I am being watched in the witching hour
I know without knowing how I know
an ominous feeling Halloween night
ethereal entity’s superpower
east winds rise up, a blustery blow
magic is involved, I feel it might
entity soon materialized
starting out from a surreal glow
werewolf rose up to an unnatural height
my frightened blueblood homogenized
I never divulge this devilish sight
they call it the witching hour
so call me a witch
I agree with their creed
to no living thing do harm
it was the male fairy tellers who wanted them to be evil
other women’s eyes popped open today
at this exact time
three a.m.
we are united in our femaleness
united in our willingness to be less, so others can feel more
I sense these other women
my sisters, my neighbors, my friends
we each have our own journeys
our own walk to walk, and yet we are in this together
I send them light and love
feeling they are doing this to me also
three a.m. the witching hour
Death,
you're freed;
With one taste
define nightlife;
Now I will take you,
drip for me as I taste
and then erase your anguish;
Give yourself to the Witching hour;
Strawberries decadent in moonlight,
it was not the apple that Eve wanted.
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they face whirlwind snowfall, freezing ice,
while others brazenly squirm,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
of this genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
velvet moon worlds sidereal captured,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
midnight came and went
witching hour cast no ripples~
slumber undisturbed
Pixabay image by Orlandow
If it truly be the Witching Hour
from witch’s brew we need not cower
Only where’s the timepiece so precise
it rejects fresh hemlock for garden spice
The hands on the clock face read the time as 3:01
Which means the witching hour has begun
Its a time when witches and warlocks unite
Casting spells under the full moons bright light
Casting a circle to protect all those within
Using the power from the veil being thin
Calling and conjuring up helpful souls
Spirits that will help them reach their goals
Calling upon the elements of air, fire, water and earth
Asking for closure and times of rebirth
Closing the circle, giving thanks to goddesses and gods
Knowing this rite has improved life’s odds
When life gets tough, there is no need to cower
Learn to do spells and rituals during the witching hour.
3:00am; The hour of old souls & deep thinkers.
Dreamers though we're wide awake.
Loud hearts & silent eyes, our every thought the night to take.
Bewitching ours, the Witching hour, what mystery awaits.
~ 2020
It is the witching hour.
There are no breezes in a windowless house.
There are no shadows in a cave devoid of light.
There are no dreams in a sleepless night.
It is the witching hour.
When our endangered psyche roams.
When we are captured by pernicious spells.
When we are easy prey for rogue chieftains.
It is the witching hour.
When warlords game the system.
When sorcerers gaslight the faithful.
When conspiracy conquers fact.
Only the crestfallen sense the seamless
interval of peril.
Only the dejected resist the wizardry
of the despot.
Only the discouraged view the counterfeit
wallpaper of rot.
Only the discontented shout the truth
against the cacophony of sophistry.
But Stonehenge, the domain of the dead,
will always know first light,
will always vanquish the ruse of our sanctity,
will always sweep away the opiate specters
of tyranny.
The witching hour no more.
Light, the detox to our Stockholm syndrome.
The witching hour no more.
Democracy survives
to live another day.
I wake up at three every morning
The witching hour
Is it the cat?
Or something else?
Maybe it is so I can have some thinking time
Before the others get up.
I hear a voice smirk.
You live alone silly!
If you think I can go back to sleep now
You are as crazy as I am.
Your memory...
like hands around my neck,
taking my breath away.
Your name on my lips,
as if I had nothing else to say.
My final moment, my last prayer:
Please! Lord!
Make his arms my resting place.
Jack o'lanterns were all alight
To frighten spooks throughout the night
But there was an hitch
When a nasty witch
Made all our candy Kryptonite
On the bank of the Mississippi River
under a cottonwood tree,
watching the river's water flow;
a young man holds a thin hickory
fishing pole in hand,
to be alone with his thoughts,
seeping deep into the delicate,
soothing, murmur of the river.
He came from a poor indigent family.
Life was a bit obtuse for him.
School was boring
and pointless in his mind.
He seemed to most enjoy getting into trouble.
The folks around felt he was always
making egregious blunders.
One astronomical twilight night
he dared his friend
to walk through the consecrate
dilapidated graveyard at midnight.
A stir in the air,
there was movement there.
A void within the eerie luminous cemetery.
There in the open graves,
laid the sacred dead in their beds.
Heartrending moans of the wilderness
somewhere far-off in the wind.
The hours disordered breathing
circulated a redder glow;
hell rising upon the headstones.
A sinking dull feeling fell upon both boys;
down to their knees they stumbled and fell.
Awaking from their delirium
sought to mediate disputes
of what happened the night before.
8/18/2019
Awakened, in the dead of night
Seized by a feeling of fright
I struggle to catch my breath
My heart pounding in my chest
Surely my thoughts are disillusioned
Glimpsing a shadow translucent
I say to myself with nervous snicker
The drowsy mind is a trickster
Over my head, I pull the blanket
Suddenly something grabs my ankle
Upright I sit in utter horror
Praying I live to see tomorrow
The sounds of scratching echoes
A screeching laugh bellows
The stench of rotting flesh lingers
Down my arm moves icy fingers
Have mercy on my worthless soul
The clock chimes it's immortal toll
The time of hour, I could foresee
Every night at a quarter past three.
Shadow, shadow on the wall.
Merry monsters in the hall;
Ghostly goblins gently peek
At little children faking sleep.
The night is strange as low it roams
Around the snugly lighted homes.
The young ones feel its magic power;
The clock has struck the children’s hour!
Grabbing costumes from the pegs
Then down the stairs on little legs.
To children’s promised midnight feast,
As grownups fall for Trick or Treat.
Grinning faces laughing merry;
Crouching shadows dark and scary.
Late this night there are no dreams
For this night’s name is HALLOWEEN!
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