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Literature Text
I believe I was a ginger headed poet in a past life,
who wrote love through magik spells—
burning candle wax, whispering incantations
under a full moon and painting pale,
naked flesh with dirt and ash.
Dancing with ghostly ravens through flames,
to the thumpthumpthump of my storm heart,
as it became one with the earth.
I roared my passions and my glory
to the heavens above, laughing
like a crazy eyed crone for the sake
of those who feared me.
My witches tongue, hissing, 'Come hither!'
as heat licked my shoulders like an old lover,
come home.
who wrote love through magik spells—
burning candle wax, whispering incantations
under a full moon and painting pale,
naked flesh with dirt and ash.
Dancing with ghostly ravens through flames,
to the thumpthumpthump of my storm heart,
as it became one with the earth.
I roared my passions and my glory
to the heavens above, laughing
like a crazy eyed crone for the sake
of those who feared me.
My witches tongue, hissing, 'Come hither!'
as heat licked my shoulders like an old lover,
come home.
Literature
Sepia Light
He could be the lead of a silent movie
in all its sepia glory. There is
dust on the film; and light-
that shines hazily through the smoke and jazz
of the old world.
She smiles while beauty marks pepper the screen
and nobody notices. Not even him.
There is a woman stroking the theater piano lovingly to hide
the voices floating through the air as silent as ash.
He waits with impious attention for old-fashioned lines
to cross over the stage and whisper something,
something new to him.
But anything that could waltz off their tongues
is caught and held by the cigarette filter projector.
Left to crackle, as the piano moans under the w
Literature
Poets make the best liars.
His black eyes were stars, and
the c o n s t e l l a t i o n s in their depths
told me sad poetic stories of-
past lovers, grey mornings
and myths—
the kind only the brave
dares to believe.
He brought the dreamer out in me
the huntress that lay in wait w
Literature
October Eyes
Such gentle colors drip across your freckled shoulder blades.
A quilt of puddled watercolors soaked in auburn shades.
Spun of golden rivulets and rinsed in autumn skies,
So many endless currents swimming through your lonesome eyes.
Brushing under fingertips and over shattered songs,
Unraveling like morning glaze against my paling palms.
With beauty like October hills and hollow as the skies,
The water drops against the earth will be our lullaby.
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Weave your spells, sweet witch,
and weave them well
Do not stumble over sound
or meaning
or the fires of hell.
Keep your secrets tight
and safe
among your spells.
One day they will save you
From the weight of Men's blame
for their own incompetence
as they curse your name
Do not fear the flames
Sweet witch
for they welcome you.
guide you
shelter you
Power you
Through all your lives
Welcome,
sweet witch,
Welcome Home
sorry if this is not the place for this. But after reading your poem, these words were born and could not be contained. You are such an inspiration. Thank you!
also, your poem makes me think of the song: Witch by Karliene. I think you may like it.
and weave them well
Do not stumble over sound
or meaning
or the fires of hell.
Keep your secrets tight
and safe
among your spells.
One day they will save you
From the weight of Men's blame
for their own incompetence
as they curse your name
Do not fear the flames
Sweet witch
for they welcome you.
guide you
shelter you
Power you
Through all your lives
Welcome,
sweet witch,
Welcome Home
sorry if this is not the place for this. But after reading your poem, these words were born and could not be contained. You are such an inspiration. Thank you!
also, your poem makes me think of the song: Witch by Karliene. I think you may like it.