the skylark summons the dead to rise as you watch with cloudy, wishful eyes

our sisterhood survives throughout the dark
they will never silence our voices
when we call to the tune, the world rejoices

wild child, living in a fantasy
wild child, the myth lives on within you
wild child, you create your own dreams
wild child, enchant them
do what you do

the white cat knocks over the lamp with a smile
a sea of tears flows from your eyes as deep as the Nile
a mirage is in sight, a vision it seems
the fabric of your sadness is ripped at the seams
we weave a spell together, fashioned stitch by stitch
you look to me and laugh, mischievous like a witch

our sisterhood still lives on through the dark as we wait for the time to leave our mark
they will never silence our voice
when the world calls our tune we will rejoice

fuera puera, vivens in autem fantasia
fuera puera, quod fabula vitae on intra vos
furea puera, vos creo tuus agnosco somniums
fuera puera
facio qualis vos facio
I tried with the Latin, please message me telling me how to fix it if a false translation bothers you! thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy. blessed be
Charlie Jun 28
I don’t know why i’m reminiscing,
but you remind me of last summer
the sun is gently stroking your roof
while i think of my dark lover

The light blue crumbling facade
gives me the pain of longing
for a home that makes me wonder
if i’ll see another morning

It’s an eerie mystery
why i prefer a thunderstorm
the erratic and the uncanny
over a sacred place of warmth

I want your roof to be blown off,
i want to scream and cry
for i know love needs to be rough
like nature is sublime
C Mahood Jun 27
She belonged to him, no other man,
So he said to her each day she left.
To sell the eggs and the dress she made,
To pull them from the line of the poor.

On the way to town each day she passed,
The rings of County Tipperary.
The ancient rings that live the wee folk,
Who dance in moonlight and trick us all.

That day she waited to see her kin,
But she left no gift to please the old.
So home she came with arms still heavy,
and a chest that weighed a cough so foul.  

“My Bridget” as he knelt by her bed,
Holding her hand as it shook with cold.
In the crack of the flame voices he heard
To hang him from his grief with despair.

The news he heard was of his father
Whom died the evening he felt alone.
Mr Cleary swore and slammed his fist.
“Midnight tonight or Bridget is lost!”

The men in village knew the tale,
Of the wee folk who cursed Bridget.
The woman in the Cleary home bed,
Was an echo of the wife he loved.

They held her down and asked her, her name,
She screamed and growled but did not reply,
Three times they asked and still she refused.
So tight the grips they beat her to sleep.

The morning arrived, Bridget awoke,
To her husband who looked upon her.
His eyes full of loss and fear as-well,
“my Bridget?” he asked “are they gone now?”

She smiled and agreed, she was alone,
So the priest came to deliver mass.
Mr Cleary agreed and drank from the cup
But he knew that his wife was not home.

He asked her again, three more times; “Speak,
Your name to me now, are you my wife?”
Each time she replied “It is I, Yes.”
Michael still knew his wife was away.

That evening men from the town arrived  
And took Bridget deep into the bog,
Where they bound her and lay her down flat,
As she screamed for her husband to help.

“It is I, It is me, Your sweet wife,
Believe me my husband I am here,
No faerie has seized my soul from me,
No witch has uttered a devil curse.”

Her mouth was covered and bound so tight
Her screams were made only with her eyes.
In front of the men, Michael asked her.
“Are you my wife? My Bridget Cleary?”

No voice or reply came from the girl.
Her body lay still in the bog land.
So onto a bed of wood she was placed,
And burned in the cold evening moon light.

The story was told through the village,
That Bridget had fled with another,
A man who bought all her eggs each week,
But not everyone believed this tale.

The priest of the village found Michael,
Praying blood, sweat and tears in the church.
He told him the fairies had taken,
The changeling they had placed there before.    

The priest told the men of the Garda
That murder was rife in this village.
That men had taken a sick women
And burned her to death in the bog land.

Michael was guilty of Manslaughter
No conviction of murder was passed
For the people believed his story,
The woman who burned was not his wife  

To this day the rings of Tipperary
Still grow foxglove and weeds in the cracks,
The Faerie mounds are feared like darkness
And steered clear of, by those who live near.

Even now it is heard in the school,
By the children who skip on the rope.
“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy,
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”
Peter Balkus Jun 22
Once upon a time there was a witch.
She was very rich. And she loved to preach,
tell others what is what and which is which.
But nothing for her was going without a hitch.
She feared that she can be ditched
by other witches, laughing at her in stitches.

Some people hated her and called her a bitch,
she was doing everything to stay strong, but each
day for her was an unexpected glitch
and one day her luck has falled out of her reach.
dina Jun 22
as you walk through this forest
you duck under branches and boughs
that are the gnarled fingers of a witch
as she stirs her dark and glassy potion
resembling a puddle you peer into
and gasp when the reflection there isn't you
a creepy little forest story as something different for y'all <3 i guess this would be more appropriate in october but inspiration hit while walking my dog today
Louise Joyce Jun 19
As the day fades away,
The shimmering river reflects all sin,
The darkness,
Lit only by candle light and the moon gleaming down upon that river,
As you stare deep,
Yet it is shallow for what you can see,
As the flames flicker,
The torches rage,
This may be the last time you see this beautiful sight,
For the town's people are out,
On this dark night,
They do not see the beauty,
Only the hatred they all feel,
For the witch amongst their children.
Copyright -
In the day
You find solace
By biting bleeding nails
Quick as you can to night

Draw your salt circle
Disrobe and dance rising swirls
Deliver the balm to pain
You're a mystical stole

Could only the sun sprites see
What mother moon sees in me

The light below that night herself enervates
Gray Jun 6
Some people think Ms. Rosemary is a witch
Even her clothes were somewhat kitsch
But she has the most polite set of manners
So can you blame her and her high standards?

Ms. Rosemary also sure loves to dance
Causing all who see her to go into a trance

Maybe that's why people have an itch
That Ms. Rosemary is a witch!
she in
jade pink
how smooth
her face
that let
her wink
and about
face a
seldom act
of depravity
is being
a triad  
but in
the mix
has her
wed to
vows untouched
a  little girl in a number
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