The Faerie Witch’s Love Spell

The spell it came within a book

Tucked back beyond the attic nook,

Deep within the pages told

Of secrets kept from days of old,

And then I saw it glowing bright

The answer to my lonely night.


Inside the book with pages torn

I read the words one autumn morn

But did not heed the warning there

Among the stories bright and fair

For all that caught my eye that day

A reference to a certain fey:

“ He’s dreaming in his treetop tower

Content to wait for the witching hour

To cast off limbs for flesh and bone

Wander through valley and standing stone

That brings him square up to the door

Where his lady waits on misty shore

With wand in hand and wreath in hair

She conjures him ‘tween earth and air,

And when they meet ‘neath moonlit sky

The faeries know the knot they tie

Will bring her joy and many tears

As well as magic, love and fears.

For mortal witch and faerie lover

Will join as one and soon discover

The veil is thin this Samhain night

And many partake of unearthly delight

Then wake to the cold November sky

Hang down their heads and heave a sigh

For alone they be each on their own side

The veil now dense, the distance wide.”


And I am one of witches fair

That conjured earth, fire, water and air

Upon a lonely Samhain night

To bring to me one shinning bright

A love to know and keep till dawn

And caring not if right or wrong.


So dressed in green by pale moonlight

I trod the woods that fateful night

And when I came upon the tree

That every night had beckoned me

I raised my wand up to the sky

And to the stars let out a cry.

“You of green within this tree,

Oh shinning one, come down to me,

Oh green one dwelling high above

Come down and bring to me your love

That we may dance until the dawn

Make love till all starlight is gone.

I cast this spell by thistle and thorn

You shall be mine until the morn.”


The crystal sparked the tree was lit

With tiny lights from root to tip.

I saw his face atop the tree

His glowing eyes stared down at me,

His voice it floated to the ground

And settled on the mossy mound,

“The night is long my pretty bird,

So take my hand, don’t say a word.

Into the night I’ll hold your hand

Across the green we’ll walk the land,

And you will know such wondrous things

That cause mere mortal hearts to sing.”


My feet were bare and so was he

His luminous wings did flutter free.

Our hands were clasped beneath the stars

Wee hours of night becoming ours.

As we walked through hills of silken green

And circles of stone with moonlit sheen

My faerie lover showed me things

That dwell within the mushroom rings,

Where dancing in a moonlit glen

He kissed my lips again and again,

Till lips and legs began to tingle

His breath and mine as one did mingle.

And then beneath the starry night

I saw the often told of sight

A doorway opened in the ground

Among the mushrooms gathered round.

And pulled along a lustrous hall

I felt myself begin to fall

Then caught within green arms so strong

I whispered low, this can’t be wrong.


The night stretched out before our eyes

Pushed longingly within our cries

As we made love beneath the earth

Both solemnly and filled with mirth.

Upon his bed of leaves and moss

He left me breathless, at a loss,

For soon I knew the sun would rise

And wipe the stars from out the skies

And he would leave me in a mess

To search the hills for my green dress.


Now my life is different it seems

My hair has turned a brownish-green

Everyone that passes me by

Can see the silver in my eyes,

And like the sky that shown that night

My skin now shimmers in pale moonlight.


So guard your hearts, oh witches fair

When moon is full love fills the air

But cast you not that faerie spell

For in its wake the tale you’ll tell

Is one of love and then of sorrow

Of time suspended till the morrow,

When autumn’s frost lay on the ground

And winter breathes its mournful sound

You’ll speak about the lovely things

That one can do with faerie wings

And then your breath will catch in time

With memories of faerie rhyme

That fill your nights and clutter your days

And make you walk around in a haze,

And all because the spell you cast

Brought faerie love that could not last.





A Poet’s Dream

I dreamed of writing poetry

like stitching cloth together

with rhyming of fine silk

the body softest leather.


Green silk at the beginning

its texture smooth and taut

with golden thread and needle

the layered lines were caught.


Then rows of turquoise ruffles

like waves upon a sea

deftly sewn like stanzas

with branches from a tree.


Hints of sadness here and there

dark patches glued to leather

meant to hold the broken heart

or mend it back together.


