A Dryad’s Mourning

March 7, 2021

A distant scratching, a twisted burl cries out, the woodland’s lost its lore
deformed and rotting roots re-curl all about, the woodland’s lost its lore.

Once a healthy growing landscape, its breath so clean and pure, transformed,
now, it collects mankind’s waste, no haven devote, the woodland’s lost its lore.

Long gone the plush, fine fingered moss, the flecked lichen’s lace tracery,
large tracts of forest huddle defaced, staked-out, the woodland’s lost its lore.

With plastic bags the boughs are draped, glass bottles scar its glacial scree,
man’s defiled a holy place, where new life sprouts, the woodland’s lost its lore.

Once fresh streams are fouled with waste, the water’s now a deadly place,
no nymphs guard the springs, now; there’s drought, the woodland’s lost its lore.

No dryad lives in ash or oak; the elm’s long gone; the birches shiver.
I mourn the God’s of dawn, in trepidation I shout, the woodland’s lost its lore.

Deborah Guzzi

classic vampire

March 7, 2021

When Bram Stoker wrote his classic, Dracula, he could not have known what a sensation he would create. All that was evil became embodied in the body of a dead man who had come to life before an enthralled reading audience. It was not the first vampire tale — stories of vampires go back centuries in one form or another across cultures the world over — but it did popularize the mythic monster to a horrified public. Many versions of the oft-told tale continue to this day and vampire movies and television series are more popular than ever. What is this fascination with such a horrid monster?

There is something about the vampire that lures us. Could it be its power? Dracula, the quintessential vampire, had the strength of twenty men and had the hypnotic ability to lure people into his influence. Could it be its shapeshifting ability? Dracula had the ability to change shape at will, including the ability to change into mist. Could it be the idea of immortality? Humans have always longed for immortality; most religions speak of an afterlife that promotes the idea of immortality. Some psychologists have suggested instead that there is some sort of sexual appeal to the bloodletting of classic vampires. Or could the vampire represent something more primeval, that we are fascinated by the dark side and all that is evil, of which the vampire is a symbol, a form of temptation that religions warn us against?

Peter Jekel
Creatures of the Night


March 7, 2021

I’m Over the Moon

March 7, 2021

I don’t like what the moon is supposed to do.
Confuse me, ovulate me,

spoon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient
date-rape drug. So I’ll howl at you, moon,

I’m angry. I’ll take back the night. Using me to
swoon at your questionable light,

you had me chasing you,
the world’s worst lover, over and over

hoping for a mirror, a whisper, insight.
But you disappear for nights on end

with all my erotic mysteries
and my entire unconscious mind.

How long do I try to get water from a stone?
It’s like having a bad boyfriend in a good band.

Better off alone. I’m going to write hard
and fast into you, moon, face-fucking.

Something you wouldn’t understand.
You with no swampy sexual

promise but what we glue onto you.
That’s not real. You have no begging

cunt. No panties ripped off and the crotch
sucked. No lacerating spasms

sending electrical sparks through the toes.
Stars have those.

What do you have? You’re a tool, moon.
Now, noon. There’s a hero.

The obvious sun, no bullshit, the enemy
of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures.

But my lovers have never been able to read
my mind. I’ve had to learn to be direct.

It’s hard to learn that, hard to do.
The sun is worth ten of you.

You don’t hold a candle
to that complexity, that solid craze.

Like an animal carcass on the road at night,
picked at by crows,

taunting walkers and drivers. Your face
regularly sliced up by the moving

frames of car windows. Your light is drawn,
quartered, your dreams are stolen.

You change shape and turn away,
letting night solve all night’s problems alone.

Brenda Shaughnessy

in tongues of praise

March 7, 2021

Love demands expression. It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and not heard, no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high note that smashes the glass and spills the liquid. It is no conservationist love. It is a big game hunter and you are the game. A curse on this game. How can you stick at a game when the rules keep changing?

Jeanette Winterson
Written on the Body

Tomorrow and Tomorrow…

March 7, 2021

This says it all!
Remember to recharge her before the party…
The doctor will see you now…
With the right protective gear, you’ll still be able to walk on the poisoned Earth…

Probably good advice…?

Phantasie conjures the witch as a nubile temptress, adept at the use of feminine power to overthrow male virtue: a daughter of Eve and Old Eden’s Serpent. Here, she is pictured naked, her moon-pale body encircled by the scarlet coils of the Snake, or yet mantled in green: in her left hand is a chalice and in her right a flensed human skull. Because her sorcerous proclivity is seduction, she is sometimes accompanied by an image of the human heart, bound with knotted cord; or with a phial of poison and diverse Herbs of Venus. This type of witch of necessity includes the venefica or poisoner, as well as the fricatrix, or ‘woman who rubs’, known for her erogenous application of intoxicating unguents.

Daniel A. Schulke
The Light Heretical

weep for Narcissus

March 7, 2021

The alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.

The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.

But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.

He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.

‘Why do you weep?’ the goddesses asked.

‘I weep for Narcissus,” the lake replied.

‘Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus,’ they said, ‘for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand.’

‘But… was Narcissus beautiful?’ the lake asked.

‘Who better than you to know that?’ the goddesses asked in wonder. ‘After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!’

The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:

‘I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.’

‘What a lovely story,’ the alchemist thought.”

Paulo Coelho
The Alchemist

At Sunset

March 6, 2021

Your death must be loved this much.

You have to know the grief — now.
Standing by the water’s edge,

looking down at the wave

touching you. You have to lie,
stiff, arms folded, on a heap of earth

and see how far the darkness

will take you. I mean it, this, now —
before the ghost the cold leaves

in your breath, rises;

before the toes are put together
inside the shoes. There it is — the goddamn

orange-going-into-rose descending

circle of beauty and time.
You have nothing to be sad about.

Jason Shinder

Full Moon Invocation

March 6, 2021

Mother, Goddess of moon and star,
Bring your presence from afar,
Manifest on this, Your night,
and bless me in this sacred rite!
Grant the knowledge and clarity,
to understand Your words to me.
Lend Your power, send Your light,
Aid me in my work tonight!
With love and wisdom please embrace,
All within this sacred space.
Mother, I now call to you,
Bring Your message clear and true!

Autumn Rose