Witches and Their Familiars

Holiday Poems


Felines are the usual suspects

curling long tails at black robe's

hem. An occasional ghoul conjured

from eye of newt in a cauldron

brimming with bat wings and snake

scales will serve as fiend friend

for the proverbial dark night's

walk in a cursed and haunted wood.


Nearby brooms, the peferred mode

for flying across brilliant orange

moons, wait for summons from

cobwebbed corners. Wands are for

wizzards and warlocks, witches

have long curved half rotted nails

with which to skewer their targets.


All of this has been built around

the  persona of witches to frighten

the easily, and not so easily, frightened.

Thus, magic inspired horror filled eyes

of seven year olds freeze open, filled

with whatever their macabre imaginations

vomit from the mind.


Steam from witch's brew, thick as fog,

rises white from boiling spider's legs

and beheaded rat's gizzards. Of a sudden,

seen from wavering shadows caused

by the glow of hot coals, faces so heinous,

so-wart-a-chin, so wrinkled, hairs rise

at the nape of every neck. Always

foul air is split by hellish cackles as

the prereqistie three witches moan

familiar oft cast spells.


The cat's coat is sleek, the deepest

ebony. Her back humped as if about

to leap at her mistress's command.

Owls in cages are backup for frogs

croaking to be freed. Moss on the

walls oozes putrid water dark as blood.

Newts, not liking their chances, do

whatever it is that terrified newts

do. Macbeth never had a chance.







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