Silver threads of metaphor

held the hem in place

while peeking out beneath it

analogies of lace.


Sturdy threads of quatrain

woven through the whole

kept the meter buttoned up

in apertures of soul.


And then the piece was finished

a garment rife with verse

astonishing as triolet

yet subtle and so terse.


It wrapped around my spirit

with words of silken time

to settle peacefully at my feet

a tailored garb of rhyme.

poets dream



It’s common knowledge among faeries that holes in ones socks is a sign that one needs grounding. So imagine my horror when I realized that all my socks had developed holes in the soles. Holes in the soles are the worst kind of holes. Only extreme space cadets walk around with them, their heels sticking to their shoes, tiny sucking sounds whispering around their feet. These holes in my socks weren’t the tiny inconsiderate type that peek at you like candle light through pin holes. Oh no…these holes were big, brazen brutes that threatened to expose near half my foot to the cold reality of my inner boot.

Now, some people will immediately throw away these holey socks and buy new ones. Then within a short period of time like a few days or weeks they start noticing holes in the new socks. This can lead to a vicious cycle of throwing and buying that could be avoided by simply taking some advice from faery, namely – get grounded!

There are many reasons why a human or faerie can become ungrounded or air-headed, as my faerie friends like to call it. Sometimes it comes from too much dreaming both the sleeping and awake kind. Sometimes it can be caused by living in an upstairs home and not coming down or walking on the ground enough. Then sometimes it can strike if you’ve been hanging around too many winged creatures whether faerie or otherwise. Once in a while it’s simply because one is spending too much time in their socks and not letting their feet breathe. And then there is winter, when some of us tend to stay indoors too much or forced by the weather cannot be outdoors enough. I’m afraid the latter reason is my excuse.

Where I live it usually gets very cold with lots of snow in winter so I’m use to a bit of feet-off-the-ground activity this time of the year and I‘m usually prepared for it. But this winter caught me off guard starting out very different with warmer temperatures and very little snow. So it was easy to stay grounded, taking walks and being in nature, feet firmly planted on the ground. That is until a couple of weeks ago when the sky opened up and dumped feet of snow and terribly frigid temps on us. If it had been the usual soft fluffy snow there wouldn’t have been a problem but this snow had teeth; long, jagged, sharp ones and it knew how to use them! Heavy, wet and unforgiving it fell with a vengeance like frozen blankets for hours and hours. When it was over I crawled into my cave and stayed there to wait for Spring to rescue me. That’s when I found the holes in my socks and knew what I had to do.

There are a few ways for a faerie or human to get grounded but most of them have to do with being out of doors and with two feet of heavy snow and way below freezing temperatures these techniques were beyond my very limited shoveling abilities. So I did the only thing I could while in the warmth of my winter cave. I took off my shoes, put on some music and danced.

While I danced I imagined I was in a field of daisies and clover, my feet tickled by their petals, my toes digging into soft earth. Singing birds and a gentle breeze caressed my mind, butterflies floated around my head landing on my nose and chin. For awhile I was transported to that field my feet touching the floor, my spirit feet going deeper until they settled on the earth. When the music ended and my feet were still I could still smell the clear, fresh air of a Summer evening.

I was finally grounded.

Now if this snow would just go away so I can go buy some new socks.

Faerie - Penny For A Dance


The Little Whistling Man

A hollow tree grows tall and crooked at the bottom of the hill just beyond the stone wall behind my house. Sometimes when the sun is just about to set I go walking past it and find a spot to sit in the tall grass. From there I can watch that hollow in that tall crooked tree without being seen. I have been doing this ever since the day I saw a little man all dressed in brown with horns coming out his fuzzy hair and glittery golden wings coming out his back. The sun had just set when I saw him come out of the hollow of the tree and stretch, raising his hands toward the tree tops. Then he started to whistle a strange little tune while he walked off into the woods.

Now I go down there as often as I can in hopes of seeing him again. I cannot get that tune he whistled out of my head nor the sight of the evening sky glistening off his wings as he walked out of sight.

