Wind Swept Words - A Body Mind Spirit Poetry Feature

Words by Angel

Words simple little sounds just as deadly as artillery rounds.

Words so easily released can never be recalled can never be ceased.

Words can build a dream or totally destroy self esteem.

Words should be used with extreme care when hastily spoken they are the worst pollution in the air.

Visions by Angel

The young woman sits on the hill side solemnly observing the hemisphere. Her hair caresses her light brown cheeks and cascades down her back like a waterfall of burning gold. Azure eyes depict the carnage of man's malicious assault of nature. As she wistfully recalls the Earth's tranquillity in the beautifully soft green manless years of old.

Before those sky blue eyes that see a thousand miles or a million years away The decadence and destruction of man's march of dissolution and hate Softly fade into a panorama filled with lush forests and open wavy plains Where the non-human children of The Goddess happily enjoy their existence, unaware of their coming fate.

From the distant horizon a dark shadow begins to form and slowly creeps across the crystal clear sky. The ominous looking haze spreads greedily through the night to consume the luminance of an overshadowed moon. By morning's translucent glow the blight has covered the land. The lush green forest replaced by nauseous brown and putrid gray Of over farmed fields and concrete ribbons to carry the pillage away, the death curse of man to be fulfilled all too soon.

Malcontent and desolation now blanket the Earth while increasingly greedy man races to horde even more wealth. As trees disappear, forests become parking lots or eroded waste lands, once majestic mountains, now putrid volcanoes that puke slime. Animals quickly become memories of the past each day another species fades away. Tears flow from the azure eyes and she thinks of the dinosaurs as she watches man destroy his habitat in his own life time.

But look! There with the rising Moon just at the horizon, a tiny speck of pure clean light! While the Moon climbs the polluted sky Her wake is crystal clear. The Earth beneath the crystal air begins to glimmer as the promise of new life spreads across the land The last chance for man to cherish nature over wealth his time to claim responsibility for his deeds draws near.

The young woman's eyes begin to glow at last her clan is returning home. With the new millennium comes the promise of the healing and restoration of the land The Faerie Race is returning home, restored by their long rest, To protect their mother and restore her grace. Once more Earth will flourish, their magick is at hand.

Halloween Witch by Angel

Each year they parade her about, the traditional Halloween Witch. Misshapen green face, stringy scraps of hair, a toothless mouth beneath her deformed nose. Gnarled knobby fingers twisted into a claw protracting from a bent and twisted torso that lurches about on wobbly legs. Most think this abject image to be the creation of a prejudiced mind or merely a Halloween caricature.

I disagree, I believe this to be how Witches were really seen. Consider that most Witches: were women, were abducted in the night, and smuggled into dungeons or prisons under the secrecy of darkness to be presented by light of day as a confessed Witch.

Few if any saw a frightened normal looking woman being dragged into a secret room filled with instruments of torture, to be questioned until she confessed to anything suggested to her and to give names or whatever would stop the questions.

Crowds saw the aberration denounced to the world as a self-proclaimed Witch. As the Witch was paraded through town enroute to be burned, hanged, drowned, stoned or disposed of in various other forms of Christian love, all created to free and save her soul from her depraved body, the jeering crowds viewed the results of hours of torture. The face bruised and broken by countless blows bore a hue of sickly green. The once warm and loving smile gone, replaced by a grimace of broken teeth and torn gums that leers beneath a battered disfigured nose. The disheveled hair conceals bleeding gaps of torn scalp from whence cruel hands had torn away the lovely tresses. Broken twisted hands clutched the wagon for support, fractured fingers with nails torn away locked like groping claws to steady her broken body. All semblence of humanity gone, this was truly a demon, a bride of Satan, a Witch.

I revere this Halloween Crone and hold her sacred above all. I honor her courage and listen to her warnings of the dark side of man.

Each year I shed tears of respect when the mundane exhibit their symbol.

Political Herbalism by Maggie Frost

In my new electric cauldron, (with the non-stick teflon lining), Is the potion that will cure the world of coughs and colds and flu ! Just imagine, for a moment, what great miracles of curing This elixir from my cauldron's going to do...

