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The end of the year is near. How will you celebrate it? We plan on another end of the year fire. Plus smores. Always plus smokes. I plan on doing a “here’s all the stuff I learned during this hard year” poem, but not yet. Not just yet. I have two more days of poetry to write. I don’t want them to be all dark and despairing. It is an easy time to get downhearted, and it is always easiest to roll over and embrace the darkness. But I’m not gonna. Not tonight.

Tonight I’m thinking about my friend Hermina, because she posted this song: “Witch”.

I love her voice, and her band Butter informed a good third of these poems. I love the lyrics, too, and wish I could write something so haunting and beautiful. Somehow I think it helps to have a kick drum involved.

Anyhow. I’m going to write a poem, about witches or something, and then get to getting on with the end of this year, 2014.


Her love is a little rye and wild.

She is a witch, “without any witch friends”, and a magic woman in a black cone hat. She wear robes. She brews trouble, in cauldrons with newt eyes, courting mischief and rebellion with her potions.
Beware the Witch of East Hope. Beware the magic of Riser Creek, that she pours into blue glass bottles and curses with an ancient tongue.
Don’t take a goblet from the woman in black, and don’t toss back that wine the color of currents. It is poison, just as sure as that apple was.
That black water in the glass a fool’s drink, and she wants you to gulp it.
In the dead stand she lights the candles.
One to the North, South East, and West. Waits for the winds to come. The frozen ground doesn’t touch the feet of this Witch. Not at all, not at all.
The cold is warm to the cheeks of a witch. She’s out of town, often. She’s comfortable alone in the woods with her magic and dogs.
Look, look there in-between the cedar trees! Look there, look there, it is a witch!
or a branch, or the wind whipping up the creek bed and casting big pictures.
Call out then, to the seeker when you see her, call out to the woman on the bank, who disappears to sing under the rocks, call out to the woman in black that you see in the branches.

Ask her how the year went.


Witchy poem. Okay, then. Happy Tuesday, my readers of poems. How did your year go?