Resa


Come down upon me that which ties the ladder, that which laces the dream, string for me that which is of cord magick, that where sirens weave!

These together upon, thy mind, that upon which Resa see’s, comes the gown of which all magic weaves, summoned, now sirens cry, the coven’s treasure, now bend thee, now bend thee….

The weave born of Star Carr, near Scarborough, the thread, in calling that which loves her, that which forms her heart. That daemon which summons patterns bold, summoned stories by a play, look to me, from Yorkshire way, designs that show a sirens way, a seamstress hides away, a stich, her art, the act in play. Heart, heart, summoned Whitby’s art, the ladies by the bay, and Mina smiles…. dear Resa, sew for me a scarf. A woven Faberge, that shows young girls at play, thighs in liquid, that of oceans art, entwined together, passion by the mind. What would our father’s say, in craft we play?

Late at night in Lucy’s room, while candles spell, and legends loom, ancient myths and school girl dreams, Resa sleeps, but how she dreams. And art and patterns play, weaving cloth in a potter’s way, white and dark strange spirits play, while sirens move in thread, it weaves a song. The manor feels like summer all winter long. And when sweet Lucy sleeps, Resa takes her leave, and with her forehead high, daringly she acts to spy, with gin still on her tongue, wet from adventure the whole night long. Down straight hallways with darkened heights, those long framed windows the oceans bright, under séance, devils play, the mist of Whitby, guides her way. That by needle light, Resa scripts the bodice tight, lace and colors that make the bodies delight. Lord of light, oh lord of light, how a woman’s hands give you delight, on this night.

She is the siren, that calls with thread, the stories, passion, the witches path, the salt filled air of a spider’s wrath, colors, of legends past, Resa brings down the dark lord’s dreams. The better of all these ancient seams, spells and gardens, precious night filled screams.

These together upon, thy mind, that upon which Resa see’s, comes the gown of which all magic weaves, summoned, now sirens cry, the coven’s treasure, now bend thee, now bend thee….

For my dear Whitby Lady friend, Resa McConaghy – 06.21.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Elisheba (1911)


Open thee skies, come down, come down, open thee skies come down, where silence sounds, where silence sounds.

A soft touch of air lights down on her shadowed nose, in the coldest of winter, in best of her dreams, she climbs through the storm, and counts as she goes. The seams of her thoughts the daemons take hold. Blonde locks of her hair freeze to her cheeks, a character flaw, when she’s not pretty and neat. The gentleman waiting, her husband some said, cares not for her soul, like the one enclosed, in memories of light that she’s had. One hundred and ninety-nine steps, steady not led, a shiny eyed specter, a past that’s not dead. Her eyes on the goal, somewhere, she knows, another world it waits, so different, then Whitby. There beyond the reach of her still living breath it flows. She’s still not a princess, a lady of class, yet now all those whispers tell her instead, she’s the queen that’s unbridled to ghost in her head. A wanton fire in need of the king’s bed. The whisper’s say, he’s just ahead.

An unmoving light in darkness, reflecting on the snow, the empty still, still darkness, not empty that, she knows. The Abbey a high place, a graveyard for the mass, the place her grandmother Lucy taught her of the pact. The contract in the shadows, the moving of the blessed, the points that part the curtains, when there’s nothing to hold her back. She thinks herself, an angel now, no broken wings, from her past now, no memory how he dragged her cross the floor, and beat her till she cried, the blood it ran, to something outside. They came those specters how they replied. Tore his thickened bones, with a curse they moaned. In your coven’s name, a culture oh, our sweet Beth your designation we claim.

She moves past stones her face now clearer, the whirling snow of judgment with her. The clouds they break, and all things are with her, now. And through it all her history heard her, she thought them lost, but how they drew her to this final place.

And Beth she calls the Daemon down, from this lost Abbey, the howling sounds, and from across the space of time and grace, her life of bruises becomes replaced. Elisheba, come and be my bride.

Open thee skies, come down, come down, open thee skies come down, where silence sounds, where silence sounds. – 05.23.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Madison Poe


Through woven passages, of books she travels, from language chanted when read, comes Whitby’s lost nightmare to do what he said!

She moves in pieces, a wanton frame, dressed like a pirate, from a long past fame. A strutting woman, from a lost dim year, too many to count she can’t keep them clear. Down SoHo’s through fare, her eyes weird, the coven is waiting, her charter is clear. Every married man looks at her to see what somethings there. The women they look too, her lips they’d kiss so faire. A quenching, that goes beyond fulfillment, they watch her figure all the same, as she struts, into dark places from the past she struts. Taking weakness from their lust she struts, nothing ventured, well nothing gained…

Madison Poe, exits the library, all around her, a familiar adores, through the door touching the witch wood, through the door she has entered before. Most would say a young lithe figure, taunt in flesh, curving with flow. Most would say the pipes of an organ, voice like a dark angel, from time still untold. Victorian tom-boy, she that runs barefoot so stable, here in the mist of Whitby’s best fable, come through a book, a keyhole of lore. Prancing like pixie dust cross the marble, her laughter brings crimson, into a room. Blushing each cheek, Lucy looks onward, her father’s manor, loses its gloom. The devil can wait for longer much deeper, under the cliffs where cold waters roar, Madison Poe, has come to the table, swooning, eyes darting, drawing the room. A shadow darts, she bites from the apple, Mina laughs, the coven has entered the room.

