Zuzan (Banrigh nan Witches)


“I myself have seen this woman draw the stars from the sky; she diverts the course of a fast-flowing river with her incantations; her voice makes the earth gape, it lures the spirits from the tombs, send the bones tumbling from the dying pyre. At her behest, the sad clouds scatter; at her behest, snow falls from a summer’s sky.” – Tibullus

In the act of prelude…

They burn her in the evening near the loch, an inward sea, hairless pilgrims from the Romans, who cannot abide what they cannot see. For they know not love of difference, nor the signs of transformation, so they burn her near the sunset, to set their superstitions free. Maple red it lights the skyway, like her skin in faire degrees, with the screams of a thousand angels as above and below deceived. For she is the heir of hierarchy, the share of all unseen. The voices of her sirens cry come forth thou, my craft it is aggrieved.

First act of the evening…

First I saw her in Lucy’s garden on a snowy Solstice Eve, with the air filled full of wonder, lights around her face and feet. She made me think of some wickedness the kind that is so grand, where you watch the pleasure of a lady, delivered by a softened hand. It seemed she did not notice me, where I was or what I am and it led me to a reason, that I was dreaming or a familiar, from an ancient tribe or clan. In the garden there were statues both alive and some were dead, and not alone some were speaking, and from those her mind seemed fed. And, she laughed in grand gaiety, and smiled her lips so bloody red, and she brought forth life from a cold stone woman, with a kiss upon her hand. Above the snow had stopped falling and shown bright north stars in those snowflakes stead. Not a sound from this garden except the laughter from her mouth, forming spells in passion noises, eagerness building all about.

I saw her look back shyly, her hand it waved my way, the brown ringlets from her brown hair fine, glistened as she swayed. Come with me sweet surveyor within my mind a voice. She led me to a crypt nearby from in it came a noise. She bent the handle without effort and with her hand, she waved, back through time, we entered through a doorway once her grave. The night sky seemed to follow, well before the dawn, down through magic passageways, from whence ghost travel from whence they come. Her body moved so lightly, as so as if to say, nothing has ever owned me, not ever without my say. For with this in mind I traveled from a present course, and arrived back in time so ancient she led me without force.

I came upon an altar in a sudden winters gloom, with ashes it still smoldered by a loch under a winters moon. The queen of all the witches turned to tell me of the ruins. Of all my crazed filled travels in dreams of rare displays. No nothing not of something had ever taken me this way. For it was her in this travel, that I learned of simple things, how the body burned for living, can never be decayed. In the simple act of hatred, in one act of just one play. The building of the sovereign spirit by craft can find its own way. For her story is the cosmos, her travel by air woven sleighs, and she has made her world in forest cathedrals, and there her book of shadows stays.

First, I saw her in Lucy’s garden on a snowy Solstice Eve.

For my Whitby Lady my very own, she who I followed through a garden – 12.23.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Invictus 1896


“Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul”. – William Ernest Henley – Invictus

“At Christmas, all roads lead home”. – Marjorie Holmes

The specter came upon them that Christmas morn, dressed as the ancient, her eyes weary and worn. And it was when each looked to see, they saw only the reflection of themselves set free. And each favored lady took it to mind, what did it mean, to know the beginning of time. So, they all gathered where all ladies wait, in the main quarters of their mysterious estate. For something had happened, that they needed to know, what was their bloodline, and from where did it flow.

The needles of pine stopped falling precisely, the minute the clock in the great hallway rang one. The darkened hearth came too so suddenly, as if awakened by some ethereally song. The aroma of secrets of soft cloth and bedding, the richness of kisses, and spells done till dawn. The veil is closing, from those so blinded. For centuries, they thirsted, for now what is won. Come dresses of linen of silk, on rose skin scented, the candles are burning, so tapered so thin. The snowflakes fall, from windows in heaven. Tongues twist to catch them to mix with hot gin. The tale the sum, the time of investment, the thousand years must stretch to no end. Time is sewn into gowns and vestments. The Invictus has come and the coven is ready for the tale to spin.

“Gather this midnight; come near my mind”, whispers sweet Mina, she whispers in rhyme, “Come ladies of mine”.

I will tell you a story, with night as its start, a legend, a secret, held deep in my heart. A dream of a talon that scratched a skin bare, in December’s wonder, a woman so faire. She bled only one drop of blood in the snow, and from it rose daemons, in beauty they glowed. What came out of Streoneshalh, from that ancient day, the birth of a witch from an Abbess that strayed? Upon such ground so formed by the ice, came manners of beings that conjure by night. And here by a summons of that woman so faire, rose a loft manor, the rooms of our lair. Oh, dreamers dream dreams, sweet ladies you are melding, dancing in spirit, your hearts all aglow. I beg you by name; bring forth the “Invictus”, come winter spirit, and in Whitby unfold.

