Morgana

“He, who rides a tiger, is afraid to dismount”. – Thea Harrison

July 30, 1982 or centuries ago…

It is a five-hour drive from Whitby to Glastonbury Tor, if the traffic is light, and the winds of good fortune are with you. Worth the drive if you ask me. Worth the time indeed. So much to do while you are there. So much to see especially at night. Especially at night if you dream.

In this moment, she is like an unsatisfied water storm whirling in my mind, and uncontrollable pleasurable orgasm careening undefined. That sweet agony that defies our outer bodies combined. Other times she is inside me, her tongue like an allegory, a legend refined. Wrapping her long, mind around me proving that life will not be with me long. Altogether, she is immeasurable part of a mystic plan. Serving her Lord and her Master, whether a woman or a man. I sleep this night in misery looking for her cause, is she a muse caught in my memory or just a rhyme gone wrong. Maybe I am a searcher for a sorceress drawn in different signs. Maybe I see her naked body summoned out of time. A blue crescent moon on her forehead, a perfect swoop back of her hair. Just a hint of a blue shadow under her eyelid that invites me where. Taking me across many waters, taking me on her own. Stars falling from the firmament, the cold waters how they foam. Swaying circles by a seashore, hearing drums, wrapped up feeling her unclothed home. Knowing you are a witch to my bone. Witch oh which a universe to roam.

Better, you are here with a lady, better you are from the unknown. Stories of you when you were crazy, screaming “roll the bones“. Lower you down just above me, where do spirits roam. Ancient cities explode between centuries. Eyes meet eyes. I moan. Crescents on totems dancing inside the circle of her womb. The stars above me from far away Babylon weaving a loom. Battlefields on her body of a different kind. Tracks telling your history from when Buddug said sweet fairy you are mine. Over and over the sky raining sand, the night upon us in a dream strange land. She breathes it cometh, it cometh where angels ran. She breathes, ride this fifth horseman as hard as you can, and then I see the red moon falling from her raised hand. The red moon is falling from her raised hand.

It is a five-hour drive from Whitby to Glastonbury Tor, if the traffic is light, and the winds of good fortune are with you. Worth the drive if you ask me. Worth the time indeed. So much to do while you are there. So much to see especially at night. Especially at night if you dream. Especially if you dream. – 07.30.2021 – דָנִיֵּאל

Shéy


“Lost boys almost always do need a good witch of a wife” – DS

Shéy does sing,

“Sing my name among the cosmos, the stars that drop to earth, and the ones who bear the wolf mark lost upon their birth. Dance, within the circle, make sure that life repeats, as it was from the first day desire makes breath complete. Count the many numbers as often as you can, oh great one you made the angels just a little lower than just I am.”

The Mr. finds her by the stones at dawn, her still radiant body warm to touch, wet with perspiration. He holds her close to him, feeling her breath against his grizzly cheek. “You are the most stubborn man Mr.”, she says to him, her voice carrying both wit and seriousness to it. “Could you not leave me to my tendencies for just one night”? The Mr. thinks about it for a moment and feels himself flush. “You give too much of yourself to this place”, he mutters, his brow growing stern. She thinks for a moment he looks like a wolf, not quite as lean and handsome as the ones who had surrounded her the night before. Still, The Mr. carries that glint still in his eyes, just as when she created it in him. When she brought him over. That was a long time ago she thinks. She wonders if she could do it again. Summon the craft, and give…

She writes on slates of Sandstone transported from some Moon, the images in her mind act out as if they are a rune. She sees the stars of Caledonia raining from the sky, painting her white naked body with the symbols, as old as Sodom and the tombs where stories lie. A pleasing aromatic of olden sage burns between her feet. An adoration of unseen tongues makes words she cannot repeat. An ancient revelator bends to what she seeks. She gives in to all temptation, as the dark angels sweep. The shadow of her book of sorrows burns and then it dies. The heavens open duly, and deep cries out against the sky. The sound of many spirits parade and march from ancient steeps. For there upon the Highlands, sums magic only secrets dare repeat.

