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Selcæiös Jan 2018
--- She who cannot hex, cannot heal
She who cannot curse, cannot cure. ---

She's a sweet little thing
a Moonflower’s paradigm
enjoying isolation and slumber by day
waking up to start her magick pursuits around society's bedtime

Some spells & her abilities, this Völva has bound to her mane
But for her, that's a better vessel than a pendant on a chain
And remember: When she dances,
if she shakes her hair, her power is twice obtained.

So if you're hooked on schadenfreude,
Cease and desist; Please knock that **** off.
Because, at the very least,
you'll be returned with what you've caused.

But if someone's harming you
or you're being hurt, but confused
whether the root of tormenting
brews with a What or a Who

Go ahead, take a deep breath
Dolour will be overcame
your Spirit's to be momentarily reclaimed
the Völva's arrived
and her prowess resides with
cures and curses alike.

--- She who cannot hex, cannot heal
She who cannot curse, cannot cure. ---
Please Curse Responsibly
aurora kastanias Jun 2017
Much like the Mayans thousands of years before,
Granting 2012 the honour to host
An apocalyptic end of the world,
Peruvian shamans now declare
2017 the year
Of turbulence and widespread war.

The healers thus reunite on a hill,
In the capital of Lima to perform
Cleansing rituals able to prevent
The fatal clash between North Korea and the US.
It comes at a time of heightened tensions
Between the two countries over
Threatening nuclear missile programmes.

An unprecedented inferno ignites the night of a West
London residential skyscraper burning
From its second to its twenty-seventh floor
Unleashing the worst nightmares
Of its sleeping inhabitants
And the courage of sleepless fire-fighters.

Colombia's Farc rebels hand over their weapons
To United Nations Inspectors
As part of historic peace accords,
While the President declares,
“Peace will be built little by little,
Like a cathedral, which you build brick by brick"
Revolutionary forces no longer armed.

Migrations creating social unrests
People fleeing their threatening nests,
As mayors plead governments not to let
Any more in and ministries ask, cities to absorb
Two hundred and fifty thousand more.
Coast guards relentlessly saving the drowning ones.

US Attorney General denies, having undisclosed meetings
With Russian officials in Washington hotels.
Any suggestions of collusion with the Kremlin described
As appalling and detestable lies.
Agency’s investigation into Russian political meddling impeded
As Intelligence believes in conspiracies. Memories of Cold Wars
And Bond movies where the ‘traitor’ was lucky to be fired and not shot.

While doctors announce people over 75 taking
Daily aspirin after a stroke or heart attack
Are at higher risk of major and sometimes fatal
Stomach bleeds than previously thought,
Anthropologists excavating in Morocco
Find fossils of potential ancestors, the oldest sapiens retrieved,
Tracing back our steps to 300, 000 years before present.

Across the ocean, somewhere in Arizona,
A man heading to a retirement home prepares,
Cleans up his garage with the help of a neighbour
And finds a 15 million dollar *******, he ignored
He ever had.
A model of matters
make me fill my beak
with anecdotes to lark upon breast
that capper shall nigh
and spoon fulfilled parlance
take romance through angels
with their chants that elope
in shoes of Miko with tears of joy.
Nyteshade Mar 2017
An injection of self, a reflection of self
Orphic explosion, in this brain of mine
I touch the sky, my shaman-self lifted
To realize some kind, of undefined divine
My soul wants to soar, although some parts to plod
Among the grey citizens of order
Dull thumpers of the one, dull god

(And as I come to fear, the night, boredom
And my internal extremes, the hyper-brain
Says ‘enjoy this, though it ends in a crash
You were dead before, so live and fear not death’)

Somehow free of the hate that claims others
Oh those self-defined, self-refined prisons they create
Only to lament their loss and deny their place
In the ranks of bile, and spite and hate
Maybe to cloak themselves from the leviathan-machines
Which provides their plenty, as the global south screams
Their ****-eating hypocrisies, judgemental non-philosophies.
And I have landed among their pretention, problems hidden
Beneath the rug, the armoured iron carpet
That supports the weight of their bloated heads
And blood-drenched souls.
Egeria Litha Nov 2016
In the United States
some men whisper to themselves in sleep
dreams of divine masculine
they seek support from the Ultimate Father
and hear of things from long ago
that feel so relevant
of ceremony to become a man
Offer tobacco to the raging fire
Shamans and tribal leaders throw rocks in its mouth
4 blocks to 6 blocks as we honor the 4 directions
Deer antlers present in geometry
everything has its place and function
And as the the rocks glow
they all sing prayers using sacred vowels and tones
from another point in time
reviving ancient memory
and they sang until every man knew the words
to the song, to the people, and to the great mystery
a lifestyle repressed but yearning to thrive
JR Rhine Oct 2016
You were draped across a girlfriend's bedroom wall
where a cross would be,
your arms held out loosely like an ambiguous invitation,
shielding your countenance from extraneous intrusions
under which she would sleep soundly
in the shroud of your incantation.

