Coven

girl with red hair

 

“Go and get the girl.”

At the sight of her, the women shouted their cries and catcalls.

“She makes men fall to their feet!” cried one.

“She sings the songs of the wicked!” shrieked another.

“She does the black magic!” still another persisted.

“It’s true because she has the red hair of the devil’s wife!”  This from someone on the girl’s left.

“Yes, the devil’s wife!”  This echoed from someone on the girl’s right.

“His filthy bride—a red-haired demon she is!”

They dragged her to the chair and then flocked around.  The flames from the torches lurched and pitched, their crackling lights lengthening the shadows of the gathered into grotesque shapes. The oldest among them, Prudence, separated herself from the group.  “We are all in agreement then?”

The women nodded, and then kneeled.

“Our red-haired sister, we are at your service.”

Behind the drape of her long red hair, the girl looked up and smiled.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.  © ELIZABETH MICHAUD JOHN

The Naming of Her

The night begins with darkest spell

She calls forth demons from deepest hell

She sends them out to do her will

They venture off into night’s chill

 

They set about in secret search

Upon the shadows they hunch, they lurch

But their mistress’s wish they do fulfill

And bring to her much treasured ills:

 

A pint of blood, a pound of flesh

A heart ripped from a tender chest;

Screams of innocents bottled tight

And eyes bereft of all their sight…

 

With incantation now complete

While black cat purrs at her feet

The evil bidding stirs her soul

Intent as dark and black as coal

 

She chants her words for all to hear

And one by one, they fall in fear

Her whispered words consume them all

She stands, she laughs, she lets them fall

 

With her curse her victims writhe

Her spell a scourge by which they’ll die

The night is pierced by screams and pleas

But their wretched souls are hers to seize

 

And with her bounty of skin and bone

With withered souls that moan and groan

She steals her way into the night

And cackles oft with all her might—

 

To her dark prince of down below

These bloody gifts she does bestow;

For evil’s trouble he grants a wish:

He calls her hag, trickster and

Witch.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © ELIZABETH MICHAUD JOHN

The Wind is His Messenger

photo credit: june atkin studio

 

Wind howls at my window

And shrieks a little more

It rattles against the window pane

An ill and frightening score

 

Night cloaks its intentions

Darkness is its friend

It screams its way through the trees

I sense my time at end

 

The wind is his apprentice

It does as it is told

It whips a message through the air

And makes my blood run cold

 

The wind will do his bidding

And call out my name

It seeks for me this horrid night

It knows my guilt and shame

 

It’s building up a fury

It’s angry—don’t you see?

Its screech is strong  and high with might

It’s coming after me

 

So I dig a little deeper

‘Neath the blankets of my bed

I wish for some assistance

With this sense of fear and dread

 

‘Cause the wind is a suggestion

It hints at something more

The devil comes for me this night—

The wind blares his great horn.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © ELIZABETH MICHAUD JOHN

The Devil’s Harlot

 

“Sin always wounds the sinner.”

Caryll Houselander

There is a whisper that they speak

Of one so lovely, of beauty deep

She who stands with skin so fair

Eyes aglow and silken hair

And so they whisper with much lust

Of soft caress and passion’s touch—

But men are men as men can be

And turn blind eye to what they see

Behind this mask of golden face

There hides a soul of spite and hate

Of venom pure, deceit so foul

Men! Beware of lover’s scowl

There is no goodness to be found

There is no virtue that abounds

The beauty inside is but a wish

The dream of men, a tasty dish—

Oh, men, oh men! Why know they not?

She lies in wait, she spins her plot

And with a savage cold hard hand

She strikes them down, she strikes down men

And sends them to her maker’s feast

Where he dines on tasty treats.

COPYRIGHT 2012 © ELIZABETH MICHAUD JOHN.  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.