She summons all her sisters, on the Southeast winds they ride, bringing rain and lightning, intermixed with starlit skies. The Bean Nighe and the Kelpies, and all the Wulver too, gather to the circle that spins in a darkened hue. For unto all that is madness in all that witches do, to bring forth life from that which is lost, and make it life anew. The earth is now opened. Between the times of man, as Whitby Ladies from all moments join the Clan at hand. And she who forms the circle, to bring forth someone new, screams her name into the chaos, as a new man walks on through.

The Mr. dances with her just beneath the circle beyond its still pulsating heat. “You gave again, didn’t you”, he whispers hoarsely in her ear. He is jealous, and to a certain extent, he feels his envy is righteous. “Just to the lost boys”, she whispers nuzzling the rough skin upon his neck. “You will always be my first”, “You will always be my first”.

Shéy does sing,

“Sing my name among the cosmos, the stars that drop to earth, and the ones who bear the wolf mark lost upon their birth. Dance, within the circle, make sure that life repeats, as it was from the first day desire makes breath complete. Count the many numbers as often as you can, oh great one you made the angels just a little lower than just I am.”

Shehanne Moore is an amazing accomplished author and I say with all intentions of being a namedropper, a friend (Please do check out all of her wonderful books). You can find Shey’s blog at https://shehannemoore.wordpress.com/  Welcome to The Whitby Lady’s my friend.
דָּנִיֵּאל
09.29.2020

Lake (His Anecdote)


He sees at times that G_D comes down by the lake, dressed in a refinement that makes it easy to see that he is she. And it seems she wants to comb his brown hair with her fingers, wetted by the waters below.

Her cold air comes from a sweet mouth, a hallucinatory word of a devious faire. Spoken by a thin light of possible imagination, he’s never certain if she’s real, or a picture born in defense from his mind’s own devious lair. Is it true she tells him of her lovers, is it right she tells him how she really wants to care? “Meet me by the lake”, she whispers in the darkness, we can enter the blackness where no one really cares. Her picture becomes one of animation, one a Psychiatrist can say is never there, but still as the days turn their light into dark shadows. What once was neverland has eyes that really stare. For he knows she wishes him her secrets, the ones that dance where no one cares. The magic to walk upon the moonlit water, whose to say what afterlife is there.

The night songs come as much more frequent, framed within her blackened flowing hair. Words and gilded eyes that appear now much too frequent, no longer a doubt of if she’s with him there or just a faded belief. “Trust is a neurological vessel”, she whispers as she sails upon his nighttime seas, “and when the time is right, I will take you home. To far beneath that lake with me.”

And the pictures of his mind pass by all description of what analysis would seek to tell. An ancient witch of water coming forth in spell, or a broken right hemisphere, in diagnostic tales. A question or a myth in a modern world, a place of science or a supernatural scale. For what does he see, beckoning him by the lakeside. Is she a delusion or an interstellar bell? Ringing in his mind of the season, syllables and signs and beckoning tales. Oh, her perfect arms that reach to take him, from a mad world to the lake, her wishing well.

For a moment he sees himself, floundering in cold lake water, drowning in an indescribable sad dream. What a bad drama, or a lie of a story it would be if all he had seen, was not what he had deemed. But then a story is never just a story, a fable has a truth that’s really gleaned. She pulls him up, just when he is able to live his dream. She pulls him up, just when he is stable to live his dream.

He sees at times that G_D comes down by the lake, dressed in a refinement that makes it easy to see that he is she. And it seems she wants to comb his brown hair with her fingers, wetted by the waters below. – 03.11.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Harlot of Rotterdam (Nehalennia)


“Ocean of time, eternal law, to ashes, to dust, to ashes, but not just yet. To ashes, to dust, taken away from the light, but not just yet. Miracles wait until the end.” – Zu Asche zu Staub

The shrouded figures watch the gale move in from the vaulted ruins of the abbey. South by Southwest the dark clouds roll out across the hidden heavens casting hail, then wind. The cloaked figures appear to melt into the rock-filled shell of the abbey. From there whispers come unto whispers, sighs unto sighs. Sweet undertones summoning. Wet lips moving, bringing forth that which comes from the sea. That which comes forth from moving hips, from fecundity. She who is eternity from the sea. Bringing her home to Whitby.