By term, they arise, to dance in the essence, of the forboden. Past particle present, of where they began. In twos and threes, they summon the abbess, spirit that is chambered immortal within. Amazing grace, the music is playing, the manor shakes so warm from within, the half-moon falls from its place in the heavens, sweet witches pleasured by familiars of sin.

Words with no sound they come from sweet Mina, with names and stories from what has been.

The half-moon strikes the ruins of the abbey; the snow on its arches highlights shadows from in. Deep underground lies an ocean of spirits, minus one abbess who has risen again. Across winter skies comes a dark dragon, a flying red leviathan from before time began. An icy gale moves throughout Lucy’s garden, breeching dead petals, and hedgerows thick limbs. Inside the manor the festive are dancing, the ball of the “Invictus” begins! Gather your hearts, and feast from this table, the call from dead fables spins round again. Each witch’s soul has been searched by an angel, that which is ever is planted within.

“It’s the beginning,” thinks Mina, as lights cross the sky. The embers reflected like sparks in her eyes. “The beginning of ever, beyond never end”!

A very happy holiday to all and a special kiss under the mistletoe for my Whitby Ladies, Lucy, Mina, Madison Poe, Elisheba, Resa, Carlotta and Evangeline, you have certainly made the year interesting. – 12.24.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Scotch & Elves (Yuma)


The muse and I for once are not arguing, not divided.    

Dante and I are out near South Detroit Street in Yuma, this is last year before the Holidays, a few months before the end of August when he would die. It’s midnight, could be a dream, maybe real, what’s the difference, I’ll let you the reader decide. We are both drunker then catnip, higher than kites. Don’t judge me here fellow citizens, I was just trying to survive. We’re laying right by the railroad tracks, looking at the second star to the right, discussing, what was the meaning of the season and such. An important topic for a muse and his possessed.

“It’s special” I say, “for the mystery inside, the daemons in the firelight, under snow filled skies. The Nicholas in shadows, the one of which I’ll write. I know you have seen him my muse, while inside, painting the pictures from which I will scribe. There’s the eve before midnight, while we pagans dance, and our eyes reflect candles, and sugarplums in our heads.”

“There’s a train coming”, Dante bends forward looking around the silo toward the west. I can see the pale yellow single light stirring the cold darkness in the distance. “It’s a haunt coming”, Dante’s voice is low like a growl, as he turns and looks at me. I can see his teeth, shining. “Your turn”, I say! “What”, Dante looks down studying the cold gravel near the iron track. “YOUR TURN to talk about the season”, I say. The train is getting closer, the distant horn, sounding louder, the light from the single eye brighter. “Well” Dante says as he stands up and steps out onto the tracks, his long dark cloak flowing out behind him.

“It’s special” he says, “for the scotch and elves, and the wishes we toast, the garland in windows and Jimmy Stewarts ghost. The treasure of Gloria, the heavens of host. The storms of strife, looking, to find peace somewhere. The comfort of snow, for it hides what is dead, but promises living, in spring far ahead. The folklore of Dickens, whom I’ve never read, but G-D bless us everyone, well there it’s been said”.

The train is upon us, as Dante gently steps to one side, his hair not moving even with the mighty wind, that stirs around the rumble of the heavy dark cars whipping by. “That was beautiful, really it was Dante”, I say my words rising as I’m having to scream to compete with the moving sound of the train. Our little spot on South Detroit Street, seems centric with our seasonal philosophy. The muse and I for once are not arguing, not divided. It’s as if the spell of scotch and elves has brought us together. – 12-16-2016- דָּנִיֵּאל

Avant-garde Nicholas


In winter nights when fires had died out near Ypsilon mountain, with star strung skies hung soft about, gathered he the children, the ones who see, unto his keep, in new deep conscious, a new belief. No tale of shepherds, or wise men here, just old religion, that takes one fears, and dances fury, in yuletide faire, unto the heavens in winters air. The dusk, the night, it sweeps away, the pain of years, one thought would stay, an interest bearing of no defeat, comes his white skin glowing like ice in sheets. Gathered and huddled, and now dispersed, sweet children of ages of all the earth, a boy a Pan, a midnight birth, the gift in the mind of all stages.

Has there ever been word that he has been birthed, by woman of flesh, or womb of the earth? Are signs in his eyes, that speak happiness, or is it all fable, the legend that is. Does it not come in gifts without sin, a standard of giving, the friend that’s within? Dare say that eyes see him, on cold winters night, the spirit that’s watching the ghost that is bright. For he has come calling from that holy site, out near that mountain, with star strung skies. And just like that piper who ask you to try, he’s flying tonight through your mind.

So many have traced him, and thought they’d found fame, through their view of history, or what lore would say, and fun in the winter, oh fun in his name, it’s not what he’s wished them to say. The whispers round starlight of what he has done, the truth came from heartache of when he’d lost one, and learned from the spirit, the hope when he had none, to give all his love away. So children look forward, and turn not around, take all of his gift, and forward it on, and watch morning come, oh watch it come on, a gift, a new day. A gift a new day.