I have never seen him since but sometimes in the evening, just after the birds have ceased their song and the last glow of day retreats behind the horizon, if I listen very intently, I can hear the sound of a strange little tune whistling in the trees…and then it is gone. Then I get up and walk past the hollow tree, up the hill and over the stone wall then back to my house. There I wait with a tune in my head and the memory of golden wings. There I wait till the sun is ready to set again.

Dunvegan tree

Mrs. Claus

Santa & Elf“Mrs. Claus is an elf and I can prove it”, she said.

The old woman looked at me with a sparkle in her chocolate brown eyes that had me wondering if she was serious or just trying to get my attention. Well, she had my attention already, she needn’t bother with that one so I decided to take her seriously.

She continued rummaging through boxes as she explained how she could prove such a thing.

“It was many years ago when I was just a young girl, too old for toys but too young for boys.” She winked at me and held up a small doll with black woolen hair matted from years of being crushed in a box under heavier objects.

“Or at least that’s what me mum thought.” Another wink and a thickening of her Irish accent led me to believe she was about to delve deeper into her past which had to be a very, very long time ago judging from her ancient face and gnarled hands. She handed me the doll telling me to hold it and not let go until she was finished with her story.

She continued her rummaging as she told me her tale.

“It was spring of the year that I turned fourteen when they moved into the old stone cottage down the road from me house. Everyone thought the old place would cave in soon if someone didn’t take it on. They said it was one of the last buildings left from the old days, said it was built when folks still gathered at the stones and wells on the sacred nights when the moon was their only light. Stories were told of strange lights coming from within the old cottage on the solstices and most everyone kept a wide berth when passing by the place. But I had seen those lights so I knew they were more than just stories. I knew that these people that moved into the cottage either didn’t know its reputation or didn’t care. I knew I had to get to know them.

I was a very brave child. Mum would disagree calling me reckless and impulsive. I would go exploring when she thought I was weeding the garden or tending the chickens…or sleeping. That’s how I came to see those lights I spoke of. And that’s how I came to meet Mrs. Vinclaus.

Her and her husband, Kris, spoke with an accent but I never could tell where they were from and they always simply pointed north or changed the subject when asked. They had what they called ‘extended family’ living with them which consisted of about ten men and women who seemed to me to be more like servants or employees than family. They were always doing something, mostly making things like furniture or clothing or toys when they weren‘t working on the cottage. One of them made the doll you are holding. But the most curious thing about them was how they dressed. Always in green, except for Kris, and always with hats that covered their ears. Even Mrs. Vinclaus wore hats that always covered her ears. But after visiting with them on many occasions Mrs. Vinclaus told me to call her Anna, which she pronounced like Awnay and she took her hat off to reveal perfectly pointed ears sticking out from her long raven black hair. I let out a little gasp but then smiled into her emerald green eyes.

“Go ahead,” she said with a grin,” Touch them.” And I did. And they were real!

After that She started telling me stories about their northern home and why they were living in the old cottage in Ireland for a time. She said the cottage had called out to them, that it needed to be repaired before it was lost forever. That particular cottage had been home to her ancestors for many years before her people had been driven out of Ireland. When I asked what she meant by driven out she just sighed, something she did whenever I touched on a subject she’d rather not discuss.

One cold winter evening after me parents were asleep I walked up the road to visit the Vinclause’s and bring them a gift of apple tarts I had made for them. It was the night of winter solstice and I knew it was special for them so I wanted to show me love with this gift. When I got there a celebration was going on in the garden behind the cottage. A big fire had been lit and Anna and Kris and all their extended family were roasting things over it, singing lovely but strange songs and making all kinds of merry. I had never seen anything like this before. There was a warm glow surrounding the whole garden and little sparks of green and blue lights kept flitting around my head. I joined the festivities and had my first taste of mead, sweet, golden and warm. Some of the family played fiddles, flutes and drums and the rest of us danced. They knew all the old Irish jigs and reels and a lot of tunes I’d never heard before. A few other people from the area were in attendance as well but the Vinclause family still out numbered us locals.

