They called us witches to keep us silent,
our words curling in smoke. They held
our heads under water, tied feet to a stake;
judged those without children or mark upon
skin. They accused us of misleading children,
that poor crops were due to our sin. Crone and
whore, bossy and loud; battle-axe and tart,
frigid and shrew. They called us witches to cover
our screams, they called us witches to hide
our power. They called us witches to spread myth,
they called us witches to dispel our magic. Strong
and independent, courageous and true; brave and
united, nurturer and proud. They call us witches?
A name begets importance. We call them, nothing.
**bawdy warning
----------------------------------------------
there was a scotsman called jock,
who lived near the village loch,
met a fair haired lassie,
whose walk is so classy,
but talks like a crowing cock.
jock was hoping for some sweet romance,
so took this lass to the sat`dee dance,
thought she was dainty and french,
but grabbed him in a tight clench,
now, he wanted much more than a dance.
dropping her silk knickers to her feet,
this girl was not overly discrete,
turning jocks cheeks rosy red,
she acted like they were wed,
when giving all her sweet lovely treats.
In the night when all was still
I felt my spine a tingling chill
Goosebumps 'tween thy rising hairs
When I saw a ghostly figure on my stairs
My eyes not blinked when we stood froze
That tingling chill crept to my toes
I thought, "Dear lord- is that my brother?"
And then, I heard a whisper from my mother
Son, your brother and I are in God's home
Where all the good souls go and are free to roam
Your aunts and uncles are all here too
And many friends that you once knew
Friends you've known throughout your years
That said good-bye and you shed tears
Don't look down, lift up your head
Things aren't too bad when we are dead
Our souls are free and full of bliss
In this place we're at, called... "Happiness"
*Dedicated to everyone.
Epiphany Poetry Contest. Sponsored by: Constance La France
By Poet: "Words are very cheap. Actions are worth their weight in gold. Look for actions, Not words."
I have a great friend,
she tells the truth and will never bend.
We love going out,
shopping and eating makes for a magical day.
I help her then she helps me,
that is the way friendship should be.
She called me sister,
what an honor that was.
Then one very sad day,
I had an epiphany.
She was filled with lies,
I had been deceived.
The overachiever in me wishes I were born a man.
For some doors would open
without needing me to force them.
I could do as I pleased
without being asked,
"How do you expect to marry if you act like that?"
I would be reckless,
and they'd laugh,
"Boys will be boys."
But the empath in me
is grateful I was born a woman.
For society raises too many men
to mistake silence for strength,
to wound without remorse,
or to witness cruelty
and call it "not my problem."
And my heart
could never learn
to carry that.
So I will soar,
higher than every ceiling
they built for me.
And I will be proud
to call myself a woman.
For it is no small feat.
There once was a dog called Rover
Who used to dance the bossa nova
The other dogs would stare
But he didn’t care
He had the most rhythmic rollover.
His squeeze was an Afghan hound
Who used to play around
With a feisty Jack Russell
Who had lots of muscle
And put Rover six feet underground.
Fair lady, look down, see me in this hole,
beaten by a creature to be dreaded,
this ill-made, unsightly, disfigured, troll,
conquered by a monster many-headed.
The moment mother screamed and I was born,
the beast's heads stared upon me filled with hate.
I pared an ugly one that was called scorn,
and left home when I could to meet my fate.
Looming precariously from above,
the brute left me here in my final hour,
delivering dire blows - first pain, then love.
Dear lady, please place a futile flower
as I bid farewell to the woe and strife,
and the monster, now dead, but once called life.
There's a sick little man named Musk
Whose words we should mistrust
Sowing division
Is his life's mission
I hope one day he goes bust.
Said Elon to the reporter
Little children I do not slaughter
My boss has a need
So to feed his greed
I just make the poor much poorer.
But little does Elon know
There’s a place where the soulless go
All that money and wealth
Can’t buy mental health
For he will reap just what he sows.
Ngokungazi, kade u- building a craft
Long before wawu- with the know-how to name it
That ikhono for mending, that ukuthambekela toward making —
Ku- your ubizo, your umsebenzi wobungcweti, your calling.
Your umsebenzi wezandla is being shaped in quiet hours.
Through ukuqina and indlela, ngibe gathering ulwazi.
The umsebenzi was never just work.
Ngi- not here by accident.
Be- meant to yiba yinyanga of this.
So yiba patient with the process.
What you are being called to ku- sacred:
Ubizo — umsebenzi only your hands ba- able to do.
The gnu got the flu.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
four wrens on a branch singing out into the snow
notes so loud, we did not know where they might go
the rhythm was melodic, the sound was pure bird speak
their songs called to my heart, even though I do not speak beak.
I wish to drown in your ocean,
Do you find that odd?
Do you find me odd?
I am the man whose heart you have sold
Tell me, did you get enough coin?
Three pieces of gold?
Take two and buy ye self a coat,
Since your heart is so cold.
I am expendable, that much I know
Hold my head down Dear, it's okay we're all alone
The water's cold this time of the year but enough stalling, it's time to go
One more thing, Dear, please, take your time, make it slow
I will not feel a thing, remember, my heart's been sold.
We call it love, but chains still bind,
a comfort built to cage the mind.
We fear the silence, fear the night,
so we stay where wrong feels right.
They claim your heart, they hold your name,
but play your feelings like a game.
Possession dressed as tender care,
a hand that grips, yet isn’t there.
We tell ourselves that love remains,
but deep inside, we feel the chains.
Afraid that no one else will stay,
we trade our freedom day by day.
But love is not control or fear,
not whispers meant to keep you near.
It’s not a prison dressed in grace,
nor power hiding in embrace.
So ask yourself what truth you choose:
to live in shadows, bound to lose,
or take the leap, though hard, alone,
and claim a life that’s truly your own.
420.
We are Called to be Holy
Catholics are Christians who have a unique calling
To the whole world their faith they must bring
For it is of Christ, by Christ & for Christ
Whose blood & flesh for us He sacrificed
So to Him we must dedicate all our labors
From land to lands, sky to skies, shore to shores
We can all be His saints, we can all be holy!
-12/05/2015
(Dumarao)
*27th Daily Reflection from Catechism Booklet
You abandoned me in my most needy days:
the way in summer, people curse the sun's rays.
The way people forget an umbrella after the rains.
The way people throw the band-aid after healing from the pains.
Tell me which hurt more, rejecting at first,
or after winning the trust
stabbing on the back
such a way that you can never trust the word 'trust' again?
Tell me if not love, then what causes such pain?
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