No more snifflles, no more sore throats, No more wheezing, no more whining, No more asprins or cough syrup, Lots less work for Mums like you!

This will free mankind forever from the viruses so catchy No more men who act like babies just because their throats are scratchy No more snot-filled little people, staying home from school with fevers, Decongestants and humidifiers, out they all can go...

It was ever so exciting, knowing what I have concocted, Will forever change the course of history.....

Then some sneaky darned reporter leaked the news of my discovery...

And a bunch of spy detectives, from the giant drug conglomerates Are snooping all around my place, They want my recipe !

Seems they feel I am a threat to their enormous profit margins, from the huge array of "medicines" they tout, for the masking or suppression, of the myriads of symptoms which we suffer, when a cold or flu sneaks in and knocks us out.

Somewhere in between my brewing, and the ritual I was doing, Under cover of the darkness late last night, They broke in, and stole my cauldron, with the miracle concoction. And they threatened me with violence and a great big legal fight!

They said if I ever tried again, to meddle in their business, I would be much more than sorry, to be sure. For apparently they have the right, (for which they are prepared to fight) To keep old John Q. Public cold and fevered, sick, and poor.

The Witching Hour by Jennifer Monaghan

a canopy of gray mist and cloud hangs over the night moonlight filtering in and framing the darkness in shadowy light the cool scent of recent rain drifts in through the open window the breeze curling around my bare ankles like the invisible touch of a phantom's slender fingers

a coyote sings an eerie lullaby in the distance

as my mind hovers between sleep and wake i am oddly comforted by the ghostly ambience encircling my little house in the smoky light of the witching hour

Daughter of the Mists by Jennifer Monaghan

the summer apples fall into your delicate pale palm a priestess high not in rank but in courage you stand with glamour over the Lady's frown

sister of the golden-mane sister of the king to come goddess lover of the majestic stag ignorant lover of a brother mother of a bastard son

a sword blessed with magic a protective sheath of power a great king finds his throne

the veil closes behind you and in your mind it is forever by the side of a sun-haired ruler your tears fall unseen

by the side of your lover's father deceived you stand estranged from your brother and bastard son

son of your womb son of your brother corrupted and power hungry they fall together

the Lady is gone your husband is gone brother and son and sisters are gone and you stand alone on the side of a hill and the mists are calling once again a journey to home

Lady of the Lake Daughter of the Mists hidden from the mortal world for an eternity.

The Sacred Dance by Jennifer Monaghan

drums beating at the center of the Earth synchronized movements arms flowing and voices humming a sacred dance to the great rhythm of life

eyes closed mouth slack

power rising from the earth into the soles of the feet coursing into the bloodstream and invading the mind the body separates from the spirit

the spirit and the earth become one

the shapeshifter lifts his gaze not quite wolf and not quite stag he joins the dance spreading his raven wings beating his hooves to the rhythm of life

the shaman opens his mouth turns his face to the sky and lets his voice fly wordless chants singing to the rhythm of life

the child moves her tiny feet learning to find the heartbeat of the earth learning the sacred movements arms flowing voice humming feet dancing.

dancing.

dancing to the rhythm of life

Grandmother Witch by Jennifer Monaghan

she hobbles into the cafe with an old leather bound book under her arm and a dark purple shawl covering her frail shoulders her teeth are yellowed with age and her hair is as white as winter's snow, falling in cascades down to her thin waist and tangling itself with the various pendants dangling from her neck

i remember when i saw her for the first time i was only five and i was terrified of her for i thought she was an evil witch who would surely turn me into stone if i so much as made contact with her sharp green eyes

how wrong i was, i think now as the woman limps passed me and to the counter, stopping to wink and smile at me

oh, she did turn out to be a witch, or at least that is what she calls herself although she defies the frightening halloween image of a devil-worshipping child-snatching whore

in time that image was replaced and i came to know her as a mystical yet grandmotherly-like figure whose house is the first i take my children to on halloween night for trick-or-treats and caramelled apples

i watch her as she lays her book gingerly on the table and gives it a pat before sitting down next to it a group of children nearby snicker and are scolded by their mother and i cannot help but smile and hope that someday they too will come to know and love she who is called The Grandmother Witch