Centuries ago, women suspected of witchcraft
Almost always met a fiery end
This brutal practiced seemed daft
As rules for proving witchcraft would never bend
Women with a mole or a scar
Is all the proof they needed
It was really quite bizarre
As common sense was never heeded
Torturous methods were used to force a confession
This of course would seal the woman's fate
Witches seemed to be their obsession
No mercy came at any rate
Echoes linger where injustice once thrived
As history turns its faded page
For many justice is still deprived
Are we moving from or toward a darker age?
There lied something amongst the burned ashes
A heart so pure
Everyone gasped, how could the heart survive?
The witch was the one to die
Yet the heart unknowingly, unapologetically
Stayed unmoved
In the cold weather, where everyone trembled
The heart shined with the glimpse of sunshine
Through the darkened clouds
The hope resided
Tangled in knots of hatred for who she was
A witch, A bastard
And as they say, "The evil surely will burn"
The heart, the purity
Chose not to burn
The witch ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ (the withered hag)
¦¦¦ wash ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ with pail and rag,
Was once the beauty Abishag,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ pride of Hollywood.
¦¦¦ many fall from great and good
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ doubt the likelihood.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ avoid the fate.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ die late,
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ die in state.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ stock exchange your own!
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ occupy a throne,
¦¦¦¦¦ nobody ¦¦¦ call you crone.
Some ¦¦¦¦ relied ¦¦¦ what they knew;
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ simply being true.
¦¦¦¦ worked for them ¦¦¦¦¦ work for you.
No memory ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ starred
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ later disregard,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ the end from being hard.
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ go down dignified
With ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ friendship at your side
Than none at all. Provide, provide!
(Blackout of Provide Provide by Robert Frost)
The golden road of Oz, sunny beachfront dossier from the calling of the sordid mask, did the mask of Dante peer, into the crump and dough with breadcrumbs in the sunlight bog, for the death of sorrowful faces, the mask does not befog, into the intern when not Hansel, but he bet on the witch, or did Gretel from which gather, that neither pervaded but one was accursed, the morning benumbing of footfalls and sparrows.
There once was this witch with a massive beard
Her suitors loved it, which sounds kind of weird
She did have a razor
But preferred a laser
And would slice wildly if large growths appeared
By
David Kavanagh
Deceitful
Conniving
Malevolent
Just a wicked witch
with a putrid rotten heart
AP: 2nd place 2026
Old Granny Glitch would twitch and snitch.
We'd shout, "Oh, no! Just ditch the glitch!"
She'd stall the clocks and jam the doors,
Undoing what we all worked so hard for.
She'd pop an error into our smooth routine.
Scatter crumbs through every polished theme.
A pesky clean-up— clumsy, costly, slow;
Yet showing flaws we'd never ever know.
When one small pause became a clue,
The glitch invited us to look anew.
It opened a crack to let the daylight in;
Revealing new tricks hidden within.
"Don't ditch the glitch," she softly smiled.
"I've only snitched what your certainty beguiled."
"For bold confidence can make one blind."
"When fresh glints ignite a curious mind."
She broke our stride, disturbed the flow.
Yet it showed what constancy could never know.
A hitch, once noticed with great care,
Awakens new questions left waiting there.
Now Granny Glitch still hangs about,
She chucks our neat conclusions out.
For every hitch, shifts the pitch—
So we pause.... before we ditch, the glitch.
Pearlescent skeleton with bones of white
was stirring the brew on this Halloween night
His wrist was steady, his spoon was sure
Best brew of all I bet, said a witch, Demure
But he’s not a witch, I argued with her
Don’t be a bigot, she told me, his heart is pure
All you have to do to make the perfect brew
Is to want to do what this skeleton can do.
In the heart of the whispering woods,
Where shadows dance with the light,
Lies a Child with a gentle soul,
Keeping vigil through the night.
Her Mother, a Witch of ancient lore,
Sits beneath the Mistress Moon’s empathetic glow,
Weaving spells of forgotten dreams,
In the world where secrets flow.
The child always tends to her mother’s heart,
A well of sorrow, deep and wide
For the father, a phantom of the past
Left before the baby’s first cry
With hands of grace and eyes of truth,
She gathers herbs with care
Brewing potions to ease the pain,
And weave hope from despair.
The forest hums with her magic song
A lullaby in the boughs above,
As the child whispers words of strength,
Bound by unyielding love.
In the flicker of the lanterns glow,
The Mother smiles, though tears may fall,
For in her child, she sees the light,
That guides them through it all.
Thus, the child of the witch remains,
In the woods where mysteries dwell,
A guardian of her Mother’s heart,
Where love and magic swell.
She has too much color to be a witch
What do you think a witch is? I asked this moron.
Someone horrible, ugly, bad, crazy, mean, terrible, sad.
I wondered if I wanted to waste my time on his education.
A witch is a person who practices Wicca.
And they worship the devil, the idiot said.
Now I knew I did not want to waste my time, so I walked away.
The Hollow Toll of Hell
Old witch plucked out every hair
To weave her wicked snares.
But a deal demands a spirit pure,
And hers was beyond repair.
She traded a thumb, she traded an eye,
Yet still she paraded on
Seeking the key for the gate, the hidden escape,
Before the rise of dawn.
With nothing left of flesh or bone,
No gold left to toll,
She reached the brink and paid the price:
The sale of her hollow soul.
I once fell in love with a witch
I even thought we might get hitched
She made me a frog
I now live in a log
And croak all night in a wet ditch.
Two cats
One house
One barks
One meows.
They have tails
They have limbs
They have a head
But only one can think.
Tell me which is which
And I'll tell you a tale
Of a man,
And a witch.
in me was free
when all four elements
worked in congruity
fashion queen witch spent gobs of time fashioning her attire
attaching ribbons, ruffles, and tinkling bells we all could admire
Dot is such a diva, she must be stuck up we all said, without knowing her
She was a kind soul, with a generous heart that was immensely pure.
The moral of this tale is to say, just because someone is fancy and sleek.
Does not mean they are in any way a bully, or a strange kind of geek.
Fashion queen witch taught the girls in the neighborhood to sew.
And one interested boy too, his name was Little Le Beau.
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