In winter nights when fires had died out, near Ypsilon mountain, with star strung skies hung soft about, gathered he the children, the ones who see, unto his keep, in new deep conscious, a new belief.

May this season bring you a new day. – 12.24.2015 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

This December You Should Eat Candy

Candy Canes_0

For the first time, I am sensing a pox on the land.  Mind you not your ordinary lactose intolerant funk.  This pasty pale that has settled over the globe appears built of greater sinister quality.  My thoughts at first settled around a blame game kind of thing.  After all it’s that Holiday time of year.  Something about the Yule log, Hanukkah and frenzied Christians insisting that Jesus is the reason just loops people.  Dark feelings over take and well you know bring out the anti-depressants and Sigmund Freud.  This year though, this year!  How do I wrap my words into description?  That’s it I think, this year has silence.  A strange void has settled upon the populous.  A desert has leaked into the fruited fields of spirit; a great unwashed has been scrubbed clean.  That I would venture frustrates me, and yes my imaginative readers it might should bug you too.

So what we have here on my part is a bit of theological musings.  Kind of a basic eschatology of wit, that will defy most of what, my compadres slumping through this codex of mysticism believe.  Many of these wonderful folks will probably hasten to find their old VHS copy of “The Exorcist” to shake their fingers at their blurry screen when Linda twirls and say “aha, aha”.  That’s okay.  A fair season ago I hypothesized that there are more than enough thinking bigots to each build their own tower of Bable.  I just figured I would love them enough to rent them the building tools it takes.  Leasing suggestive guidance can be a lucrative business, so I have heard from many a television evangelist.  I would be remiss if I didn’t offer a little mortar to all those towers.

Have you seen many lights and decorations going up around you this year?  I did a little informal survey in our hamlet, an anecdotal investigation if you will.  It had occurred to me that after living in this neighborhood for the past four Holiday seasons, things were looking just somewhat gloomier this year.  I spread my sleuthing out to include other neighborhoods.  Low and behold, the lightless homes began to flood my imaginary list.  The lack of Santa and Rudolph, and the baby Jesus on lawns far and wide was noticeable.  The dreariness was unspeakable.  Homes seemed desolate and hollow.  Indeed it was as if a pestilence had invaded the land.

It occurred to me, as you might already be thinking that this whole rag of mine might have its basis in the meager economic times countless are facing.  The modern era of December has usually been linked closely with materialism.  Some very spiritual like language has been addressed in accordance to what little Johnnie or Helga received under the Pagan tree.  Words like blessed, joy, loved, have all been linked carefully with given and spent and the latest shiniest digital what not.  It could be true that finances play a roll here, but I don’t think so.  We have history to look to as our guide to disprove that one.  Many a homemade gift was given during the World’s great depression from 1930 to 1939.  People were living in boxes, and they still found a way to carve a manger set out of a few pieces of lye soap to display.  Millions of Jews found a way to celebrate Hanukkah while being marched to the gas chambers during the holocaust.  The survival instinct of the human race has always been stronger than having a few gold coins to call your own.

The negated today finds itself at home in the opposite of G-D.  There I wrote it.  I even gritted my teeth when I put the words down.  There had to be something there.  What I am about to write is going to illicit howls from many of my brethren.  That’s good.  You’re alive and not nullified.  The reverse of good is not evil.  The opposite of salvation is not sin.  The conflict of judgment is not compassion.  There is no conflict for they are one.  True opposition is not when the structure is destroyed to be replaced with another building.  When trepidation is replaced with apprehension you still have fear, and therefore you live, your spirit resides.  No is not opposite of yes, as any good sales representative will tell you, the cash register will not ring the sale when the prospective client says nothing.  We have acquired ground zero my crew, and the enemy of life and the goodness we all seek is nothing.  In nothing is where real abandoned of Sheol reside.  It is the eye of the soul that has been at long vanquished by our civilization, and we are witness to one another of the emptiness we see.  The holiday from nothing has retreated.  The Mid Winter Solstice finds itself changing clothes under the stealth gaze of electronic ghost and weapons, for they see only, but they are nothing in the performance of logic, in the death of the living that they seek.  Nothing has sought to cleanse the law of something.

This December you should eat candy.  This holiday you should sing to your G-D in a minor key.  In the night of the twenty-first you should burn incense and dance naked like perhaps the Druids did before the North Sea.  You should carve your manger out of pieces of lye soap, and celebrate what a wonderful nativity you see.  Hanukkah sweet Hanukkah, it is the Assembly of Yisrael’s time to turn and harvest the tree.  It is an end of time it is a beginning of time.  While we celebrate, the real eternal will change the laws, and that candy you taste will harmonize your being with a glow in your soul that is something free. – DS – 12/12/2013