Some witchery has happened in my past
As I was prowling swiftly through the woods,
The scent of freedom in my nose, my lungs,
My hungry stomach and my lonely soul.
That fateful evening as I fell asleep
There was no premonition and no hint
That in the morning as the sun appeared
I’d realize that I was not myself.
What were these hairless long and stumbling legs?
What were these arms that didn’t touch the ground?
What were these teeth that couldn’t maim and kill?
And this desire for a human’s touch?
Since that much-hated day I’ve lived in towns
And villages with people who do not
Suspect the origins of my unhuman self.
I eat their food, I dance around their fires,
But once a month, when skies explode the moon,
And when my past is screaming in my face,
My every tooth becomes a canine knife;
I’m on all fours, I flee towards the woods…
The morning comes, and being back in this
Forever weak, forever naked flesh
Is worth the taste of fresh delicious blood
Upon my chops, if only once a month.
her holiday witchery
seen on Halloween
is worn on my cap’s stitchery
not always ghoulishly seen
In days of old
Those poets bold
Would peek at
A thesaurus
When slyly shamed
Sadly exclaimed
They did it so the words
Won’t bore us
And yet it seems
The best of schemes
Is viewed by some
As witchery
Yet those who do
Are tired too
Of listening to
Such .itchery
I went into the scented apothecary (lush)
For it smelt like a gourmand dream
So soon my scent grew weary
So I chose a random scheme
A gem shaped chalky piece
That smelt like rose and myrrh
(Unknowing it was to cease)
I dropped it into my bath, and watched the witchery occur
Damn you wretched homeopath!
Perfume merchant mocker
Who sold me that purple sphere
Dowsing gold, silver and copper
Did smaller and smaller appear
Fizzled up and exploded
Left that pretty gem eroded!
So now I'm left in tears:(
eyes of a tiger
women’s hands raised in celebration
another doing the splits in the crook of this tree
wait – is this also a tiger’s nose? It is!
dual purposed branches
forming tiger stripes
and
exhibiting a hollow kind of witchery
amazing how the background trees form a tiger’s chin
while portraying a plausible background to this tree
an outstanding bit of art
love how the bit of green on a middle branch picks up the evergreens
Jealousy is not the portion of the unsuccessful alone;
even the prosperous are consumed with envy.
Jealousy is not the lot of the poor;
even the wealthy are corrupted with spite.
Jealousy is not the flaw of the worldly alone;
even the religious carry it behind sacred veils.
Jealousy is not the preserve of the unlearned;
even the educated are not spared its poison.
Jealousy is not the garment of the uncivilized;
even the well-travelled are ensnared by it still.
If jealousy be the final stage into witchery,
then no wonder even the exalted cast the darkest spells.
O lady, banish my monochrome days
and weave your coppery threads into
a dim red florescence of coyote words;
There you stand draped in beige chiffon
against preternatural piety of a striptease sea
continuously playing with Prussian blue pastels.
O lady, gallantly unleash your plump cherubs
and licentious cats with that timeless witchery
of a vanilla Guerlain perfume dart;
Throw a dusty rain-soaked rose, Madame Pompadour;
I am flying into another sugary abyss of setting suns
and Fragonard silks of flickering coral.
Is it the fighting of heavenly dragons? Is it Boucher's
brushstrokes that bring us April showers
and the music of irises and champagne pearls?
Is the wind alive? That’s what the Choctaw believed.
The Apache called it, apocryphally, “the breath of the world.”
To them, the wind is the trickster you never see,
a joker on the plain of life.
What’s always arriving and always leaving?
What’s as old as the world, yet forever current?
Ever present and tireless, it seldom sleeps,
holding up jets, herding clouds like sheep,
filling sails, stirring leaves, causing rough seas.
What’s always passing, but already everywhere?
The Cherokee named ‘air’ the ‘keeper of spirits,”
because it sighs, cries, whispers and moans.
They credited it with great power and influence.
Today, we watch the skies with doppler witchery,
we forecast its path, with the gambler's odds - see,
the wind has turned on us, many times - like a tornado.
.
.
Songs for this;
Colors Of the Wind - End Title by Vanessa Williams
They Call the Wind Maria by Harve Presnell
Windy by The Association
Wicked cold wimp weaving
Wrinkled woes on Samhain
Warlock of witchery
Waving threefold fiction
Whilst hanging on chaos
Wretched and worthless from
Worn out dry iced love spells
We both found tenners
at our own happy diversions-
mine on a jog, she
with her boyfriend walking.
She waves passing
in her yellow mini
the very moment she’s crossing
my mind. Another jog
in this *** little town we both
happily make do with.
I’m thinking
she could be my love,
(we think it fun pretending)
or just habitual friends,
both bearing love
for the labyrinthine.
Because she speaks
to the moon like I do, palms up
to dark-embedded lightness,
opening
doors to any rabbit holes
we can find. The kind
who relish mysteries
of all sorts. And dancing
is to us more stimulating
when it strikes the viewer
as strange, like doing it
while jogging.
Our voices in union speak
as if magic or simulation,
together released from needs
to decode all the curious messages
about releasing.
You can shout it from the mountain tops
While you dance and sing
Serenade me ‘til the music stops
It still won’t mean a thing
You can light up all the words you say
Maybe mingle in my rhyme
That might’ve worked but not today
You won’t persuade me not this time
You can tell me that your world is mine
Even beat on my own drum
You may promise that you’ll tow the line
And not delay my kingdom come
You can wave your wand if it still works
Cast your spells of false delights
You can say you love me ‘til it hurts
But I’ve learned that your love bites
~Billy Hitz~
When I was a child witches were the demonic devils in faerie tales.
I was terrified of the old lady up the block who looked like Margaret Hamilton.
Witches, witchcraft and witchery were to be feared, and I was frightened.
Harvey Comics changed it up when they introduced us to Wendy Witch.
Wendy was kind and compassionate, she wanted to make friends.
She was a soft-hearted upstander who stood up for other people.
This was a new witch, a witch I wanted to know better.
She changed things up in my head, and I looked up witchcraft.
Witchcraft is not Satan’s workshop, it is gardening, it is herbs, it is awareness.
“To no one do harm” is the witch’s creed.
Who were these men who wanted us to fear witches?
Possibly jealous men who did not know how to garden.
I thank Harvey Comics for my mind shift regarding witches.
And Wendy Witch of course!
Cockroaches backstroke lazily
in pools of condensed milk.
Stacked newspapers pile up,
yellowing ingrained tabloids.
Her bed has a curved spine,
her couch is a witchery shaped coven,
a semaphore center for twitching tails.
At her whirling core, she is mad,
the way angels go mad,
with bright-eyed ecstasy.
The cat food cans are collectible,
labels brown in a mold-tinted twilight
all else decays
with the half-life of stale urine.
She calls her pink-tongued children
by secret names,
names handed down by necromancers
to generations of neurotic felines,
cackles, while she sleeps, spinning fur balls
the size of small planets.
Woodland wildlife were weather wary, withdrawn.
Wily wolves watched winter's warning... woebegone.
Wildflowers withered while worrisome willows would
whisper, "Winter witchery weaves within Wildwood."
Watching with wonder, were winged whippoorwills.
Windstorms were whirling, wrecking wooden windmills.
Wrathfully whipping while wretchedly whistling, which
wakened wry Wanda... Wildwood's wickedest witch!
July 1, 2022
Begin with a letter contest
Sponsored by Angela Tune
It has been stated in the witchery world
That the head top notch with will be in red
I have an inkling this book is true
So here is one who has her own goblins.
They are green and maniacal.
I stare, fascinated.
Before
I
run
like
Hell…..
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