Best Covens Poems
there once was an old witch whose pies
were unique in flavor and size
she delighted her covens
when she opened her ovens
with dozens of old crusty guys.
In the dead of night veils uplift on Mid Summer's Eve,
still a time for a few live sacrifices, so tread warily.
A time when briefly the gates of hell can open
and unworldly things spew forth intent on evil.
Mid Summer Night dreams can come to pass
most oft to those who's hearts are true and pure.
A night of extremes, of evil versus good, and
of the fires of covens and black magic.
A night where Pan himself comes forth
playing his Pipes with gleeful skirls.
Tempting and enticing the unwary souls
with false promises and exciting dreams.
Goddesses of Light dance around in circles
their task to push back the evils of hell
to allow departed lovers to hold their beloved
for a fleeting moment to love once more.
Trouble, trouble stirs the wind
ghastly ghosts rise and ascend
warty toads croak
vile spells are spoke
witches’ covens evil intend
Burbling, gurgling cauldron hot
with purple vein, red blood clot
virgins hopeful eyes
fear and dread belies
throw them in and stir the pot
Screeching, screaming banshee songs
garish ghouls with pointy prongs
mulish mummies
reeking rummies
to evil spirits the night belongs
Trembling, tremoring witches fear
townsfolk are coming too near
sticks and stones
fire bemoans
the end becoming too clear
Freaking, shrieking their cry drums
slicing the air with its thrums
unwilling to face
they cut to the chase
quickly flee to save their bums
Retro thrusters, smokey hot,
Thunder in the dim of night.
Sprouting things all green and broke,
Mutant brains are taking flight.
Mole like beasts with huge blind eyes
Push and pour from glowing holes.
Corpses scream with undead cries.
Gelatinous blobs expand with souls.
Bodies flail in polka-dot bikinis
While death rays rip through flesh and bone.
Heady cyborgs sip oily martinis
With metallic olives that chirp and groan.
Curious apparitions haunt vampiric covens
Of werewolves and werecats without revulsions.
Scientists (most mad) create life in lab ovens
In the midst of their monstrous id compulsions.
But the worst and most horrific to face
Are those poetry spouting people beaters,
Cannibalistic abominations from outer space:
The shunned and reviled Purple People Eaters.
It was May Day and Beltane was the time
Druid Arwn with flowing mane his Grove did call
With upraised arms he did chant in ancient rime
The Sun God ascendeth, but the Solstice marketh his fall!
The 21 of Jun, Alban Hefin will be in the heavens
And crown him we will at his highest peak.
So go forth my orders of Incantations and covens
And hollyhock, and mandrake, and oaken mistletoe seek.
Cut down these herbs as Tanith rides on high
With sickle of gold as you mount on white bulls
Destined at Solstice to bleed and to die
At the moment holy Henge with Sol's light fulls
So gather we will on the 20th of Jun
At the dale of the Henge at the rise of the Moon
To the centre of the circle we'll go up the ramp
We'll set up a pentagram and there we will camp.
As the Heel bathes in glory with the rays of the sun
We'll offer our bulls to the Lord of the Day
Send up our chants and surely have fun
And prepare for Alban Arthan - Lord of the Fey.
~25 May 2016~
Earth around me felt the lightning
Trees trembled, their new leaves bravely hanging on
Wildflowers, innocence awaked in beauty
Shined their light in gratitide
Ground mice, dodging the strike
Sought warmth in familiar covens
My hand, my own hand, part of the earth
Stroked the grasses within reach
The air filled my nostrils with a sense of humid calm
Far more peaceful than any law, manmade
Far more peaceful
Than any law
...Manmade
03/22/13
Summer Solstice
Abundance of fruits on summers days
How grateful are we for the sun’s rays
And at Solstice, the height of thanksgiving
Because The Earth we eat sweet melons
The highest northern point on it shines
The zenith point of celebration, god dines
In joy and happiness and praise.
As my ancestors taught about days
Connected to sun, moon and our planet’s life
In bonfires, we observing power and might
Recognizing that all are related to the light
That on June 21st, the longest day
We lift the wine with hands that pray
Honoring our forefathers of covens riches
Druids and Wiccan, warlocks and witches
Tribes of pagans and lonely mystics
Celebrate abundance and births of pagans
Giving thanks where and when god is forgotten
5/24/2016
His seductive glow,
calls them without measure.
Covens of witches
must dance for his pleasure.
10/15/2015
Contest: Halloween Moon
Sponsor: Eve Roper
COPYWRITE 2014
MaryAnn Buchanan
OCTOBER SUNSET
We love the dying light;
The sudden nature of the golden day.
Then watch the weightless clouds
Cover covens of moody hills,
Startup burning colors and
Stalk the trees to smolder
Under a slow burn that glows
Tints and frames designer eyes.
Behold!
Watch it tuck its red heart
Into the cold ground.
We have to accept every religion with respect and open arms.
It seem like we are here to eat, make good and then to die;
Getting hate, fighting wars over religious made covens:
We stand far from seeing love, peace or acceptance;
If we can’t live up to appreciate others for whom they are;
Where then do we go?
