Post by vulture on Apr 24, 2019 22:11:10 GMT -6
I look
about at my
handiwork
spiders crawl
the bannister
and the wall, too
fuzzy wuzzy
critters of purple
and black hobby fur
or plush velvet
webs festoon
the front door
fat purple
plastic arachnids
march down the frame
among the gossamer threads
a grapevine wreath
graces the door
ensnaring a collection
of flying bats
and hissing cats
in shades of onyx
and jet rubber interspersed
with pale floating ghosts
and a host of leering pumpkins
bemused I muse to myself
trite decorations to honor
this magical solemn occasion
the ancient ones among us
remember best as Samhain
or El dia de Muertos
the ancient ones
those among us
still harboring memories
of when witches took to the sky
on simple brooms of straw and wood
sweeping the face of the moon
with gleeful abandon
cackling in joyous unison
revered crones
they remember
when we used a broom
for more than something
to sweep the floor
of a room
I envy them!
gladly I would wear
the quilted map work
of wrinkles they sport
for one solid memory
of freely sweeping
the face
of the moon
with a broom...
I rue the night
I was born
a New Age witch
now, all we do
is cast simple spells
shake loud spills
of auger bones
from cups of stone
read the cards
practice a bit
of white or green
healing magic
feats any self-respecting
gypsy could accomplish!
but, once upon a time
into the indigo field
of the star shot sky
we could soar without a care
one night out of the year
and the other three
hundred and sixty-fours days
of the year? we lived
for the next Halloween
when the coven
could do it
all over again
-Vulture
10/13/2009
about at my
handiwork
spiders crawl
the bannister
and the wall, too
fuzzy wuzzy
critters of purple
and black hobby fur
or plush velvet
webs festoon
the front door
fat purple
plastic arachnids
march down the frame
among the gossamer threads
a grapevine wreath
graces the door
ensnaring a collection
of flying bats
and hissing cats
in shades of onyx
and jet rubber interspersed
with pale floating ghosts
and a host of leering pumpkins
bemused I muse to myself
trite decorations to honor
this magical solemn occasion
the ancient ones among us
remember best as Samhain
or El dia de Muertos
the ancient ones
those among us
still harboring memories
of when witches took to the sky
on simple brooms of straw and wood
sweeping the face of the moon
with gleeful abandon
cackling in joyous unison
revered crones
they remember
when we used a broom
for more than something
to sweep the floor
of a room
I envy them!
gladly I would wear
the quilted map work
of wrinkles they sport
for one solid memory
of freely sweeping
the face
of the moon
with a broom...
I rue the night
I was born
a New Age witch
now, all we do
is cast simple spells
shake loud spills
of auger bones
from cups of stone
read the cards
practice a bit
of white or green
healing magic
feats any self-respecting
gypsy could accomplish!
but, once upon a time
into the indigo field
of the star shot sky
we could soar without a care
one night out of the year
and the other three
hundred and sixty-fours days
of the year? we lived
for the next Halloween
when the coven
could do it
all over again
-Vulture
10/13/2009
