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Jade Nov 2023
Maybe he didn’t burn you
in the literal sense;
but gaslighting is its own
misogynistic brand of conflagration.
Francie Lynch Oct 2023
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.

But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.

It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.

Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.

Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.

They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften  stools.

They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.

They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.

The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”

The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.

They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.

When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.

They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Wrote this for my twin grandaughters, Brig and Ophelia. Ciaran is my grandson. The girls hate spiders. Probably moreso now.
In the depths of the night, where shadows creep,
Lie tales of darkness, so hauntingly deep.
A moon cloaked in mist, a chilling wind's wail,
Where spirits awaken, and courage may fail.

Beneath gnarled trees, a graveyard awakes,
Where restless souls wander, their rest at stake.
With hollowed eyes and whispers of despair,
They yearn for release from their eternal snare.

Amongst the tombstones, a figure does tread,
A specter in black, with a cloak like the dead.
Her name is Lilith, the mistress of fright,
With a wicked grin, she conjures the night.

"Oh! Hear my call," she whispers in the dark,
As she weaves her spells, leaving her mark.
Bats take to the sky, their wings spread wide,
Guiding lost souls, to the other side.

In the haunted manor, spirits do dwell,
Where echoes of laughter turn into a knell.
Ghostly footsteps echo down the hall,
As the present and past collide and enthrall.

The clock strikes midnight, the hour of dread,
When the veil between worlds grows thin, it is said.
Ghosts emerge from their slumber, seeking release,
Their ethereal presence, a haunting caprice.

In the flickering candlelight, shadows dance,
As witches gather, their potions enhance.
With cauldrons bubbling and spells on their lips,
They conjure enchantments, with mystical quips.

Oh! Beware the night, when the jack-o'-lanterns glow,
And spirits arise from the depths below.
For Halloween's magic, a captivating lure,
Where darkness and mystery forever endure.

So, as the moon rises, casting an eerie glow,
Embrace the enchantment, let your fears go.
For on this haunted eve, when the spirits unite,
We celebrate Halloween, in the shadows of night.

But tread carefully, for darkness is near,
And the spirits are watching, with ghoulish cheer.
Enjoy the thrill, the *****, and the fright,
On this chilling Halloween night.
Ashwin Kumar Jun 2023
You are seen as weird
People often call you "Loony"
But they couldn't be more wrong
Yes, you are indeed different
But then, every individual is unique
And I like you as you are
With all your pros and cons
Yes, you may believe in things
Which do not really exist
But then, who doesn't?
What truly matters
Is the fact that you are a beautiful human being
With a heart of gold
Who doesn't judge anyone
Sees people as they are
Doesn't shy away from speaking uncomfortable truths
Is modest to a fault
And last but not the least
Values friendship above everything else
You know, I can relate to you
I am also different
And got bullied for that
Just as you did
However, your mental strength is remarkable
After losing your mother at a very young age
That too due to a freak accident
You have shown the courage and fortitude
Not to mention, resilience and tenacity
To carry on with your life
Do your best to excel at magic
Display the natural curiosity and aptitude for learning
Which is expected of every Ravenclaw
Develop and sustain friendships
And finally, put your life on the line
In order to try and make the world a better place for all
You are not only a true Ravenclaw
But also possess the courage, nerve and daring of a Gryffindor
And the loyalty and sense of justice of a Hufflepuff
You only lack the cunning and ambition of a Slytherin
Not to mention, you were kidnapped and held hostage by Death Eaters
That too for a few months
And somehow emerged almost unscathed
After such a traumatic experience
You really are an incredible witch
Please remain the way you are
No matter what people say
And I will be a fan of yours
Until, as Neville would say, "Hell freezes over"
One of my favourite Harry Potter characters
Anais Vionet Feb 2022
Night witches own the dark, as they sweep the skies on their knotted broomsticks. They take to flight, in pairs, under waxing or new moons, when the sky is darkest, the stars at their dimmest and gloom the deepest. They steal souls, drink warm blood, gather teeth and fresh, human meat.

They drift, smoke-like, with noir-intent, chewing their charcoal treats in that imperfect silence that prickles with all the sounds of the earth: growing plants, creeping insects, rustling leaves, and shivering birds.

Although their stygian laughter is frequently mistaken for cat fighting, they are soundless, becoming the shadows that disturb, that draw startled glances from the periphery of vision.

In their dark-passing, a mother will check her sleeping children one more time - dogs will whimper and fathers, the hair on their neck standing, will check already-locked windows.

Are you meandering out this night - to walk the dog or check the mail? If so, look to the sky. A little decision can be the worst mistake of your life.
BLT word of the day challenge: Meander means "to wander aimlessly or casually"
Elaenor Aisling Sep 2021
My sisters and I jest
That men never get over us.
We have been named
Muses, angels, succubi, leanan sidhe
But we are les belles dames avec merci
And that is their undoing.
Our breath has left them gasping
With unfilled lungs
We never meant to be their oxygen
But they drink us in like drowning men.

We didn’t ask for this,
But disarming, we are soft enough
For them to float in
Belly up, eyes to distant stars
Singing the sirens song that stirs in our veins.

Behind our teeth rests the love
The world has failed to give them till now
There are holds in the knowledge
that our fingertips find the hollowed spaces,
mother wounds, clefts where trust was carved out,
And they clutch our palms to staunch the bleeding.

We never asked for this,
They cherish the brittle changelings of us
until they are crushed in the coals of our eyes
Eggshell ideals, fragile as egos.
Blown by the sea wind in the strands of our hair
they are scattered, undone.

The distance drifts between, inevitable
And full they turn away to starve
We cut the mooring line
After one too many storms,
And search
For safer
Sonorant Jul 2021
Banished before thon barren plains,
Where treacherous tears abstain
Fare. Fair is the waste,
The impurity of deep, decrepit weeds.
And dage brings fruit then touched
Only by their ravens of rot.
May they paint thine tainted stave
In golden garth and lull the lark;
“Mine, Sweet babe,
Robbed of cradle
Readied for ritual.
Mine, Sweet babe,
Gore masked black
Within the crimson bath.”
Lacen their throats, the gullets that gloat!
Lest langes of thorns, wrap the bairn sworn.
Death breeds glore o’er luid nights
Beldam rise belles in wicked repel.
Round the funeral pyre.
Jami Denton Feb 2021
May the willows grow through your dog cages.
May the mice die and rot where they lay.
Half-moons of black dirt once filled up my fingers.
Prayed more than once for owls to carry you away.
No longer my ritual to clear sludge from the spillway
as your orchards grow barren
weeds cover your everything,
And mushrooms lay seeds
in your brain.
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