“Nehalennia” the storm whispers. “Ashes” she murmurs in return. “To fall”, the wind cries. “Dust”, she replies. “The end”, the water sprays. “Eternity”, she is heard to say.

Some say how the tempests sigh. Exhale thee spirit against a Rotterdam sky. She says what a perfect night, to sail under his poison eye, to walk away and not say goodbye. In streets that pass her by, she moves much quicker than to fly. To reach the darker waters of foam and spray, no more man, a creature between her legs. Forgetting about how and when, she begged abstinence from the house of sin. To sail a dinghy into the host of spray, a single passage to where witches play. In stars well-hidden where eternity stays and taste the life, that’s time.

She sails in ashes on a shadowed sea, with deep dark seams that sometimes do not meet. In a cold, where there is no end, somewhere in truth to begin again. Sounds and pictures within, pieces of scripture, from her Opa’s thin voice. Simmering rejection from the church with no choice. She pictures astronomies in degrees, her gift to elevate and bring forth relief. To heal from thoughts within, the harlot of Rotterdam commands each wind. Each elevation a structure within. A stroke a brush with a hand she sends.

The gale the screaming din, the driftwood from the sea with its upside-down grin, to capture all time in a thimble within. Sixes and sixes in upside down triangular twins.  The force that never ends. The strength that forever begins.

She sails alone in cold English seas, a longing a hunger for more than believed. Beyond the nightlights of bars and skin, the mainland is dying from its rot within. To escape the poison, to really be free, to master cold waters toward a home, in Whitby.

Born forth by ash is she, not that of dust, she circles herself in eternity. Deeper than deep, the divers depths call “Nehalennia“, “sing to our dead souls in need.” “Cross yourself forward, the ashes and dust, calls from a time beneath.” “Ashes to dust, and dust to ashes indeed.” Ashes to dust, and dust to ashes, let all these waters recede.”

“Nehalennia” the storm whispers. “Ashes” she murmurs in return. “To fall”, the wind cries. “Dust”, she replies. “The end”, the water sprays. “Eternity”, she is heard to say. “Eternity”, she is heard to say. – 10-07-2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Hérodiade


{Abstract} In which “The Whitby Ladies” being playful and gay, go by carriage to Leeds to attend the performance of Hérodiade at the “Grand Playhouse”. In which the ladies by craft, divine a bargain with a spright hereby named Baphomet to deal for the soul of the actress “Simone Lazarre” in exchange for the soul of the Archbishop of Canterbury “Edward White Benson” who is in attendance.

“Some whisper holy, holy, but they lie. Some cry rapture sweet Pontifex Maximus, but they do not know. I lie in the secret places, where the wolves eat their meat, and I wait for the calling of my Lord.” – DS

She burns her soul on the wood filled stage. With the walls of paper where the structure of Jerusalem weighs. The balance of acts, on a judgment scale, her breast displayed, as a wishing well. Her chocolate curls fall the room does sway and spins out of control far away. Those eyes so fair that watch above, in all their lust of lovers loved, in dresses made by magic care they watch Salome dance naked bare. Oh, night so quiet in summers dusk, all ladies present breathing touch. In marionette form, they move each thrust of naked hips that bring men’s lust. From Whitby town they made their way by carriage up the queen’s highway to sit as perched as royalty does, to move the characters, as they must. In Leeds Grand room, they play to test mortality’s cusp, a skin so soft for the Baptist bloody bust.

An act in parts, a shadow of life, the ballast moves from the deep of the night. The heat, the heat some barrister cries his eyes on the dancer and her glistening thighs. “Come all who hear, for none can see”, whispers one wicked witch in the gallery. Go on, go on reveal what will, a black bird is flying round the ceiling still. Can she never end says a barmaid dark? What I would not give a Pound to have her hips of art, as the dance for Hérodiade brings a bargain in the dark. Brings a trade before a part.

She burns her soul on the wood filled stage. With the veils breathing forms all around her, face. The room it breaths transposed only the silent can trace, with each witch watching the bargain take place. For the spright has promised to release one fair, to give the gift of trading while she dances there. An eye for an eye and a tooth or two, and such a supple body twisted as her soul comes through. Oh, the dark spirit watches right by the door for it has spotted a vessel what it traded for.

