Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.148.162.188
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
The old sorcerer was teaching his apprentice a lesson about the moon, but as usual the subject drifted, this time, to witches. “How would I know a witch if I saw one?” The apprentice asked.

“It’s not easy,” the old man began, scratching his beard. “There are three possible ways to spot a succubus who wishes to remain unknown—they’re quite different than the rest of us.” The old man began filling his pipe. “They draw great power from water, you know (the apprentice didn’t know). An enchantress with one foot in a stream could hold off an army—for days.” A spark popped from the pipe scarring the old man’s robe, but he healed it with a twitch of his ring finger.

“Then all armies should have witches!” the boy announced.
“They’d’ never get involved in a war,” the old necromancer chortled scornfully, before resuming the lesson.

“Witches have eyes black and whiteless under a moon full—those are easily hidden.” He waved his hand dismissively, then he recited: “In moonlight’s grace, a witches face will glow with a cold granite cast.” He smiled like a child, adding “You’d throw up if you heard one laugh, and grow weak if you cross one’s path.” He became sidetracked and began fumbling with a pile of stacked books.

You said three ways,” the apprentice reminded him, “the moonlight glow,” he said, raising a thumb, “the eyes that black show,” he added his pointer finger to indicate two, “what else?”

“Hmm, let’s see,” the sorcerer cleared his throat, “they don’t all wear black, or have crooked backs, but they smell sweet, like mixed calendula and eucalyptus.” He fished around a collection of herb jars, drawing out two. “Here, smell these, together, and don’t forget them. As the apprentice inhaled the sweet combination, the old sorcerer continued. “Of course, once you smell a witch, you’re in a world of adversity—if she wants you.”

“Oh, yes.” he said, as if jolted by memory. “Witches love unnatural things, like drinking venomous hemlock. So never kiss a beautiful witch, for those dark lips are moistened with poison.” He chuckled to himself “Learned that verse as a boy.”

“A witch would kill us then?” the youngster asked, wide eyed.

“No, no, no!” The old man waved that idea away like a fly, “If a witch kills someone, they experience an ecstasy so intense, it’s debilitating. Then they’d be easy prey for other hags who want their secrets.” He raised a finger which he shook, “But they could blind us, cripple us, bind us, make us forget ourselves or turn us into toads.” He laughed himself into a coughing fit. “That happened to me once,” he confided, chagrined, “but spells wear off.”

“Are witches more powerful than sorcerers?”
“Well yes, and no,” he said, his look seeming to focus on some faraway point. “A witch and a wizard are a fair match but if witches form a coven of eight, they’re unbeatable, really.”
"Though they'd be as likely to kill each other as anything else," he added.

Absorbed in their lessons, time had gotten away from them. Robins, thrushes and dunnocks, from hidden perches, began their "evening chorus," owls and nightjars began sounding their sunset warnings and cricket, katydids, and cicadas sounds became prominent. It was time to hang the wards, light the candles and spread the garlic.
“Hurry, boy,” the old man encouraged as he began to twirl and chant.
“Rest oh, spirits, there are no evil-ones here, no souls close to death and no sweet blood to taste.. rest restless Jinns, wander elsewhere this peaceful night..”
.
.
Songs for this:
Abracadabra by Steve Miller Band
Abracadabra by Lady Gaga
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required