Venefica

The will of the Church
to oppress, to accuse, to enact
the auto-de-fé.
An apocalyptic witchcraft
exemplified by wild nature,
a cipher for the bedevilled enemy.
Opposition is not just destroying
the mythic structure.
The Church gave man
nature to despoil.
The difficulty is one eye on the laws,
hair raising pronouncements,
misanthropy, foolish attack.
We live in a disenchanted world.
Fear us, the power of the witch
will not be disarmed.
Witchcraft, malefica, is the strong face
we show to this world.
Fight poison with poison.

1/22/2016
Found poem constructed from a section of the first chapter in Apocalyptic Witchcraft by Peter Grey

Conquistadora

It seems my ship's run aground.
Time to explore the land I found.
Let's disembark and set up camp.
Hurry up, boy!  Set up the ramp!
I'll forge a path with my machete.
My name will eclipse Dante Rossetti.
We'll capture savages and steal gold.
My crew will tell you, it never gets old.
I am the blood of the conquistadora.
Whatever I want, I'll do it ahora.
I know no bounds and wear no chains.
I'll clear it all, until nothing remains.
I've always known I was meant to lead.
Enemies beware,  I'll make you bleed.




Modified English sonnet for the suckers.
Also I'm pissed as soldier ant right now.  I'm ready to prove anyone wrong about anything.  Yes, it's one of those nights.

No One Knows

She cries out

And no one hears her;

A radio broadcast

Without receivers.

A silent “MAYDAY!”
“MAN DOWN!  MAN DOWN!”

Jill went up as Jack went down.

No one knows he’s lost his crown.

She’s falling apart,

Inside out.

She fights herself,

She fights self doubt.

The fight unyielding,

Yet, death toll low,

But united she does not stand.

No one will know, she will not show.

Raise up that white flag;

Wind tears tattered bits.

Thunderous crashes of the sea,

Our lady is prone to fits.

A green lady, a lost symbol,

Falls to her cold knees.

Her crown cracks.

She grieves.

A meaningless banter,

The daily routine,

Once proud and respected

Now, cruel and mean.

Nitpick each word, each letter…

“It’s wrong!”  “Take it to court!”

Burn down our fort, it’s better.

White is the kettle.

White as the pot.

Her mindless anger

Is hot to trot.

She’s unzipping.

Her seems are ripping.

The coins are flipping.

Her spirits are dipping.

She does not know.

She has no help.

It might be better, if only she spoke.

The cards are dealt.

It’s not her fault.

It’s ours, not hers.

We’ve made her what she is.

We are everyone, but we throw racial slurs.

Centuries she’s been alive,

But still she’s young and bold.

But secrets, no child should know,

She keeps her lips shut, eyes cold.

She will not relent.

She plots against foes.

And still,

No one knows.

2006