Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Muse Jul 2017
Oh Ancient One of times long ago
Your many faces we long to know
Oh horned one of wild woods
He who stalks on cloven hooves

We call to you Youth of the trees
We hear your name sung on the breeze
Horned Prince,Hunter,and Prey
Rising Sun of a new day

Oh Ancient One of times long ago
Your many faces we long to know
Oh horned one of wild woods
He who stalks on cloven hooves

We call to you Lord of the hunt
We see your face in the forest Ancient
Horned King,Father,and Man
Midday Sun in which we stand

Oh Ancient One of times long ago
Your many faces we long to know
Oh horned one of wild woods
He who stalks on cloven hooves

We call to you Sage of the wild
We seek your wisdom for we are like child
Horned Shaman, Hermit, and King
Setting Sun and darkness you bring


Oh Ancient One of times long ago
Your many faces we long to know
Oh horned one of wild woods
He who stalks on cloven hooves
blushing prince Jun 2017
It’s no longer burn the witch
it’s drown the ******
purity only attainable when it’s served
as a death dessert, martyr Mary
do you understand TV dinners
made the housewife go extinct
or berserk, I think that’s how it goes
catching their heads in ovens as protest
but listening came in through the door
as a catcall, festering on ottoman chairs
smoking that new cigarette with a cautionary
tale at bedtime
the ends  being ground, like the beef
that we’re all guilty of starting between
sighs, or the coffee beans blistered
trying to come up with an excuse as to why
high heels won’t break that man’s spine,
and it won’t in that new suit he’s so possessive of
because he paid for it with the sweat of his back
as the gaggle of his fellow businessmen
scuffle over who gets to lick the perspiration
that earned him that respect, that bought
the privilege of feeling like a man that stands out
from the wolves in offices, waiting at midnight
for the froth to begin to foam and to
claw at reasons why the bed is always empty
when he’s everything everyone wants to be
and I think you begin to sympathize,
I think you begin to understand why
balancing a ballpoint pen between your
forefinger and thumb is equally as
drinking the cup half full
the modern man with his chiseled teeth
and overt way of speaking throws
up at the American Dream, standing
naked in the glory of publicity fame
there’s too much lights, the makeup
is too intense
the crown of jezebels
Belongs to the hardworking man
with the unkempt lawn, and the
natural features of a god
it’s no longer burn the witch
it’s freeze the *****
while they stand flirting
with the boondocks trapping
fireflies and weak Christians
in their hair
and will you listen to me now?
as the hordes of provoked
believers stand in crowded
bars and in your own home
******* themselves mentally
as they chew and spit
into each other’s mouth
what they’ve always wanted to hear
and the pleasure comes from
not knowing and not wanting to know
and will you touch me now?
that the fantasy is created in your own image
and will you worship me now?
that I agree with these shackles
telling me that they were always meant to be there
that ******* is next to holiness
and will you accept me now?
that the book has been rewritten
and the villain is not you nor me
but the refrigerator with the lizard
that tempted humankind and
banished them from ever entering paradise again
and will you **** me now?
that comedy is only worth in whoever
has the longest tongue
in order to understand you must first listen.
Vivian g May 2017
Sipping on swamp water
Chewing on moss
The kelpies weep when she's away
Armani May 2017
I am a witch
I cast spells
I command magic
My craft is humble
And yet
And yet
I've been told to burn
I am peaceful
I wish no harm
I've seen too much hurt
But now
But now
I will control the ocean
I will destroy the moon
I will harness the wind
I will crush the mountains
Because
Because
They cannot respect
They do not understand
I will refuse to look down
When I am hugged by flames
Neon Robinson May 2017
The
'I' ~ 'we' ~ 'two' ~ 'three'
That can be told.

– Is not the

"Me" ~ "Us" ~ 'dichotomy'

… of threefold myth-informed souls
living the 9 + 2 = 5
tragedy.
A commentary on the strange ways of the world and society
tesawor May 2017
So many of my brothers and sisters,
Didn't make it to the other side.
Butchered because of their beliefs,
By agents of the faith we decried.
DblNickel May 2017
I've been cursed by a witch,
blessed by a pope,
traveled the seven seas,
cheated death thrice,
angel-saved twice,
and now reside in Tennessee.
I wrote this in 2004 when I was attending college in Johnson City TN, and it was the beginning of my life documented by verse.

Everything in this is true.
Arcassin B May 2017
By Arcassin Burnham

...And still today I'm sitting in my own personal
Hell awaiting your touch blazed in a firey mist of
******* of my list of mistakes that I've dealt with
Cause life's what I made it out to be, turning the
Other cheek to every situation that follows me,
Reflecting the doubts and opinions that creep with
Ease,
I see beauty in every direction and corner that forms
A sense of freedom for all of us to share running
Through the trees,

/

The witches brew running all over your skin,
Mixing up the potion just to settle world's end,
I wish we could have made it a lot better then,
We're at ground zero and there's really no defense.
©abpoetry2017
http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2017/05/wings-awakening-official.html
jack of spades May 2017
My hands cut through the sand of your manicured beaches like shards of broken glass,
each heaving breath rattling the rune stones in my lungs and the
manacles made of debris around my ankles and wrists.
Foaming waves sprint up the shore to surround me, the undertow hooking
its arm around my waist in a way that is more comforting than your touch ever was.

“I’m done with you,” you’d said, and in the same breath told me that I bore you,
that I am a two-trick dog too old to learn anything new, and that you’re
off to bigger and better things than me.
The salt on my tongue is sweeter than your words
as the ocean churns through me, asking to drag me from the shore.

I contemplate.
A battering from the sea is better than every second I spent
wrapped around your finger, pinkies raised to a toast before your bellowed “Bottom’s up!”
crashed around me, a collision of waves that none of my magics could ever keep at bay.
Go away, go away, go away-- but kings don’t take orders from petty thieves,
so you locked me in the dungeons of my own heart until I took up too much space,
until I was nothing more than another scrap to pollute your ***** ocean.
You shackled me with the plastic that chokes gulf birds and dead rose thorns
and I don’t think either one of us had ever
expected me to survive, but here I am, tides washing me of every haunting touch.

“Water witch,” your chorus had mocked me, but now I call upon the ocean to save me.
Anticipation rises with the waves on the horizon, a wall of a tsunami heading towards me,
towards you, towards every photograph you ever kept of me and the ashes I made of my copies.
Earth will channel her forces and I will direct them towards you,
a biblical flood that will wipe your smug smiles and crooked lies away until they vaporize
and form clouds for your court to paint pictures out of.

Didn’t you realize? I’m a hurricane that just hasn’t been named yet,
and you’re no longer the apple of my peaceful eye.

I’m a water witch, the one who calmed currents to keep you afloat
and misted the air with your favorite summer rains,
the one who made your gardens and your fields grow.

You only ever saw me as a puddle, a murky mirror that hid your own blemishes but
this reflection is at its end.  You only ever saw me as a puddle, but I am
the goddess of the seven seas.
I am the rain and I am the atmosphere.
I am in your lungs and your words and you have forced my hand:
I am the humidity that saps the strength from your bones,
I am the sweat that beads on your forehead from your fruitless labor,
I am the summer storms that precede tornados,
and I am the hurricane on the horizon, the waves that will crash and tumble around your home.

My hands cut through your bruised and littered beaches like the
shards of glass you left in my skin,
digging twisting shapes that will summon the spirits of the water
that only I and my ancestors can master.

On the horizon, waves begin to rise.
from 2015
Next page