New Moon

Oh Silent Torch,

The forth face

in darkness,

Stand upon the

crossroads,

Mighty Hecate,

Fooled they are

by your triadic

image,

I salute the four

of you.

Hail upon this night

of the Black One,

An eclipse of true

mystery,

Vengeance born,

In the name of Gabriel,

sung upon the stillness,

still,

silent,

A panther,

nightmare,

is upon him.

The most deadly curse,

is silent.

Treachery born,

now dead.

This threshold

between death and

rebirth,

This liminal gate,

Night of the Black Torch,

Full Moon-Shadow,

Let the blood flow

between velvet legs,

Oh Hecate,

for the Rites are Hers,

And the Priestess,

Serpents in the sky,

stands upon the Prominence

of Black Fire.

 

Under the Shadow of a New Moon

They watch,

night vision,

and you can

feel them

see you.

Breath rises,

a fog to

peer through.

Still,

silence.

Touching

the darkness,

with outstretched

fingertips,

you make

your way.

Will the

noise,

of your

shaking

feet,

finally make

them

move?

Still,

silence.

You wait,

frozen,

within a

moat of the

vapor of

your own

breath.

The smallest

bits of

light,

relief against

the darkness.

When a flash

could be

a retina,

you wait,

still,

silence.

You wait.

 

Winter Night

The white sands,

frozen,

yielding to my footsteps,

a crisp crunch,

water sand,

it wraps wispy hands

around my feet,

as I scatter across it,

hurrying away from

its grasp.

To falter is to

become locked

in time,

a stiff momento.

And as I pass through,

the winds,

my sisters,

sweep away my footprints,

as if I was never there,

I pass, unseen,

unremembered,

or so the winds

imagine,

as they clean

my memory from

the frigid moon shine,

built from tiny stars.

Dwellers

How can they not see you,

transforming the shadows

into lairs of opaque

trepidation,

driving even the

crawling night creatures

into the light cast

from a lonely lamp,

patient, you wait,

all of you,

never needing time,

you have no use for it,

not making a sound

when others can’t see you

as they pass by,

nervously looking back

at nothing.

Silent Meeting

The face in the mist,

percolated by the breeze,

reformed incessantly.

Pointedly it regarded me,

and I wondered at

its composition,

a face or fine water

polished in the moonlight

by the sordid sounds

of unchaste crickets.

We stood in silence,

neither risking speaking first.

Slowly I stepped backward

and the face followed

as if tethered to me

like a small boat,

bobbing at me as I

breathed.

The face’s kin had

veiled the moon

in a fine halo

of deep maroon and

midnight blue.

He smiled at me,

and as my lips parted

to speak,

he slipped between the

pine boughs in a

sweet, supple sigh

and the crickets stopped,

as if to mourn his passing.

Summer Night

Wash over me

waves of rich

indulgence.

If I could taste

the feeling,

it would be

caramel,

hot and buttery,

warm,

it carries me

softly, with the motion

of a slow, melodic

breath,

a balmy breeze

that paints my skin

like silk.