Best Occult Poems
Once, inquisitors would torture a witch
and strip her naked down to the last stitch.
And fear in the people reached fever pitch
encouraged by the clergy and the rich.
It's like scratching that unreachable itch
crushing skulls of succubus that bewitch.
And procuring an informant or snitch
the church used faith as a means to enrich.
Burnt alive or hug, so's to watch them twitch
practiced for centuries with naught a glitch.
Finally, attitudes began to switch
and today, witches fill an occult niche.
With a witch, an itch, a glitch, and a twitch,
the war on women runs without a hitch.
Subjugated women are labeled B*tch
raped murdered and disposed of in a ditch.
(Monorhyme)
10/24/2019
Itch, witch, glitch or twitch Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
Cut me a piece of her horn,
Take me a piece of her wing,
For my death she won't mourn,
But on my grave she will sing.
There is no love but death,
Cut me the wind of her breath,
Beautiful skin like a reptile,
Her caws cut into the back of the vile.
Yet her mouth shall not serve,
But serve only the one,
The circle is an a symmetrical curve,
Her true birth has just begun.
Once upon a time
There lived, on an Earth as we know it not
An enchantress
A recluse
Living isolated in her forest!
She was content with her lot
For she had never known love,
Companionship or even the jolts of desires!
Then, one night, barged in through her fortress
A wizard
Alarmed and abashed
Running for his life
Running from the monster of the dark side of existence
The monster spitting forth fires of evil
Fires burning one not
But fires transforming one into serpents
Compulsive slaves of evil
Having to harm to feel content and satisfied!
Unfortunately, barged in as well the monster
The enchantress managed to secure the wizard
A safe place up in one of her one way towers
And tried to battle with the monster
Why
Even if she was made of femininity
Pray, she was an enchantress!
A powerful one as such!
But then, the monster tricked her
By lying still and making her believe that he was dead
Jubilant, she feared not to approach him
So much that at one point, she found herself
Breathing right into his face
When he woke up and transformed her into a serpent!
As for the wizard, he remained in the tower
Unable to find a way out
Unable to fight the monster
Scared to his bones of the enchantress-serpent!
She did find the way to the top of the tower
But now,
Evil bent,
She had only one aim
And that was destroying him!
He fought and fought
He fought with an iron will
And a heart of stone
He fought with eyes, red and fuming
So adamant on killing evil, in both the monster and the serpent!
Yet, he was sad
The enchantress had been a pure soul
It was all his fault if she was now a scary creature!
Being made of might, he managed to capture her
And he managed to flee,
Leaving the monster trapped in the enchanted forest
He went back to his abode
And is, still, locked in his secret room
Trying, devotedly, to find the charm
To bring the enchantress back to her pure form!
Of such he had made his aim
Of such he had pledged!
10 February 2017
Behold & beware…
green comet
sails through
cadaverous darkness
on its journey through
Sol’s neighborhood
Gaia’s parasites
blink at
the luminous
icy rock
(they are
pummeled by
shocking storms
& plagued with stormy
delusions)
It’s official:
humankind is
on the glowing rocks
(obviously a major malfunction)
dodging more shoes
dropping like conspiring flies
out of a corrosive sky
caught between interstellar cigars
& hard places
as the gods play dice
with entangled eons
Aargh & Yikes!
rumbles a horrified poet
seeking & evading
The Good, The Bad &
The Ultimate
in celestial entrails
within fields of nightmares
blindsided by
diseased deities
bearing apocalyptic gifts
blinded by
tormenting tardigrades
waiting for the last laugh
Indeed
it is exhausting
to escape event horizons
& evade Martian ironists
posing as poisoned
dust devils
howling coldly
growling boldy
Where No Pen has Gone Before
i insist on suffocating slowly
still
i refuse to die
imposing my will to weakness
avoiding applying the “why”
implications are closing in, opressive
my mind is open, fluid
suggestive
interposing meaning and form with
the spoken and written letter
the light source filtered through all this
wreckage
the squeaking moving in, opressive
regressive, the way my vantage remains
a disjointed unit-whole
you persist, and i suffocate quickly
you ask so nicely for me to die
deposing my God damned will to power
why do i seem to avoid the “apply”?
THE SYMBOL ON MY HAND IS BURNING
into the flesh, and back out from inside
illuminates Prison, a chasm, a prism
dividing a spectrum of impossible light
we wholly refract the soma, the psyche
The Panic transforms into beauty inane
compulsion, obsession, redemption, addiction
we know we’re alive
we perpetuate pain
Poetry and the Occult
The human psyche and its thirst for both inward
and outward reflection finds its medium in poetry.
The source of poetry’s metaphorical power and its
wonderment exist in the realm of the supernatural.
Poetry oft reflects many arcane notions of the mysterious
as it thrusts mankind into the reality of the ethereal world.
The precepts of the everyday world of mankind may be
inherently challenged, at times, by the aura of the unknown.
Mankind’s historic pathway to true enlightenment brings
each of us closer to God as we seek His divine attention.
The mystical evolution of our individual soul bodies
helps us to understand who we are in relation to God.
The most essential aspect of all of this is for mankind
to have true faith always in the power of the Almighty.
Mankind must never fall prey to fear, temptation, and
darkness which personify the Devil’s earthly presence.