POETS ARE POOR
Omawumi birthed venom yesterday
She won't marry me again because
I am a poet, she said poets are poor
Is my pen not worthy to buy her make up?
If poetry gives no money I will still be one.
When the arrow of folly is carved
Wisdom back off to the gallaxy of stars
Poetry can't be broken easily like sticks
Poets live beyond the rivers of warlords
Poverty is not in the secret of lexicon of poets.
Mother sent me out of the house
Because I told her I want to be a poet,
She cursed my generation to come
Then wrote a note to my future never
to favour me in my desperate journey.
When the eyes of stupidity is begotten,
When the mouth stand taller than the nose,
When the scent of a madman becomes pleasant,
Check the nose that picks the aroma well
Poets are the million airplanes in the sky.
"Poets are poor" my teacher screamed at me
"Can't you be a doctor or lawyer than a poet?
You will sing without song in your mouth soon,
There won't be bread on your table to eat
And you will measure yam before you eat it"
Let the perceptive of a saint be kept,
Musical artistes are not idols to worship
I can also be praised in my own corner
Please your eyes with your sinful thought
Poets are the lust in the eyes of the saints.
"How many houses do Wole Soyinka have?
How much does Chinua Achebe have?
You will just die and perish without worth,
Nothing but a bitter tears and sorrowful blood"
My sister barked at me this morning!
It is not my tale to tell of a house and money!
Not my business to know those in their covens
All fingers are not the same as all men are not
My tomorrow have been written favourably,
I only water it through the idea of the gods.
"Go get a life, poets are sick with words!
Poets are poor! Poetry is no treasure to keep
Go and join Ekene in his business at Onitsha
That would keep bread on your table not poetry"
Father buttered my ears last breeding night.
What is my business with business
Poetry will keep food on my table soon
Poor poets are not my cup of tea to drink
Everyone have a different mindset and vision
Soon, poetry will be commercialized and we earn
Much more than Dangote and Mike Adenuga.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
Wicked hexing creatures
Wagging their evil tongues
while casting ancient spells
Wart faced old hags. Women
who recite sorcery,
with newt eyes in cauldrons
Wretches grouped in covens
Lame sunrises and midday sunsets
Fangs in words and perils in laughters
Sweet archs of smiling fires and silky shouts in talking forests
I come from the bitter of cobstones paved down the coalfield
Broken lutes and snoring cork oaks
Freckles of lipstick and suckles of martinis
A bosom of pounds, a pavilion of dangling beryls and a breech of honeycombs
I come from the lust of the chaste lass
White moths and black mushrooms
Coffins of treasures amid covens of night mayors
Whispers of thunders and creaks of ant-steps
I come from the stones in the chicken's gizzard
Shards of fate and vials of morphine
Ponds of rheum and fogs of cold incense
A stew of scimitars, a brandise of stone and the heathenry of whitesmiths
I come from the furs in the abattoir
Sonnets in pools of ink and grace in quills of peacocks
Sequels of black weresheep and bugles of lean shepards
A wit of one accord and a grit of a myriad taut
I come from furnace that boils the molten poetry soup
All Hallow's Eve
A new year,
A new cycle.
Time to prepare.
Gather the crops.
Children Beware.
Ghosts and Goblins
And Faeries alike,
Will give you a scare
On Halloween night.
The blood moon is rising
Colossal and blazing.
Giving light to the covens
Gathered for praising.
So all who are frightened,
Afraid, suspicious,
Unenlightened,
Stay inside your home.
On All Hallow's Eve
The witches will roam.
Bubbling babbling burbling banter from the bar..
Sup hush….memory lane trip...Proustian rush..pleasingly tickled.
Plushly ebbed…spidery beer swirls webbed…lace whirls..grace dimpled dappled jar..
Perch...parched pagans besmirch..sip...druid fluid drip..Iris’s secular church..
Venerate yesteryear dips…commemorate Faustian fillips....teasingly pickled..
Smug treacle toned thatch rugs hugs sturdy slabs.. shrugs..
Tugs tussling tree torn trusses and trestles....
Trumpets tradition.. crisp crumpets in flames..sedition flickering..
Like sassy strumpets calling each other names…playfully bickering..
Remember the surreal cast….gayfully ethereal echoes..
Beacons blush in the embers of the past..
Classy pubs dripping with polished pewter.. parochial paraphernalia…ballsy brass...
Crepuscular charms. splinters splicing smokey shadows..
Wafting whispers.. across tobacco tinted tainted times..
Whistles whetted..quaffing…quenching ...cavorting with crannies..
Carousing with nooks naked in timber flannelled panels..
Canoodling on fecund bulbous bales farm foraged.. freshly fashioned...
Flirtatious follicle flicks....gurgling guffaws, raffish rascals' whisky whimsy..
Courting curious covens..sporting prosecco cackle cacophonies.
As sons become dad..in turn perched with their lad..
Lady lawyer betwixt a pimpled tyro…local employer, bumpkin on the giro..
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors..
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before..
That without impunity the nub of a pub..
The bar.. a community hubbub hub..
Gracious Landladies…loquacious Landlords..
Sagacious stars...near and far..
We raise our jar.
For our home from home..
A public house..
Ta..