Art and Poetry – Witch in the 'Burbs

Slip Your Hands …

This post was originally written on June 26, 2014. I’m in the process of revamping/revising some of my older posts. (Side note: I did not continue this work with Hecate. I felt it was not in my best interest to dive into Her energies at the time.) If you’ve been around the world of the Occult, Witchcraft, magic(k) and the like for a good amount of time, you’ve probably explored a little bit of what we tend to call “Folkloric Witchcraft.” (Sarah Anne Lawless’ blog is a great place for info on that, if you’re interested.) And because of that time

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We Are Always Here

  If you’ve been reading the blog at all, you know that I’ve had all kinds of poetry come flowing out of me. I’ve done this before, but only when depressed or unhappy. Now, it happens regardless of my mood. Some things I publish, some I don’t. But the essential truth here is that “poetry is magic and magic is poetry.” This mystical inspiration thing that has been happening lately is much more tangible than it has been before. I also hear things as I’m drifting off to sleep. This has happened before and its not at all unusual to

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Witchfather, Master

He who dwells in the wind, Breath of life, Giver of power, Master of magic, Auld Harney, Pater Satyr, Witch Father, Rise from the depths, Move from the corners, Writhe from the shadows, Converge in our souls, Make us ripe With the movement of teeming life. Feyaddynn

I Am That

I am the root that digs the earth; I am the earth that holds the water; I am the water that falls from the sky; I am the sky glistening with stars; I am the stars shining in darkness; I am the darkness in which life is born; I am the birthing of all things; I am the things that are born and live and die; I am the death that restores the soul; I am the soul that is reborn; I am the reborn that lives again; I am the living that lies on the earth; I am the

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Only Darkness Understood

I stand beneath the gates of change And look upon His face. I see the light betwixt his horns And know the spirits of place. I see the gate swing open wide And the hedgerow sink beneath, As I hold the stang in my left hand And draw the knife from its sheath. Dead was I, and within the grave, Dead but alive again. Dead was I, and within the grave, The child of Tubal Cain. Dead was I, and within the grave, But tonight I am born anew. Dead was I, and within the grave, But I gather to

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