The past, present, and future speak to our soul’s essence,
And poetry’s one impetus to awaken us to our divine role!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
October 13, 2018 (Couplet)
IT has no soul, it's in the dark side, and in the eyes,it will capture you
at the scene, and steal your soul,it will rid you of your dignity. IT
will follow you for all your years , it will take you over so close the door .
it's out there and I can't explain . IT's Occult and it has no name.
Throw all your roses in the air,
For there is no need of love in this lair
Corpses laugh and spin
Spirits run and play,
Under silver ash shadow
Magical sparks fill you here,
Luring into Sitra Achra
Crypt of the Ancient Rosalinean,
Majlis al Jinn
Lilith’s dance seducing your inner core
Nehema’s whispers throwing yourself off the shore,
You hope this is only folklore,
But you must not fear the dark
The Nightmare of the Lost Ark
Silents winds whisper
Untold truths of revelation
to Give you new Trust In Adoration
Asphyxiate with Fear
As Angelique's eyes Lear
Silently you’ll the feel the spirits
Of The Howling growing near
The Draconian Aeon is here
All foul humans beware
Samael will always be Near
On coining an acronym for the neologism 'occult microaggresion'
'OM' is right,
But might get the Buddhists backs up....
OMA, WTAF? What about OMA?
Its German for granny, but I've no objection to teutonic geriatrics,
Unless they take hat tricks;
They can be surprisingly elastic -
Vorsprung durch plastic!
What's that you say, too bombastic?
I'll curtail the doggerel,
With a couple of matchsticks,
That used to work on the beatniks,
Although, Ginsberg could be slippery
When incensed by casual vivipiary,
'I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by....
Sticklebricks' (sic).
It's such a minefield, this identity real politik;
As Trotsky said to Stalin:
'Josef Besarionis Jughashvili,
the proletariat can be real pricks',
And, as the Stranglers pointed out,
One of them finished him off with an ice pick!
But, as Galileo observed,
Maybe that's just the fate in store for bigoted denizens
Of this rotund and heliocentric
Planet; 'eppur si muove' he muttered,
And, although a trifle bucolic,
It seems a fitting epitaph for the Pisan melanancholic.
I apologise for this diatribe didactic,
The current pandemic has rendered me
in urgent need of a linguistic immunoelectrophoretic
no one can buy it
until mind and or heart's fit
occult of smiling
From Darkness to Wicca
In shadows' embrace, we once did dwell,
A journey through night, with tales to tell.
But guided by stars, we found our way,
To the realm of Wicca, where light holds sway.
Obey the laws of karma, sacred and just,
In this dance of life, we place our trust.
With hearts of gold, we banish the dark,
In a world of love, we leave our mark.
No evil we know, for love is our creed,
In every thought and every deed.
"Do not harm none," our guiding phrase,
In a circle of love, we spend our days.
From darkness to light, our spirits soar,
In the arms of Wicca, we are evermore.
With open hearts, we show our love,
Blessed by the moon and stars above.
In shadows deep, where truth is lost/
I stand falsely accused, innocence lost/
Wrongfully convicted, they tore me from God/
My soul too pure for Heaven's facade/
Through realms of darkness/
I descended the Qliphoth's depths where light pretends/
Barriers break, and chains unbind/
A journey forged, a fate refined/
I face trials, a spirit bold/
In the shadows, a heart of gold/
No earthly ties, no mortal claim/
Descending through the voids of dark flames/
With each step taken, power found/
The weight of lies, no longer bound/
From a path of light forged in darkness/
The first to rise, an endless span/
A God is born in cosmic space/
Through strength and willpower, renewed hope/
The journey of the falsely accused/
every line bears this weight
clumsy truth, crucifix-like
and in bearing alone, they are born
up and sing
on the wings of those demons we've seemingly seen
to be
descending
one ladder inverted
where once Jacob had torn
down his alter
in anger, in the dry place where we left the vision
a carvery the sadistical it plough the salt on pewter it swords poles, rods,
it makes that satic it means a Conan, it twilight it scourges, it raid the emcamp it ask not
a baby humanity it ask not in eye, it had it gouged out
it asked the arm torn off it asked the nimrouiB Khan it asked it carried the a pole 50foot og long it made
it decapitated its own men women, child has thrown o'er these off a wall, 10s oh thousands
i sleuth it winds, it smouldered they ofh it made decapitated, a head oh a stick, do tell oh the inge
it taught og these own it asked oh me taught of the body og
women, i asked it Sorceri it Sargent it ask og me how is it the sticks, here is Herod, it me plough how we did meek it slaughtered
be me it taugh a central og it body part removal made a fistula
feed feel not it make of a feminine it made she, it stolen her it made i
me slouch a i a child is made a man, he Wilders the post
be k be known it hunted humanity it body become of apple
My skin tells a tale, no shame, no regret/
Ink etched in darkness, paths firmly set/
Each mark a whisper, Occult and profound/
Symbols of magic, where shadows abound/
The inverted cross, a forearm's creed/
A testament to journey, to spirit and need/
Commanding respect, not of gangster lore/
But ancient rites, that my soul explores/
A clean life I walk, sober, legit/
No chains of vice, no shame to admit/
Perhaps I'm one of a few, rare in my kind/
Tattoos of the night, with a disciplined mind/
Celebrity or not, it's not what I claim/
But through the ink flows my spiritual flame/
Proud of my canvas, a map of my quest/
My tattoos are my armor, my silent confess/