Sometime before dawn the festivities took on a slower pace with soft, sad songs being sung in both the old language and one I didn’t recognize. Light snow was falling and Kris, in his red festival clothes, was sitting on a huge old tree stump, Anna, in her velvet greens was on his lap, both smiling and swaying to the beautiful music when a garish flash of light enveloped them. At first I thought it was some supernatural light of some kind but then it instantly became quiet. The music stopped as did all conversation and all eyes were drawn toward the place where the flash had originated and a man stood with one of those new machines called a camera. Everyone seemed to be in shock for a few moments then all hell broke loose. The man was pounced upon by most of the family and a few of the locals. The camera was confiscated and the man driven out into the breaking dawn screaming like a banshee.

Kris was given the camera and in turn he handed it to his wife. “You know what to do with this, my dear”, he said.

Anna walked over to me and gave me the camera. She looked into my confused eyes and told me that only the most innocent of them could possess such a thing that could prove who they really are. She trusted me to keep their secret and only tell those who believed or needed to believe.”

“You need to believe”, she said.

“By the first of the new year they were gone leaving behind only the lovely now renovated stone cottage and this doll.” She touched the doll’s raven black hair with one of her crooked fingers.

“This note was attached to it.”

She handed me an old yellowed, crumbling piece of paper with the most beautiful fancy handwriting that read:

Whomever holds this doll that looks like me shall have my blessing of a long life filled with the wonder of magic.

Loving Blessings,


Then the old woman reached into another box. As a slow satisfied smile spread across her face she pulled out a photo and held it to her chest.

“This is what’s left of the photo the man took at the celebration”, she said handing it to me. “At some point I cut away all the background that had completely faded away and painted a new one and glued them onto it.”

I looked in astonishment at the photo not just because it was clear proof of Kris and Anna’s existence, but because it was in color!

“Yes”, she chuckled,“ It seems magic was afoot that night inside that old contraption.”

I’d like to say it was the old photo that helped me believe but in the end it was the doll that accomplished the feat. When I touched its pointed ears and looked into its emerald eyes a strange tingling went up my arm and into my heart settling there like warm honey and since that day, just as Anna promised, there has been the wonder of magic filling my life. An innocent kind of wonder that is had naturally by children but seldom by adults. I have seen the lights in the woods and talked to faeries and they let me paint their portraits. And every Winter Solstice I light a fire in the back garden and call to Kris and Anna and their family with thanks for all they have given me. Then I sing and old song and dance an old jig and raise a cup of cheer to them for through that small toy they have given back the childish wonder I’d lost along life’s difficult journey.

May you find that wonder again as well.


The Circle

With besom made

from Mother’s herb

sweep old away

negativity curb,

A circle round

to stand within

upon the ground

keeping power within,

Call the spirits

of the four directions

to come and bring

their sacred protection,

Take up the pipe

or sword or wand

invoke the deities

within and beyond,

State your purpose

work magic and spells

raise energy now

shake rattles, ring bells.

For their presence and help

send a thankful call

then open the circle

farewell to all,

Stand firm upon

the Earth below

breathe deep of air

and peace shall flow.

Set besom then

beside the door

and blessings of Samhain

will surely pour.

besom 2

The Lonely Spider

lonely spiderI found a faerie trapped

in a spider web one day

I grabbed a hold of her wing

and helped her get away.

The spider eyed me then

such anger and distaste

I thought I’d have to run

and do it with some haste.

But then I heard a voice

the spider spoke to me

“I am too small to hurt you

there is no need to flee.

I am so lonely here

on this web I call my home

nobody comes to visit

no friends have I, not one.”

So I sat with her awhile

our conversation mellow

and now whenever a spider I see

I stop to say hello.

The Dark Night of a Faerie’s Soul

dark faerie 2 - Copy

When an earth faerie’s heart becomes darkened by grief and despair the sky fills with wind driven clouds, grey and heavy. Tree branches toss, dripping leaves like tears, casting shadows between their earth bound bodies. Her head fills with mist that pours from her eyes now dulled by the sky’s rushing gloom. The mist grows, coiling around her, creeping fingers of fog filling her woodland den. Upon her feet she wears the ashes of dusk, a blackness that seeps deep into the pores of her soul. Her steps hesitate, pull her in too many directions, turn her willowy legs to burdensome logs sinking into the mud. Once regal wings that sparkled crystalline in the moonlight now hang languid, listless under the leaden clouds, flight a memory, joy a song lost somewhere deep in the forest of lost love and regret. The drumbeats of hearts no longer beating echo through the vines, twisting their rhythm into lost visions of forgotten dreams.