For Salome dances in the play for Leeds, before the royal bishop from Canterbury. His eyes they follow each miniscule move of a turning breast of the entrance to her womb. “Yes”, he’s heard to whisper, it is not enough for he wants to trap her dancing till she’s had enough, and the wicked things he has done before to dancing women to dancing whores. For he never would imagine that above his world in a gallery of witches there is a deal explored. For as the veils fall one by one and the lights grow dim and the dancer is done. The holy, holy Vicar looks confused to see a ghostly apparition with a silver tray, with no breath he will say. “This ends this way”, yes sir, “this end this way”! – 05.10.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For me and the deals I have struck!

The Harrowing of Hattie Killabrew

O’ terrible willow bent willow, born shady in back, taint not one star found you, by here near this shack. no sunlight, established or daemons begat, your seed from beginning, the hollow is black. The chorus of the sparrows has died by the crows, what used to be feathers has whitewashed to bones. The spell of the valley is from what this witch mourned. Her time born in living by mankind is scorned.

A great ream of pavement has woven its way, round the township of Pindall toward the valley it strays, it brings standing water that spills from the hills, and swamps Hattie’s back yard in the hallow so still. She thought herself dead, when the tractor came by, asleep sitting up in the year of Azrael, in 1925. She folded her cold fingers round her churn by the door, and pulled herself upward from where she sat so straight back, her bones so sore. A new U.S. Highway called 65, to Hattie its changing her life, comes her anger, its changing her life.

Round circles, embedded in oaks to the sky. O’ terrible willow bent willow, tattered and tried. The new moon brings darkness darker than before. Old woman seen, striding, then gliding cross the frost filled hollow floor. She hisses, “I’m harrowed” as she passes each grave, the ones in the clearing, filled by eons of age. The road crew from Harrison their fires burning bright, the smell of their lightning, tells something not right.

“Come Shemyaza”, “come Azazyel”, “come Amazarek”, with sight, bring “Akibeel”, “o host, taint a star fall, this hollow this night”. The stillness is closing the clamor and din, of faces round moving, the arrival of wind. The dirt dug grows closer, where men sing their songs, all wide eyed and laughing within. The one that leans forward and studies the flame. Sees in it his childhood, his lifetime of pain. “Come Danel”, “come Jazele”, “come hazeel” with pain, bring “slipknot”, “o host let blind eyes see shame”.

A great chasm opens from which comes the roar. The hollow grows wider all flames nothings warm, the road crew from Harrison gleans wisdom not born, the waking of nature, the eye of the storm. The twisting of tractors, of steel into earth, the hallow comes forward, and takes of its worth. The defect of ignorance has brought men, no more, the highway transitioned a mile from this lore. An old woman turns and walks backwards her feet tired her back sore.

O’ terrible willow bent willow, born shady in back, taint not one star found you, by here near this shack. – 10.25.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Evangeline


“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. – Arthur Conan Doyle

Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. He’s speaking before her feet can move, the frosty air seeping from his twisted and thin lips. “You’ve dreamed again, haven’t yu “Eve”, bout that place, I heard yu singing about it, while yu did service to the lad’s. The service makes her shiver, the large bodies close to hers, eyes blurred, the smell of death and Opium on their breath, the reaper coming forth. The reaper coming forth.

From the Private papers of A.C. Doyle (a synopsis) – Saturday, June 7, 1890

She sings like crystal, with her eyes stark bare, looking towards something above us all that’s maybe in darkness there. The chandelier turns above her swaying but will not fall, my Louisa claims there’s soft skin writhing in each glass tear shaped swollen areola bare. I’m amiss at my judgment to think this maiden is earth, something turns with her vocal’s that makes my loins burn with thirst. My friend Stoker should be here to witness of what we see, the east enders crying before the angel of super naturality. All around the Haymarket, the air is so thick, her majesty, Victoria, asleep in her mist, of wonder that weaving, while this phantom sings. Evangeline oh poet, in me the hounds of Baskerville scream.

