(Long, long ago,
when people still
believed in witches...)

-To wander
longingly through
the forest in search
of mystery, but
she herself was
a haunted house.
When night comes,
the whole witch chorus
follows anon.
On brooms of blazing
embers they ride,
Jumping out
of Hell-fire.
The wind is hushed,
The stars grow pale
while the black cat cries
to the moon.
It was All Hallow's Eve,
the ancient ones could tell.
Where ghosts haunt their
graveyard,
Until the morning stars sang
together.

(Here, in the forest,
dark and deep,
I offer you
eternal sleep...)

Writing of a poem
Oh! How it can be likened
To having a baby!

With the copulation of fancy and thought,
Comes the moment of conception

      It can happen any day
      Unanticipated or planned erstwhile
On a star studded night
Or a rain drenched morn
It swims into you as a seed
So tiny… so inconspicuous
Once the pregnancy confirmed
Comes irritation, nausea
Lethargy and loss of appetite
Your stomach rarely growls for food
Clouds of words hang heavy and low,
Refusing to break into showers
They don’t gush or rush.
Ideas dry up leaving the nib parched
Lines crack n’ break
Depression follows
Discouraged, you feel fatigued

But all the while you begin to realize
That a new life
Independent of you
Has begun growing inside you
Then all the care taken
To foster the young life

You read…
You refer the lexicon
You withdraw from other works
Take rest, relax in solitude

Slowly the foetus moves
The first stirring of life!
With fond fingers, as you pat your belly
Your pen pats the paper
The first line…..
The first faint beating of the heart!
Then words….
Like little harness bells tingling
Fall in line, line after line!

Drawing nourishment from you,
The embryo grows limb by limb
The miniscule of insight
Grown after months of waiting
Into a mature body of illumination!
A stretch of your dreams!
A suffusion of light!

After the labor pains
Of scribbling and scrawling,
Writing and rewriting,
Deleting, adding and editing,
With time stretching and contracting,
A baby, no, a poem is born.

Whether cute or ugly
No mother can dislike it
She marvels at its birth
Wraps it in her warmth
She must have had in mind a name
Or seeks to find a name;
An apt name

Thus a poem with a title is born!
She wonders if her baby would lit a smile,
On others lips too
Or from them would flow,
Words of endearment as from a trickle!

My liberal broad-mind is a tree,
each branch carries the weight
of an independent hope, fear,
anxiety and dream.
When the wind imposes,
when it whistles, howls and blows,

you can hear each of my independent emotion's haunting cries.
They cry because I've let them go. 
They're now lost in limbo - it's somewhat disturbing and morbid,
I know!
But that's just how it goes!

By Lady R.F ©2016

Where do all dead poets go?
If you find out then let me know.
Does all language die with them?
Words float in air, then end. Amen.

Or are their words preserved in time?
Scorched on paper, then held in shrine.
There to be seen, read, devoured,
Ancient wisdom from those empowered.

There to make a serious point
Using words to soothe, anoint.
Recording times, events and places.
Cataloguing history, people, faces.

Sometimes harsh in what they say,
Determined to speak come what may.
Not all poets speak in rhyme;
Using rhythm to keep in time.

But all good poems should touch the heart,
Evoke emotions from the start,
Make the reader see and feel,
Hear what's said, know it's real.

Remind us where we all connect,
Be you non- religious or from a sect.
Touch our senses, hearts and memories.
What one man does another sees.

Not all men use knowledge for good;
Follow morals and do what we should.
Think before we act and speak.
Find courage, be strong, protect the meek.

If you find time to help out others,
Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers,
Take your life and start anew.
That's when you'll find the poet in you.