Darkness becomes her ally guiding her through moonless nights and storm filled days. Caressing her like a drunken lover he soothes her broken heart with tales he has woven from raven wings and owl claws. His words are filled with the breath of night, a sweet darkness that envelops her in its velvet cocoon lulling her deep into the welcoming black dreamless sleep.

“Rest, my sweet love”, Darkness whispers in her pointed ear, “Let me take you to places where movement ceases and dreams lie still at the bottom of the moor. Places that echo with silence, where light is but a memory of star shine behind sullen clouds passing on their way to tomorrow. Sleep long and full in my woeful arms until there is no more sorrow left in your grieving heart. Only then can you awaken with hope in your hand, sun on your wings and peace the crown you wear. For only in darkness will you find the elements of rebirth, the fodder for new life that waits beneath the frozen soil of sorrow. Only night can give birth to day and darkness to light.”

She sleeps under the blanket of earth in the arms of Darkness while night sways like an ocean above her dreams.

The Well Traveled Road

Grief is a road we all must travel during our stay on this earth plane. It doesn’t matter who you are or what your position in the world is, you will know this heavy grey cloud that sits upon your chest trying to steal the air from it. I am walking that path at the moment. I have been on this road many times in my life and each time I learn something new about its trail of sorrow. Each time I grow a little closer to understanding how to cope with it.

My first venture onto this road was when I was 12 years old and my maternal grandfather died. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral because my parents thought I was too young and they didn’t want me to remember him that way. What I do remember was being very upset and crying more than I probably would have had I been allowed to go. My memories of that time are mostly of the sorrow my mother was experiencing for what seemed like years, a sorrow that I felt as well, being a young empath, something I would not know anything about until I was much older.

The road did not call to me again for many years but when it finally did it exploded into my life with four deaths within three years. I walked into the deepest parts of the forest of grief with no one to hold my hand. The path was winding, dark and fog covered. I tripped on many holes and got snagged by twisted vines that reached up and grabbed my ankles. The sound of this grief was like a tornado rushing above the trees in a deafening roar threatening to suck me up into its empty vortex. There were times when I feared I would never find my way out. It was during this walk that I was made aware of the powers that come from those who have passed through the veil of death. I discovered that they can ease our pain if we will let them. It was during this time that I also discovered I was a medium although I never called it that until much later. To me it was just simply me talking to them and them talking back. They showed me the way out of that darkest part of the forest into a clearing where the road became straighter and smoother and although it would take quite a few years before the end could be reached, I never felt alone after that.

Good planning always makes for a better journey. So when it was clearly obvious that my dad was nearing the end of his stay here on the physical plane, I began preparing for another sojourn into that forest upon the road of grief. My past experiences were such that I had felt shoved forcefully onto it. This time I wanted to step softly onto it of my own free will. My ancestors and Fae guides from the other side helped by giving me signs and staying close enough that I knew it was imminent. All my preparations were put to the test a week ago when my sweet father finally stepped into the other world.

This time I stepped onto the road of my own volition knowing full well that what lay ahead of me was still just as uncertain as it ever was but at least this time I am somewhat prepared. My backpack is filled with loving friends, family and guides, long walks by the lake and reams of poetry written in the dark of night by candlelight. My hands are being held by the spirit guides I have grown to love and depend on and the faeries are scouting ahead to warn of any holes and or vines in the path ahead. The heavy grey cloud is still sitting on my chest but I have learned a different way of breathing through this grief so that its power to steal my breath has greatly diminished. And as an empath I have learned how to put the proper shields up so that I don’t have to feel everyone else’s grief as well as my own during this time of family mourning.

I know that the path ahead is long and may wind into places yet unknown but I also know that there is an end. One day I will awake to find the sky a little brighter, the breeze a little softer and my mind a little lighter. I know because I have walked this road before and shall walk it again but I will never walk it alone. My guides and ancestors, including my dad, walk with me.

faerie - Contemplation