On a Dark Texas night,
a Coven at a crossroads
danced in the hot Galveston eventide,
for it was Esbat Rite
on Brocken point.
Histories and Mysteries came alive,
once again.

As Sisters from Endor were remembered...
Ebony winds blew,
Atho slew, as Diana flew,
Moon glowed bright,
upon my familiar of steel,
a steed,
a Besom of Chrome.
Me in animate form.
Formed by Harley,
wine and, barley;
by the winedark sea...

The time was there; here...
Having bathed in a cold flowered bath;
and, fasted black.
Skyclad but for a Cimaruta and blue beads,
Ok! A Garter of white, too.
Circle drawn by Athenas Athame red.
Bonfires lit,
flames licked the night sky,
like old lovers...
Power coned.
Candles on corners ;
on the Airts four of course.
Censers burning with herbs of Love,
cinnamon boiling, too in cauldrons
of Scottish iron.
Holy words honed.
Now, no Aradian book will do...
Rites and bites.
Spells and silver bells.
Incubis and Succubis in a sack
Phallic true.
The Gods watching from above.
Us praying to the source.


On a shadowy beach
12 lusty folks and me...
My arse Kissed by all...
All the Gods within reach...
In the name of the Old Ones,
we loved...we sang...
We touched carnal and natural,
passion raised like the smoke from Holy pyres...
conviction,
erections,
awed by truth,
reverence and respect was paid.
Tex. Mex. Sex,
fertility was remembered
fruitful, prolific prayers were offered,,
fairies came,
and Emotions were felt by all...
Tied to Our Gods in a Kiss!

Oh! What Christians miss,
by turning their backs on Mother Nature,
So Grand in Stature,
sterile and barren
seeing God only in buildings with colored glass...
So alone they must feel.
So unworthy,
God just words in a book,
that the tree of life did die to print.

And, Now
as I sit and reflect,
once again erect...
I remember that old story of
the golden ass...
And, Witches burned
for gold and land.
I must also ask, Am I Satan?
Does he exist?
What name a Priest?
Evil to love all?
How many lives lived?
Does it matter?
I have heard the bards call...
Apples I have eaten.
Truth I have written.
With Brigit I am smitten...
To share I must,
my rites, my loves, my lust!

OH! To know.
To dare,
To will.
And, to be silent,
No longer!
Pride forbids...
Like Job and the moon.

I will sing of my faith...
My singing does ring of An Irish wraith...
Stand for my beliefs, will I...

Morgana may now Cry.
Tears of Joy.
Tears of relief.
Tears for her belief,
and ours.

Die for my Gods!
You bet!
So Hate on Christians.

My Soul is mine,
I am not a sheep.
My mind is keen,
send my mail to Avalon
in Summerland True.
My soul is acute,
My honor intense,
My Familiar kick-started
and riding to...
Where Apollo rides in the Blue...
Where Baphomet rhymes with
Keplars and Essenes like me.
Where a Man, I be.
Made in the Image of truest love,
not of dust.
The lock on Pandoras
box may be rust,
But, in me you can Trust.
This American Pagan,
of Irish blood,
heart stole away by Keats
and Gods Greek.

My Rites, my right in America?
Freedom