The Ritual

This is a poem I have written and re-written. I started this poem 9 years ago. It consisted of maybe 8 lines total. I didn't really like it, so I worked on it more during my Creative Writing course. I was basically inspired by numerous thunderstorms we were having at the time and I always had a fascination with the occult. I do not practice any such thing, I just like to read and learn about it. During this time I also had read quite a number of Anne Rice novels-I love her and her style of writing, it drew me into the stories! She, I would say, was also a bit of inspiration for this poem. It  is one of my favorites that I have written so far!

The Ritual

White, sweeping dress- simple, nothing fancy.

Barefoot in the grass

Skin is pale milky moonlight

soft, creamy silk.

Hateful, burning, cat eyes-

large and bright, green embers glowing.

Hair-black raven

long, dark carefree flowing.

Ferocious nails, blood red,

thin, twiggy fingers.

Enchanting book in left hand,

athame in right.

Standing rigid- quiet, purposeful pose.

Meadow- shadows all around.

Stars shimmer, moon glimmers

She bows her head, prays to ancient gods.

Air is warm and placid,

tranquility abounds- peaceful…

She comes alive,

performing, perverse, ancient ritual,

dance of the strange.

Mischievous, mystical, mysterious,

this solitary maiden.

The dance now over,

pink lips begin to move,

singing the song of trance.

Her voice sultry,

satin soft, alluringly sweet,

as the blood of fruit.

She now chants,

Vibrant and clear…

Faster and faster, call of the wild.

Sweat beading on her brow face aglow.

She chants, she sings, she laughs, she screams.

Ancient drumbeats fill the air.

Spirits rise.

Wind is breezy, sky alight,

lightning flashes, thunder rolls-

howls from within.

She sings with the thunder,

dances with the lightning.

Abruptly the ritual is over-

the four winds have spoken-

book closes, athame falls to the ground.

Hands limp; lips pause and pout.

Hair, a hundred black ribbons,

plastered to her face.

Prim, proper she isn’t, wild, obscure, of course.

Under the silver moon- big, bold, above,

in the shadows of the meadow…

Ancient drumbeats fade away,

Ritual now closes,

With the magic of this night.