An act in two parts, she says between stanzas and times, she works magic in cunning, between high notes that climb. This lady from Whitby that knows all my mind, her wanton eyes searching, above north, for ladders I shall never climb. The fates have done risen, in graveyards sublime, her soft cockney voice inviting the audience, those around me so refined. It seems I can’t think straight, the melody is like a web, I look over at my Louisa she’s not breathing as if dead. The song of a night bird, falls around my company. Evangeline in her movements, what is she, I wonder what is she?

Her gown is luminous liquid, that runs high from her thighs, the gasp in the theatre, when her arms sway from side to side. Her enchanting voice, with lilt and so fine, and then she lowers her tones, all the world is entwined. Oh, magic sweet magic, from where does she arrive, I wonder of her outcome, this night so divine.

The chandelier lowers, calling deep unto deep, she mounts it, with her voice rising and touching. Her tenderness, comes in rushes, and I a doctor who have seen the arctic cold, cannot explain her frozen touches. Her frozen tender touches. And she rest me, and all torment becomes beauty, while she sings.

Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. A different time perhaps, as all times are different. Sail me home to Whitby, Evangeline whispers. Her frozen breath crosses things unseen.

They pass the Roman tunnels; that place from long ago. The crypts sail by in the damp air. She looks at Uriah, “that was a long time ago she whispers, a long time ago”. “Aye, he says, all is different now, still, he says, still…. – 09.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Carlotta


“Your heart was lifted up because of your beauty; you corrupted your wisdom because of your splendor. I cast you to the ground; I put you before kings, that they may see you”. – Ezekiel 28:17

Letters moving within letters, sounds within sounds, flesh unto flesh, and then, and then…

A ripping of the temple curtain, that which blankets the sky. The giving of flesh, the naming of the daughter of man, breathing into her “Carlotta”, for she wishes to be free, and her expulsion from that high altar called grace, to the coven of Whitby, where she will always remain!

Stories come to her like the night birds do, falling, their angel red lips open, screaming, descending from the highest womb of beauty. Falling their mouths forming pictures, and passions and finally impotent, silent as the earth draws them into her bend, termed the pale. She moves away from the water, the North Sea has forced the channels flow, and the best that she can do, is ignore the dark angels who hit the sandy shore, and oft to the cold dark sea they go. Her eyes strike a silver pale, unlike her father’s, gold, an affront his tenor voice says, somewhere so oft below. The moors outside of Whitby, surround her now. In by the flowing Esk she goes, so near to the manor where the light of the hearth does glow. Black curls they fall around her, and tangle in a bow, they move as in progression to touch her breast below. The softness holds a heat no man will ever know. Inside of her in a small place, she goes to rest, for even there, her father, can’t hear the shadow words she chants behest.

She could have fallen by order, the last but not the first, the sons of men in frenzy, they scrambled on the earth. The place and time of entry, the past before the flood, that place where great leviathans crafted within and out the sons. It matters not, this she knows, for when she fell so fast below, picked she Whitby with its time that never ends, eternal life, she thinks and smiles. She turns and takes her feet to fly, matters not, her human size, other things are new inside, she turns and grins at her father lost in the sky. The stars look back so cold, some still falling, their judgement within.

The moors they reek of bastards, hidden from a grace, in lower bogs and pastures, the earth becomes their place. It could be she’s home with them, but something is calling her, calling within, a musky smell, and bathing in gin, an innocence lost, but she’s already sinned, she laughs, and runs towards Lucy’s garden so fast. The damp marsh air, tangles her hair, her collar has come undone. And how should she present herself to Mina and the circle itself. Her gifts undiscovered, but for light she has seen, discovered the secrets behind the veil. Was she not a princess the first born above, created when Adam made Lilith his love, or at least her father has told her so, that he mentioned before he told her no.

The fires are glowing from windows arched above, and Resa’s at the gate, her fingers moving making stitches in the air. I watched you fall, she smiles, you’ll be with us for such a while. “When Lucifer fell he took a third of the angels with him”, she says, “but none such as you, none such as you”. And with the sweetest touch, that feeling of magic, before the sun comes up, she smiles like an old friend or a lover that’s new, and says come inside, theirs such a mystery and so much mischief for us to do. – 08.04.2017 – דָּנִאֵל

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