyrénées, was one of the most prolific of XXth Century poets. His corpus also included books of critique and a novel. Rejected by a distraught mother at three weeks, his parents emigrated to the U.S., leaving him to be brought up by a paternal uncle, according to Anne-Sophie Constant who selected and prefaced his Anthologie Poétique, out this year. Upon graduating from the University of Lyon where he studied literature, he taught for some years before heading the English language services at the RTL and writing for Témoignage Chrétien, Réforme and Esprit. President of the French Pen Club (1973-76), he later headed the French National Audio-Visual Institute and the Cultural Affairs Commission of the VIth Plan. Elected to the French Academy of Letters in 1968, he renounced the honour in 1975 in protest at the election of Félicien Marceau. For a time, he also headed the International Association for Cultural Freedom. As a poet, he had already made his mark with his first collections : Elégies (1940) and Tombeau d’Orphée (1941), followed by a steady stream of some forty collections thereafter. Received – among many – the Grand Prize for Poetry of the French Academy in 1984. A-S. Constant quotes from two interviews on his inveterate independence : « Je ne me sens pas la vocation d’un maître, et je ne veux aucun disciple. » and « Je suis un poète et un chrétien. »
                                            T. Wignesan


Long poem by Gail Angel Doyle | Details |

The Dark Legend Of Haunted Road

The Dark Legend Of Haunted Road


There are roads that seem inviting in the light of day
Only to cast its eerie shadows when the sun begins to go down
Engraving a revealing legend after the darkness has given way
To the blood curdling horror that once terrorized an innocent town

The legend says that years ago a terrible event took place 
When a patient known to be psychopathic escaped the institution 
The doctors notified the police who immediately gave chase 
Though disappointed they became after finding no resolution

On one Halloween night, screams of murder were heard by Haunted Road 
Now, no one ever dares to enter those woods where the tragedies took place 
Some have sworn that they still hear the screams within suffering echoes
Still see the trail of blood stained puddles that mark his evil trace

 It is here that he and his victims spirits may forever hide 
Where voices of the dead lead to a darkened cabin in the woods 
They cannot escape the horror of the way in which they died 
Only the brave hearted would dare to go where this cabin stood

A few trick o treaters decided to dare themselves to enter Haunted Road
They convinced themselves that this would end up being just a thrill
Little did they know that evil was waiting for them when they chose to go
The ghost of the psychopath, eager to commit his next kill 

They walked along slowly, barely breathing, and listening to the sound 
Of another pair of feet behind them, dragging heavily on the pavement 
All the kids stopped with their hearts pounding, only to see nothing around 
Just the moonlight, a howling wind, and scattered leaves, twisted and bent

A dense fog soon began to fill the air, giving them more of an eerie feel
Still, they proceeded to walk to where they planned to be
An old run down cabin slowly came into focus, reminding them that the legend is real
It was then they decided to turn back around quickly

Standing behind them was the killer's ghost, grinning from ear to ear 
His red glowing eyes could not hide his psychotic, bloody thirst, 
The trick or treaters ran to the cabin, thinking, it's time to face our fear, 
As they approached the door, one said, "okay, now you go first"

One by one the trick or treaters tried quietly to lead the way with regret
Though their footsteps creaked the floor boards of the old wooden floor
It began to thunder and lightening showing the theme in silhouette 
Then all of a sudden they heard the slamming of the cabin door

It was locked, there was no escape, they were trapped for certain 
In this abandoned place where the victim's bodies were stored 
Then near the corner something stirred like a blowing white curtain 
Their eyes grew wide with terror, this occurrence couldn't be ignored

Out from the darkened shadows he came into sight
His eyes glowing red, his breath smelled of death
Suddenly, he grabbed hold of one of the trick or treaters that night
While the other tried to break free, out of breath

The cabin door was broken open, they ran through, and heard a scream 
From the captured boy in evil's clutches, with his costume now torn 
The others were relieved to finally find a way out of this bad dream 
They were too afraid to help their friend, and a new legend was born

The two trick or treaters were shaking in their warm beds
Traumatized about the horror they faced from a dark legend
They couldn’t believe that one of their friends was actually dead
Left them both wondering if this is really the end

They yawned, and tried to get up, but their hands were tied 
Still in the cabin, they had not escaped this living nightmare 
As the killer came closer and closer, the young kids just cried 
Knowing that their lives would be ended right then and there. 



By Kelly Deschler and Gail Angel Doyle



Long poem by Kelly Deschler | Details |

The Dark Legend Of Haunted Road

There are roads that seem inviting in the light of day
Only to cast its eerie shadows when the sun begins to go down
Engraving a revealing legend after the darkness has given way
To the blood curdling horror that once terrorized an innocent town

The legend says that years ago a terrible event took place
When a patient known to be psychopathic escaped the institution
The doctors notified the police who immediately gave chase
Though disappointed they became after finding no resolution

On one Halloween night, screams of murder were heard by Haunted Road
Now, no one ever dares to enter those woods where the tragedies took place
Some have sworn that they still hear the screams within suffering echoes
Still see the trail of blood stained puddles that mark his evil trace

It is here that he and his victim's spirits may forever hide
Where voices of the dead lead you to a darkened cabin in the woods
They cannot escape the horror of the way in which they died
Only the brave hearted would dare to go where this cabin stood

A few trick or treaters decided to dare themselves to enter Haunted Road
They convinced themselves that this would end up being just a thrill
Little did they know that evil was waiting for them when they chose to go
The ghost of the psychopath, eager to commit his next kill

