Poppets

I often think,
We are bundles of hay,
Fashioned by unseen hand,
By stitch and Hessian jute,
Into vaguely living things,
Soulless effigies,
Voodoo dolls,
With vacant button eyes,

Existence is a witch,
And she casts spells through us,
To create breath through herb and cloth,
It’s a curious form of magic,
Unpredictable yet sympathetic,
She often pierces us with crooked pins,
But it draws no blood,
For we are but poppets.

Dispelled

To an unassuming sun,
I awoke to some disturbing chill,
An inner cold I couldn’t place,
As if something intrinsic had dissipated,
My colours were dimmed,
My routines felt hollow,
My quills edge dulled,

All felt artificial,
My skin turned grey,
My eyes marring to silver orbs,
Like an unfinished fetish,
The magic was gone,
Supressed perhaps,
But for now out of reach,

The cause eluded me,
Had I wronged some witch?
Been bedevilled by some curse?
I knew not,
But the outcome was the same,
My own sorcery,
It’d been cruelly dispelled.

Night Watchman

The moon has only one companion,
To which she shows her whole menagerie,
The Night Watchman,
With lamp and cudgel in hand,
He snakes through the alleys,
A silent and aged guardian,

He sees everything the night does wield,
Shadows hiding just around every corner,
Spectres waltzing in the city smog,
An orchestra of human dreams in the air,
Cats playing tag up on the guttering,
Unholy chants from the sewer grates,

These things were not to be witnessed,
A lesser man would go mad,
But he is the moons companion,
She embraces him with these gifts,
To be witnessed in lowlight,
To show there is magic at night,

And when the morn comes,
And his shift ends,
He goes silently back to his hovel,
He’ll never tell of the night,
For he is only to watch,
He’ll keep her secrets.

Blood Magic

Encircled by black candles,
I began the incantation tonight,
With my bladed consort,
Feeling her soft kiss,
From wrist to chelidon,
Leaving pools of mana on the altar,

Amidst chants of grunting pain,
Casting the magic,
Releasing the wine,
Just ripe for the showpieces of the damned,
Finger painting on the walls,
Pinot in the chalices,

There is such art in this sorcery,
Haemoglobin,
Cruor,
Lifeblood,
And the dramatic flair of it all,
The ultimate form of magic.

Last Spell

I have written poetry all of my life,
Intermittently over the years,
Playing at mastery,
Playing with sorcery,
Little magic spells,
Cast not with crystal and wand,
But with quill and felt tip,
Art that enchants this golem,

Enchantments wear though,
And one day,
One fateful day,
I shall write my final poem,
Cast my last spell,
And nobody,
Not even I,
Shall know when it shall be.

Eros Arcana

In this secular world,
If there’s one mystical object that exists,
It has to be the human heart,
And the mana of love that excites it,
This arcana,
This magic is undeniably powerful,
It can restore ones faith in humanity,
It can pit friends against one another,
It can ensorcell one against their best interests,
Even bring a jubilant man to tears,

Yet we risk the spellbinding pain,
For the elation can be commensurate,
But remember this,
Once the charm is cast,
It’s next to impossible to dispel it wholesale.

Locket

I remember a girl,
An acquaintance,
She received a locket for her twentieth,
A gift from her ailing mother,
And from her grandma before her,
Passed down through generations,
Women across the centuries,
Like a relic of Salem witches,

A silver ravens skull holding a crescent,
Amethysts set into its eyes,
Into this token of quicksilver,
She fused all of her hopes,
All of her dreams,
Infused in her most lonesome nights,
They blended with the dreams of her foremothers,
A gossamer tether through the ages,

I do wonder,
When and if the time comes,
Will she too bequeath it to a daughter?
Add a new link to the chain,
I would hope so,
It’d be a shame for this feminine connection to end,
For the locket to be lost,
Forgotten in the mists.

Witch Of White

I have a friend abroad,
A dutiful witch of white,
To whom I owe praise,
You’ve been there for some time,
Though we have never shaken hands,
With your advice and your Dermot Kennedy,
Your temperance and your magic,

You speak to me on electrical channels,
In the wise chords of shamans,
Reaching miles under moonlight,
Even across wave and cliff,
The words and incantations still reach,
Like owls upon the wing,
A true friend.

Thank you Mel.

Scrying Glass

Oh to have a scrying glass,
An obsidian mirror,
Like a witch in a tower,
To peer upon its surface like calm water,
To see across mountains and eons,
To see conversations elsewhere,
To hear music not yet written,

I’d love to be a raven,
In the trees of another’s mind,
Watching and eavesdropping,

I’d love to be a spirit,
In the attic of another’s home,
Learning of their life,

I’d love to be a diviner,
To read the auguries of another’s future,
From my plum tent on the hill,

To be not restricted to one pair of eyes,
I gaze at the mirrors face,
I just want to see what others see,
How are their days going?
What charges their souls with vim?
Do they speak of me?
What whispers to them in their solitude?

Fae Walk

I took a walk with the fae last night,
Not a moment past midnight,
They stole me away,
Upon sorcerous wing,
To play in their viridian realms,
A rabbit hole in my dreams,
A place akin to madness,
Enchanting in its wrongness,

Passing sylphic springs and gingerbread cottages,
The path was like a forest unrestrained,
Ferns and oaks and elementals,
Brambles and Seelie and redcaps,
Unseen by mortals,
Where all kinds of impossible things reside,
Somehow greener than green,
More wild than any notion of nature,

It left an imprint on my mind,
A gift from fairies,
Perhaps a key to visit again,
And even as I awaken,
The dreaming remains,
And my footprints grow ivy and fungi.