Formerly Badass Horrible Poetry

This isn't just a poetry blog. Let's be honest, a lot of what I post is poetry but there are more often than not also postings about short stories. I do try to keep this blog separate from my others and post strictly creative work here. Some of it will be better than others, and much of it is in first or second draft stage when posted. These are raw works, and there will be spelling and grammar troubles at times because I use this blog to gauge what works and what doesn't. I use it as a place to get feedback. That's the reason it is "horrible". Because it's not finished-- And why should it be? We all want feedback but most of us are too afraid to put ourselves out there.

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Friday, February 20, 2015

Dances Can be Rosy - Unfinished compillation of work

Dances Can be Rosy                                                                        an unfinished compillation of stories, poems and journal entries from Fictional 1662

First of May, 1662

            I could never have imagined that this could happen. Mine own friends and I are witnessing trials, brought on by ourselves, because we made merry in the woods. I fear we took too long to realize our error and the beast we brought forth that night.
            I have long lived in a manner befitting a maid in the colonies. I attend church each mass. I dress plainly in natural tones, nor do I embellish my aprons with flowers from the pasture, as some of the other girls do. I shroud my hair, which is pulled neatly up, into a simple bonnet. But, forgive me, I wandered into the woods of Windsor that day. It started with a small fire over which we were to cook our meal. We settled not far from a planters patch below several leafy trees and a couple tall pines. I remember Cassandra say, in passing, that she felt eyes watching her, but Emma dismissed it, and so we all took our hair down and slipped off our stockings. From the planting patch we dug out a few carrots and clipped some raspberries from a nearby bush, and combined it all together to create a fine stew, with the meat we had brought with us. Emma said it reminded her of a witches brew and I remember, at the time, we laughed. We felt so far, away in the woods, eating our harvest stew. Cassandra hummed a tune and, ever lively, Emma began pounding her fists in the soil. It trembled like a heart beat and soon we found ourselves shedding our over dresses to move faster around the flames. I know we went in a group, but I cannot remember who else was there – only Emma’s laughter and Cassandra’s voice as it rang through the hollow. We felt not like witches, but like birds, trilling around in the free-floating air. But how am I to know how a witch feels? Mayhap that is how witches come to be aloft on the wind, where dances can be rosy.
            I did not think to conjure a spirit… nor had I dreamt I ever could. But I know that as we girls wove amongst each other there came another. T’was inhuman and foul in stench. It’s head seemed carved of the trees and the earth and horns crowned his brow. His body was that of a mans. Lean and milky, as if it had hardly seen sunlight. He wore tattered cloth about his middle but because we had long been intoxicated on the movement we pulled on them like harpies. I restrained myself from his wildness, but some of the girls did not. I shudder to think who and feel trepidation that the part of my memory that knows is blank. I know that when I ran, trailing my petticoats behind me like a banner, many girls remained with this unhandsome creature. I fear they pleased this devil, and I am bonded among them.
            I fear most especially. The trials I have seen set in the past are gruesome. Perhaps they force me into the water, to test my ability to witchcraft? Long before I sailed upon the shores of New England I hath learned to wade in lagoons and stretch my arms and legs around me, in the deep islands of the West Indies. If floating be a witches crime then I know of a whole slew of island that must be burned at the stake. If I tell the truth, that I am no witch, they will test me, and if they test me by water I can either drown or float my way to death. What shall I do little book? It was not I that summoned the demon, though I was there. I will have to wait to see if the other girls say anything.

To whisper to Emma
Of old ways
Whence come I
Maw said not to mention
So I did hide our collection
Druidic poems
Are to be memorized
Then burned from
The scraps of paper.
Never preserved.
Memory seared and branded
Calligraphy in hearts
Never mentioned
I saw when did maw
Prevent the spread of infection
When a lass and her mother
Asleep did mine rinse
And she plucked
At the skin puckering a girl’s leg
At the browning edges
And when both awoke
The cut-saw was harried away.
From that furrowed home we were driven
They cared not that the girl
Was alive. We druids will
Always be witches
And so must hide.
But Emma, I thought
I could trust…
Now she is the one
Setting a spell
Now we’ve all been drawn in
To a Christian hell
She knows she saw
And I know she did
The lad in the mask
And the disguise that had
Hidden his face
Broken in contact to a burnt away gaze.
By the water trough
I saw him quite clearly
And heard their voices draw close
She told him to meet
Out that same day
And told him something
I ought never to name.
We arrived at the grove
And picked herbs
Mint leaves and clove
And when evening sat
On the thick of our backs
Emma shot out a laugh
She urged us strip down
And dig into a feast
And when we were whirling she summoned
This beast. He affected me greatly
This Sun king boy
With his sinewy arms
And brown ale eyes drawn.
I have not the pit of sin in my gut
For I have ne’er believed sin can pass
But I fear of the common folk
This fear of the wild
Their obsession with sinners and dream-folks and vile
They scare me bad
Not for the demons
Not the fires, nor hell
But that they think I control
Such flowering minds.
I heard Emma’s version
And saw how she dreaded to face me today.
I saw her finger flexed out to reach me.
But I’m quick and will tell lies to sustain me
Admit fault
Plead plainly
And repent for good
That they preach.
Then mother and I
In moonlight shall steal
Far away and start up
Again, by the new year.
Here’s to hoping I see dawn’s breath tonight
If not, please stars
Avenge me, my plight.

From a Beech tree climb
I spied I spied
The girls a falling
To rumble between the trees
They whirled around
As I peered down
Hair tumbled to ground
To the floor of the woods

Back to floor forest still
I spied I spied
And the bonfire roared
And beckoned me toward
Where girls met
And to where fingers twined
Petty coats shorn and their hair
Flowing absent of bind

The dark one, Cassandra
I spied I spied
Her eyes making blue fire
Each iris a pyre
I stumbled approach
And I held myself back
Till I noticed the mud
Fingering my bootstrap

The gooey grit mess
I spied I spied
And I handled a glob
And I coated my face
And with such a disguise
My direction was laced
As a finishing touch I did adorn
Berry blood war paint and pinecones for horns

Till I trudged through trees
They spied They spied
And they unbuttoned my figure
As I theirs with our eyes
There was nary a demon
Combed through the woods
On that Beltane day
Only me- and manhood
At the bond fire play
The girls took my hands
And they coddled my feet
And embers whipped toes
Till all twirls were complete
I played the king
But none knew it was me
Libations we drank
For once we felt free.

“Monsters and witchcraft”
I lied, I lied
But I’ll burn at the stake
If they knew of my kind
Safe to stay shut, not nobler I fear
Tell the judge I’ve no notion
Of dancing or iris aflame
And for whoever burns
I may dance with their graves.


I have thought of a game
A game?
Yes a game
How do you play?
The game?
Play the game…
One of us will be bad
So the others are good?
We’ll need someone tall
With a mask
And a hood.
When we are done the bells will ring blindly
Are more people involved?
Yes, but you must stand beside me.
There’s a witch broken loose
I have seen her myself
We must lure her out
For the village’s health
How will it begin?
As all does in fire.
We’ll smoke the evil one out
and each win our greatest desire.
But how can we win against such a foe?
You go in, and you snatch it
Or lure them in
With a candle half lit
I’m scared
Don’t be, its not real no one gets hurt
Except for the sacrifice
Or what would the dreams
Even be worth?

©2015 Lex Vex

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