They walked along slowly, barely breathing, and listening to the sound
Of another pair of feet behind them, dragging heavily on the pavement
All the kids stopped with their hearts pounding, only to see nothing around
Just the moonlight, a howling wind, and scattered leaves, twisted and bent

A dense fog soon began to fill the air, giving them more of an eerie feel
Still, they proceeded to walk to where they planned to be
A run down cabin slowly came into focus, reminding them that the legend is real
It was then they decided to turn back around quickly

Standing behind them was the killer's ghost, grinning from ear to ear
His red glowing eyes could not hide his psychotic, bloody thirst
The trick or treaters ran to the cabin, thinking, it's time to face our fear
As they approached the door, one said, "okay, now you go first"

One by one the trick or treaters tried quietly to lead the way with regret
Though their footsteps creaked the floor boards of the old wooden floor
It began to thunder and lightning showing the theme in silhouette
Then all of a sudden they heard the slamming of the cabin door

It was locked, there was no escape, they were trapped for certain
In this abandoned place where the victim's bodies were stored
Then near the corner something stirred like a blowing white curtain
Their eyes grew wide with terror, this occurrence couldn't be ignored

Out from the darkened shadows he came into sight
His eyes glowing red, his breath smelled of death
Suddenly, he grabbed hold of one of the trick or treaters that night
While the others tried to break free, out of breath

The cabin door was broken open, they ran through, and heard a scream
From the captured boy in evil's clutches, with his costume now torn
The others were relieved to finally find a way out of this bad dream
They were too afraid to help their friend, and a new legend was born

The two trick or treaters were shaking in their warm beds
Traumatized about the horror they faced from a dark legend
They couldn't believe that one of their friends was actually dead
Left them both wondering if this is really the end

They yawned, and tried to get up, but their hands were tied
Still in the cabin, they had not escaped this living nightmare
As the killer came closer and closer, the young kids just cried
Knowing that their lives would be ended right then and there





Written by: Gail Angel Doyle & Kelly Deschler






Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

THE SHINING

The old Overlook Hotel has a tradition of sin and devilment,
souvenirs of the rich. Lovely, yes, but its vista is farseeing,
its death grip far-reaching, and certain rooms stay secretive.
A caretaker axed his pretty daughters, now two changelings 
prowl the opulent halls, somberly stare. Stale air is redolent
with slaughter. Something malevolent welcomes strangers.

Jack Torance, writer, is hired to loosen winter’s stranglehold 
on the isolated, closed resort. Jack’s gifted son, Danny, reviles
his disturbing visions and he quakes at bloodbath predictions.
Wendy, Jack’s loyal wife, fights for family, for their welfare
Jack hurt Danny but is now sober. Promises were exchanged.
Kind Mr. Halloran, the chef, sits with the boy and secretly

tells him of the shining, how some detect the sorrow-secretions
of those departed, how the dead replay roles in the strangest
ways. Avoid room 237, he warns, what is there won’t change.
Danny pedals his big wheels fast down the halls of the devil
as his father somehow disappears, going faster and farther 
than the river of blood only the boy sees, a flood of deep red.

Jack is cruel, unstable, and he frightens Wendy. With dread,
she reads his meaty manuscript, horrified by a revealed secret,
knowing they are miles from help, Oh, dear God, they are so far
from civilization and Jack has retyped duplicate words, strangely,
page after unhinged page. Jack returns, says things that are so evil
that she strikes him with a bat, shocked by this psychotic change.

Wendy drags him into the pantry, locks it, praying he’ll change
back. She rests, but Danny screams and he has scrawled REDRUM 
on the door. The mirror deciphers the word, MURDER, as evil
arrives withan ax. What awful things the heart can keep secret,
He has sabotaged the Snowcat; they are powerless and stranded.
Wendy helps Danny escape through a small window, run far,

she weeps as Jack makes kindling of brittle wood, a plot farfetched 
yet one she must face. The mouse she has been for years changes
and she stabs his hand. Heaven knows, the soul is omnifarious,
Halloran comes, Jack leaves to plant the ax, a hero’s chest blooms red.
Danny watches what is left of his father die, cries out from his secret
hiding place, a chase ensues in a frozen maze; good outlives evil.


        So beware all wayfarers, avoid that next interchange
        for secrets fly in the dead of night, traveling the red-eye
        and evil can call home the lost, the touched and the very strange. 







*This is the a very contemporary sestina. It follows a free verse format with plenty of enjambment. The six end words are manipulated to such a point that the 'core' word is  often barely recognizable. 

I decided to challenge myself, show a sweet poet here that a sestina is only as dull as a scribe ALLOWS it to be, that we can stretch the limits of a form, retain most of its nerve system, but give it as much muscle as we wish! Another lovely poet here said to me recently, we write outside the box because there is NO box! 

I like to keep the box. The box is useful. It's a base. I cut windows in it. I paint the box and add a door. I put things I like in the box. I can happily sit in the box and dream or leave the box whenever I choose because it is MY box. The box is not a bad thing, but it IS only a thing...

I will be posting a blog about contemporary sestinas and the development of this one.

So, this is not the best poem I've ever written. LOL. It is actually a B MOVIE. But, I do think that I at least have written a sestina that is not boring and overly-repetitive! 

Hugs to you, Andrea... so, you likey? Or not so likey?

:D 



Long Poems