Your fallen angel wings beating back bad dreams
slain mercilessly
and falling at your feet.

Your lips slightly pouting, eyes dark,
obfuscating the madness and ***-crazed hallucinations
they harbor.

Hair purposefully unkempt,
disheveled sensuously atop your head,
tufts of hair brushed across your broad chest--

Bare muscles taut and taunting,
placed topographically on the poised temple--
those ready to worship bow their heads
in reverence to the sonic alchemist.

The modern adonis,
sculpted out of the Mississippi Delta Blues
and Dionysian wet dreams--
brought to life with the electric current pulsating through the microphone and its stand upon which you straddle with skin-tight leather pants--

Your left hand around its waist,
your right cupped over the phallus--
your lips part and your cataclysmal eyes
envelop the darkness before you--

Your image,
tormented and tantalizing
in an open invitation
to prostrate ourselves before you
and succumb to your hypnotic stare.

The door opens.
Summon she that burns within
Fierce shamaness, the goddess divine
The blessed witch & the evil ******
bear her forth unto this plane
She who calls the wind
She that leads the fire
Intent.
Intent.
Intent,
She that is, eternal quest, divine union.
The yin, the yang, the monad within the circle of light
She that is the circle.
She that is the light.
That is within.
That is.
Is.
Julie Grenness May 2016
Now of New Age, I am a fan,
I communed with my healing man,
I relaxed, breathed, because I can,
Yes! I communed with my soul's shaman,
He appeared, by my psychic side,
At last, I met my inner guide,
But, you see, it was lunchtime,
Hunger pains panged inside,
Who is this messenger guide?
I asked, yearning deep, besides,
Yes! I did commune with my inner shaman,
Unfortunately, his name is Manga!
Let's do lunch,
End of hunch!
FEEDBACK WELCOME!
brandon nagley Nov 2015
I traveled seeking otherworldly unknown spiritual erudition,
Twilight was approaching, the village was illuminated; by lit face's and fiery pit's.

Shamanic foot pounding dug into the ancient soil, visages were daubed by psychedelic mirages; as embers flew from the state of consciousness matched.  As tis these wild child's wore feather's as   celestial hat's.

Chant's of healing echoed the earth, an old man with a map drawn on his countenance, and in the palm of his hand's. Stood crooked, spine shifted; with a feather inked with wisdom as the quill's were year's of time's past.

His peeper's as Sunshined glass, aged and freed, he was around the birth age of at least eighty-three; he's lived many form's back before time, before me and thee, he told me " Brandon, I've been waiting for thyself to be seen.

As tis I kneweth a messenger hadst guided me there, I was standing in the shaman's presence, as the plume's covered his hair; he kneweth I needed soul-retrieval, his grin bounced the air.

He brought me into his Wigwam, as tis I felt the demon's inside me, his singing smoked under his breath; verily a man of astral tithing, I passed out from the beastly being's biting.

Mine apparition hadst left me, I was aloft weightless over mine body, I felt as if I died, none more pride or lifes prizing. The medicine man tranced, none need for him to digest any elixers, he's been doing this for centuries, he was a past angel and spirit mixture.

I hath seen mine life's picture, just up high in the cloud's, mine aura climbed atop the great mountain, I didst not want to cometh down; I was watching this tan-skinned tribal just below mine sight; he danced, tranced, danced throughout the night.

Then at the ending before I awoketh, I stared the demon's coming out of me, as tis their infectious breathing got me choking, I pushed out all the thing's trying to latch onto mine burning light inside me, the hellion loveth good soul's, to Satan that's control: anything good is open to their inviting.

I opened mine vision, when the death-bringers left, a holy Bible was placed upon mine chest; as tis the shaman told me his Secretive gift and holiness: he told me Christ he turned to many kingdom's ago, once back when, when he was working as God's angel.

As when I left that small earthly hut of his, he started singing Christian proverb's; reciting Christian hymn's, he wasn't thy average medicine man, he kneweth truth, not fable's nor myth's; before I left he painted mine head with a cross for protective bliss. As whilst at that moment in time, the devil stayed away from mine mind, Satan's chain's wouldst be waiting for him in the brimstone abyss.




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
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