Horses galloping
in the barren country
long scorched
by conflagrations.
Carbonised bracken
and naked trees cry
gnarled in bewitchment
of incantations concocted
around smoky cauldrons
broiling with the fury
of serpent fangs
and necrotic poisons
that consume
the golden hour
Heaven's artistry in motion.
Upon the steamy broth of words we feed,
A spoon of sonnet’s spice, a pinch of rhyme.
Each simmered thought, a poet’s secret seed,
Stirred gently through patient hands of time.
The flavors mix—metaphor, verse, and sound—
In bubbling cauldrons, meaning softly sways.
Within the bowl, lost syllables are found,
And every line a seasoning conveys.
How savory the blend of joy and pain,
When seasoned hearts compose the lyric stew.
From humble roots, a feast of art we gain,
Where every taste and tone is rendered true.
So gather 'round this meal of crafty strains,
Poetry soup forever feeds our brains.
the witches creed was “to no creature do harm”
jealous men were annoyed by their confidence
Brothers Grimm used witches as storybook villains
attempting to take them down a couple of notches
witches were always for the greater good
they were gardeners, nurturers, and healers
Their balms and remedies were created to help others
jealous men twisted their cauldrons into evil instruments
I hope that men do know the difference between right and wrong.
My life’s creed depends on it; it is “be yourself always”.
I imagine the witch-tormentors must have figured it out.
If they had not, the Salem Witch trials would be happening today.
I like to think that they were horrified when the innocent drowned.
Proof they were not witches.
I like to think we shun away from evil.
My mantra “be yourself always” is not meant for serial killers.
A smirk ghosts
by torn lips
razored puce
and throbbing wild
to fire a fusillade
of mortar murmurs
armed with fangs
honed in cauldrons
belching molten words
to palsy the gainsay
of jesters
who scarify and behead
bliss.
Electric loneliness.
Took a look at me like syrup.
Neurons attached to nothing-stems.
In the brain shaped way, I tried.
Took a ride like syrup sings.
Attached to my life…
And my brain is cobblestones.
With shoes made of witch’s cauldrons.
Electric loneliness.
Took me far.
Gravity gives me a pat on the back.
Songs made of table legs.
Everything I tried turned to legs.
Life of a brain’s shadow…
Electric loneliness.
Made up of centipedes.
Not in the way you’d think.
In a network-way.
Electric loneliness.
Neurons tapping away.
The witch’s words begin to cackle,
her jargon hard to understand.
With grace adding in the taste,
style matters most of all.
Don’t believe a thing.
Parlor effects,
that’s magick
cauldrons
bake.
Wicked women cast spells
Wearing black pointy hats
With warts and green faces
Warming bubbling cauldrons
Waiting for their potion
While luring bats and frogs
Whisking away on brooms
In potted hills Finnish
Cauldrons run quips losing custard!
Vanquished serpents necking
Lounging cretons lavish
Tasking tisks
Mirroled bounce
Hinde bounding exiles
Worrisome kneels condensing bonnet?
Will and either knawlings
Coffered
Loave of Samson
Reason less below her faults
French horror?
Recalcitrant!
barter for the bellmaker
fire the forge, fill the flue
cast cast-iron chimes
chime for time's renew
fire the forge, fend the flash
fan the flames, feed the fire
cast cast-iron cauldrons
cast a spell, catch desire
bitter for the bellmaker
fires the forge, fans the same
casts cast-iron tears
cannot catch desire's flame
Toxic notions, mixing up potions
Bubble and boil, cauldrons toil.
The words evade me,
They could've made me - by now - but somehow,
I forget what the words were
I forgot I could speak, I became so weak, inside
I was dying, I couldn't stop from crying,
I wanted to run and hide.
Perfection is just a reflection,
An image people perceive to be portraying
A mask to deceive or a mask to achieve?
Striving for success,
Trying your best is the best you can do.
I write to you from inside an empty skull
because Wednesday can be hollow and bony
as we all may well know.
I am a man of great hope,
not unlike those earlier alchemists
with their gathered elements about them,
their cauldrons and scales,
their mystic science brewing
into crescendos of disappointment,
yet always working toward
a transmutation to the gold
of one more legendary day.
I must go now for the sun is setting
and in this hollow bone
a bird in a golden tree sings of
a sun that rises only to set.
It sings also of a mythical land,
where seven lesser deities'
number the hours on a faceless dial,
an infernal device
that measures the days
between the beginning and the end,
as if Thursday were but a dream
yet to be begun or imagined.
In between a wand and a warded space
lies an old Book Of Shadows to embrace;
Fee fried foe thumbs,
throw them in as the guitar strums;
Picked over hair follicles and toenails,
A few fast words followed by quick inhales;
Freeze dried pho crumbs,
throw them in as the harp hums;
Now toss in the vibrato of a ghost,
that sound is the recipe’s binding host;
Free fly fall mums!
Fester rich color to smack drums;
Add to that something so easily missed,
subtle allows magic to come undressed;
Fae, fire cauldrons!
manifest the desired outcomes;
In between a wand and the hand it takes,
lies an old Book Of Shadows to embrace.
You made those quiet tears fall from my eyes,
No one around me, sadness intervened,
As the burgundy sun clung to the eaves
Like ice.Through my heartache, I watched a burnt
Horizon paste darkness against the stars.
A shard of nightfall, a hunter moon, floated
Far past the clouds. I dreamt of death, my eyes
Yearned for light, in that odorless dream
I've always had. Why were you there? Who was
That with you? What words were exchanged? Why do
Tears flood my being suddenly,
when dreaming
Shortens the space between us? My tears flowed
With my heart's song, and my blanket lay sprawled
Beside me like a thirsty grey bat. Still,
Still, still, it flapped away through the crepuscule,
Toward that gold moon, diffusing into cauldrons.
The evil nocturnal creature called Lilith
silently slithers into the realm of man at night
seeking the sycophantic pleasure of pain
as she drinks from a wormwood draught
of hate-filled spew
that pulsates into her veins to fill a vacuous space
where a heart should be
her maniacal demented darkness of psychotic black
colors the embroidery of her flesh of sensual illusion
where her web is woven to invite the innocent heart
into her demonic lair of witchcraft and cauldrons
of poisonous death
to be devoured and then spit out into a slimy glutinous
hellish world of abomination
where Lilith lays naked, covered in blood-soaked skin
of revulsion
laced with bitterness from her cup of loathing
from her sense of not being equal
when the one who gave life to dust gave her breath
and she felt indignant when finding she would lay
beneath the first man giving birth to her hate
gather wares for market day
and cauldrons of the land
baneful stock for the boiling pot
before the evening’s end
tankards spill and taverns heave
upon these Beltane days
see magic folk and sorcerers
on an otherwise malaise
then pack the carts and disappear
before the robin sees
and woe betide the straddlers
caught there on Gallows’ Eve
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