The gloom from the sea moves its way closer, the fireplace so willing, can’t take the flume. Madison Poe, her familiar around her, goes to the window, and calls down the moon. Turning so slowly her eyes like liquid, taking her hand she beckons someone, shadows come alive in the manor, wanton figures, move in the room. Ladies she breathes, I come from lost highways, a future waiting, where we are stars, looking down upon, this moment, I’ve seen it already, the melody of story is what we are. The beginning of his dark end we are tomorrow. For I have come from books beyond legend, wraithlike my eyes have seen angels fall. Brought down to these times here at Whitby, sweet Lucy, I kiss you, my Mina, I tempt you, all night, by these candles, we could scream out his songs.

Madison Poe, enters the library, all around her, a familiar adores, she leaves for a little while, gone to tomorrow, in sheaves of paper, a mistress of witching, a latitude long. Into the future, a circle of waiting, a spinning perpetual wait. Every lost memory, sorrow filled moment, into her familiar Madison Poe does take. And somewhere she’ll enter back to her darlings, back through the library, back to Whitby, her lithe figure sliding, back to her master, your weakness she will take.

She moves in pieces, a wanton frame, dressed like a pirate, from a long past fame.…-04.23.2017-דָּנִיֵּאל

Mina


Mina’s back from America, sitting alone, in the dawn of the gray, her features are sharper than ever, her lips drawn back, with nothing to say. The steamer that brought her to Whitby arrived as quiet as a ghost, a gentleman’s folly for asking, what part of the journey the lady liked most. There’s changes of noticeable character, figures of dress that one should note, a spot of dried mud on satin, also her bust lines much tighter than most. Oh Mina, a matron has mentioned, your eyes have such devilish gay, says Mina, while she is still moving, at night down your body they’ll stray. A gentleman who stops by for calling, who eyed her while she was still in school, makes his visit much shorter, not sure of the discomfort, her sharp wit makes his lust a fool. He arrives his hair salt and pepper, and leaves with it so gray. His steps stumble throughout the garden, he’s heard to mumble, the woman is not so chaste.

Lucy stops by for biscuits, her flowers and dress in taste, what new fun did you find in America she whisper’s, and do I look okay? Mina plucks at an orchid, that sits tendering a tray. She brings it up to her red lips, and murmurs, tonight by the cliffs will that be okay, and oh by the way! He mentions your more than the cost of a fine gem, a singular sin in taste. He said it all in a moment, translucent as always, the case. Mina laughs as if she’s uttered a dark joke, her eyes dash down her friend’s waist. I’ll offer you more of the rest of his wants tonight, by the cliffs I can’t wait.

A shadow filled mist comes to Whitby, a steamer it moves back to sea, four glistening eyes watch from cliffs overhead, aghast at what they can’t leave. A Baphomet moment around them, immortal a spirit treatise. Mina’s back from America, the visit has sealed a found creed. – 04.12.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Lucy


Lucy walks the garden, grey hair bouncing off her high bare back. The moon above the stormy waters, taking breath from all that’s lacked. Come to me she whispers, part my liquid dreams, take me unto far tomorrows, away from chaste and all that seems believed.

Lucy reads literature from a Victorian age, drowning in her laces, a not so gentleman’s, not so gentle way. She watches stars above Yorkshire, and wishes on red ones, it could be that her suitors aren’t quiet the right ones. Lucy watches privileged lips in sorority affairs, the finest words of society, in London’s aristocratic affairs. And as she takes her carriage home, her mind does wander there. In spinning nights of wind shaped slopes, and days filled with sleep, a luciferin fear of church folk, the creature in her dreams. It could be, after all this time, an English rose could prick her skin toward the sky. And she will pray that what draws nigh, is Gabriel’s gift from nights gone by, a life for that eternal sigh. She sleeps in linen, and closes one eye.

Lucy’s name is cursive, written curved with bodies hinted at in sighs, ecstatic, escalation of the screams behind the night. Above her silken curtains lies a single curse, the ones who somewhere in their fear, have placed without a verse. And this could be the very night, the world stops in its tracks, when she kisses Mina and the future tears her bodice off, and kisses her right back. A startled full built lady, a dreaming little girl, her imagination in the Highland Woods at night, her imagination comes uncurled. Lucy’s dreams before the sunrise, when the tide takes what it lacks, and lashes all its strength on land before the light can draw it back. And she’ll forgo, a stronger touch, all her property given up, and in the space between the night, she’ll see the lightening in forever’s pure eye. So, close to rapture wings do fly.

Lucy walks the garden, grey hair bouncing off her high bare back. The moon above the stormy waters, taking breath from all that’s lacked. Come to me she whispers, part my liquid dreams, take me unto far tomorrows, away from chaste and all that seems believed. – 03.25.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל