Best Wishes for 2012!


May you be cajoled by kind spirits only, that show you your true worth as seen by the rest of humanity. Believe you me, when I say that you are here for a very special reason, namely because you are sorely needed by those around you. I love you, we love you, you may rest assured in this certain knowledge!

Now, off you go and make merry!

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Midnight Brew


Tap down and gather together   

all ye merry crafters  

Gather the herbs and vines

and hang them from the rafters

Kick a boot cheerily

and sway thou wicked hips

Grab the wisest merry-man

and kiss him on the lips

Ring the bell and call the cat

then spark thy candle bright

Sip a witchy midnight brew

on this winters night.

The Witch In Every Woman


“There is a little witch is every woman” No truer words were ever spoken. We are all daughters of the moon, born of fire, water, earth, air, and spirit.  We are sister witches one and all.  A woman is magickal by her natural design. We are intuitive, courageous, powerful beings.  We are the seductive temptresses, the givers of life, the healers, the Mother Goddesses, the enchantresses, the wise ones.  We are beautiful and homely magicians, sorceresses, see-ers, and holy women. We mold, we bend, we shape, we twist, we turn, we create realities, we are in concert with the moon, the tides, the raging wind, the gentle brook, the hearth fire, the watchful crow. We build up worlds and we destroy worlds. We are potent brewers, bakers, and candle stick makers. We are delicious, delightful, spiral dancers. We inspire art, literature, life. We enslave, we free. We cast magickal spells unaware, we are great, empowered sources of life’s eternal stream of lore and wisdom.

Every wife, mother, career woman, every teenage girl (scrubbed in sunshine) every nerdy grad student,  every church pianist, every nurse, every athlete, every cheerleader, every writer, every doctor, every lawyer, every hotel maid, every cow girl,  every prison cook, every store clerk, every seamstress, every bag lady, every stay at home mom, every Catholic nun, every sunday school teacher, every soldier, every wife, every crafts-woman, all of us, every “bad girl” and every “good girl” (we are all a little of both) ….has a percentage of pure and mighty witch within her being.  Some live the part, while others dabble, (like a certain American politician) but we all are witches.

I have yet to meet one woman who did not wield her own brand of sorcery. Did you ever see a mother instantly quiet her ill-behaved toddler with a raised eyebrow, (that is a spell, my love) Did you ever gaze deeply into a mans eyes and when you released your gaze, he had fallen madly in love with you? (this “romance thing” is 100 % magick!)  Did you ever pay one thousand dollars of monthly expenses with half that amount of money, again, this is witchcraft, in this crones opinion, at least. No matter if you call it “prayer” or  the casting of “a spell” (only words) Women often get what they need through “casting” their sacred energy. The peaceful contented home is cast by a good witches magic, the life long, loving relationship is a “moment by moment” magickal effort.  As women, we stir our own cauldrons, we fly our own brooms, we must become ever vigilant and steadfastly empowered. We must boldly claim our rightful titles as maidens, mothers and crones. “An it harm none, So Mote It Be”

On Being A Witch


The Silver Haired Crone Witch

Words are capricious little sprites. When I say to another soul, “I am a witch” there are any number of impressions one might embrace depending upon your background, your present and past realities, your geographic location, and, your personal emotional response to the word “witch” based on your educational exposure and perhaps your religious teachings.
Here is what I am not, I am not an angry, ugly being that stirs up herbs and lights fires in order to send out wicked hexes and spells that are born to cause harm and chaos. I believe that what I do and say comes directly back to me, magnified and growing claws that will serve only to scratch my own eyes out when I least expect it. You cannot play with the fires of negative energy and not get burned, there is such a thing as the three-fold law, I embrace that concept with profound respect. I am not a worshiper of Satan, for me Satan is an entity that is created in the minds and hearts of bitter souls that choose to take the dark path of greed and selfishness. Satan is your self-created evil “baby” if you know him, and “rock” him, he will be yours forever. “He” will rob you of your light and your dance on this planet will be an ugly, lonely dance, fit only for sad angry fools that cannot be forgiven because they know not how to forgive. It is said that witches do not believe in Satan, well, I do believe in the dark embrace of evil which has more to do with an attitude of hopelessness and rueful anger than a man in a red suit with a pitchfork in his hand. I don’t sacrifice babies or animals, in fact, I am a child advocate volunteer and an animal rights activist, so, that would be impossible for me. I love and nurture all creatures, even the crawling pesky bugs that most people think nothing of squashing under their shoes.

I am me, for this I came. I am carnal in that I celebrate the fleshy pleasures of this life, I make no apologies for my love of pleasure, of sex and of eroticism. I know these things as gifts, not as sins. I treasure romance and passion, sex is poetry, art, music, and drama in motion between two souls. What is so tender, and yet so powerful and moving as making love with someone worthy of your focus, your adoration and your naked trust? Creative lust has been the juice behind many works that move the souls of man. Sex is the life force, it makes us happy and centered and gives us hope to soar above the mundane tasks of daily living. We are like hungry children without sex, needing, wanting, and empty. Sex is such a perfect gift in fact, that there is not a requirement that we have a partner, we can sexually satisfy ourselves.
Now, isn’t that a wonder and a well thought out gift for us trembling and needful human beings dwelling in a sometimes lonely world? It’s as if the creator thought of everything when the gift of pleasurable sex was given to us simple-minded human beings.
Of course, where you have humanity, you will have meanness and power struggles, so, sex has been perverted, like every other good thing. We had to go and make all of these rules about what is a sin and what is acceptable, because we enjoy playing like we know the heart and mind of the creator. Give a human something perfect and natural and he/she will make up rules that are designed to drain the joy and promote guilt and shame. The witch knows sex is a perfect thing when used as it was designed, with tenderness and respect for a partners heart and mind. We honor one another with our sexual skills, we give pleasure without shame or regret, we take pleasure with an attitude of grace and gratitude. We embrace intimacy with respect and awe. We get a body while here on earth, a body in which to give and receive pleasure, a body in which to heal others through tenderness and touch. Witches know secrets about sex, and they are not afraid to use those secrets to heal what is sick or broken in a lover.
The witch is familiar with plants and animals. She or he knows that every being, every plant, every animal has a purpose that is elegant and perfect in its natural state. That is worthy of awe and wonder. That is worthy of tenderness and care. The witch takes responsibility for passing out kisses and hugs, for looking the other way when those she loves prove themselves to be achingly human, for there is grace in not noticing weaknesses, especially in the strongest of souls. The witch dances alone and in her dance, she heals, she inspires, and, she moves mountains. The witch grieves in ways that others can only dream of, for she knows life and death are closer than most think. She knows the worlds of the living and the dead are ever entwined. The stopping of the heart beat only means the flesh is no longer sustainable, but, the spirit can soar and dance forever. She is comforted by the knowledge that her loved ones can be closer in death than in life. The witch knows that time is the only true gift that is given to anyone that we care about. All other things will pass away, but, the time we spend actively loving those we care about is living energy between two souls that never ceases to pulse with life and vitality. Energy cannot die, it is only released to eternal celebration.
Witches know that love binds all things, prayers and spells are the same things, kindness counts, pleasure is good, the earth is our beautiful and sacred Mother. Witches know that time makes one more beautiful inside and that wrinkles and gray hair are in realty quite earnestly beautiful because they are the creators way of pointing out the wise ones.
So yes, I am a witch, I love well, I seek to heal, I seek to bless, I seek to encourage, I seek to find balance in loving myself and in loving others. I seek to inspire, I seek to liberate, I seek to bow in respect and awe of the elements, of the animals, of all creatures of the land, of the air, and of the seas, I seek to honor human nature, and the creators nature. I seek to honor my ancestors, I seek to dance in the spirit of creativity and I seek to become an elegant, loving, contented, and happy soul. I seek to make this journey that is my life one of celebration and wonder. Above all, I seek to be kind. “So mote it be!”

Crone Rehab


When you lose a child, their friends naturally become your own treasures, your beloved “adopted” jewels.  Your deceased child’s “best friend” is especially precious to your heart. This  July, I began to have thoughts and concerns about our departed daughter Emmy’s best friend, Amber.

Thoughts of her stabbed my mind and my heart every few minutes. I couldn’t focus on my writing, my chores, or my life in general. I knew this was not good. I lit candles and I lit incense, finally, I checked her Facebook and I messaged her.  She replied cheerily, all was well with her, she was in love, all was perfectly wonderful, the young man was nothing short of “prince charming.”  Still, her words were in print, with no voice inflections, something felt wrong. I lit more candles and burned more sage. I messaged her again a time or two through July, nothing came back.

On the morning of August fifth, the shrill ringing of the phone slashed the silence of this old house like a sword splitting a ripe melon, it was Amber.  In a weak voice, she asked for me to come and get her.  When she came out of the house where she was staying, I hardly recognized the bright, happy girl who once played under the trees in our yard, the girl with the lovely voice that had sung and danced so merrily with our precious Emmy. This girl was skin and bones, she was gaunt, she had two black eyes, there were scratches and scrapes on her face, the  skin over her knees was torn and bloody, her ankles had deep burns that were oozing with infection. Her eyes were wide and pale, her hands shook, she was wearing ragged sweat pants and a faded tee-shirt.  Her slender feet slipped and slid inside of a huge pair of mens flip-flops, a toe nail was split and broken, the dated orange-colored toenail polish was chipped off of several toes, as if she had been drug with her toes scraping the pavement. 

I did not know this girl. Not THIS girl. Emmy and she had lost touch during highschool when Amber became pregnant and left town to be with her boyfriend and his family. She had eventually married another man and had given birth to two babies during the time our daughter was graduating high school, working and going to college.  At one point, just before our daughters passing, she and Amber had reunited, Amber attended our daughters wedding, she was thin, but, she had appeared happy, I had spoken with her briefly.

 Our Emmy’s health went rapidly down hill after her wedding and she passed away just weeks later. I lost touch with reality for a time and I did not check on Amber again, once I had made the terrible call about our sweet Emmy’s tragic passing.  I only remember Amber screaming and crying into the phone, I had hung up the phone then and gone to my bed.

Four years had passed for Amber and for myself in what (for both of us) was a storm of gut wrenching sadness and grief. We shared one terrible thing, loss.

Through a series of bad choices, Amber lost custody of her boys around a year after our Emmy passed. Their perspective fathers were granted full custody of them, sadly, they were separated from their Mother and from one another.  Amber was only granted one supervised phone call per week, in which she was usually denied the opportunity to speak to her sons. Soon after, Amber became involved with a succession of violent men, one more dangerous than the previous.  She became heavily involved with drugs and she developed a serious alcohol problem as well. That August morning when I picked her up, she told me that without her baby boys, her life was not worth living.  She told me with earnest, hollow eyes, that she wanted to die, and she knew that she was close. I told her that life was indeed worth living, she just had to love herself enough to start over.  “A “do over” is what you need” I chirped.  Inside of my chest, my heart stood still as I said this, because, she was right, she did look as if she was very near death.

For the first three days at our house, she puked, her enormous blue eyes rolled back in her head, she would fall in the floor when she tried to walk to the bathroom, she slept and she screamed in her sleep, sometimes she sobbed between screams. I went to her Fathers house and asked him if I should take her to the hospital, he did not know what to do or what to say, he was scared.

I ran out and grabbed some clothes, toiletries, and a toothbrush for her, she had arrived with nothing.

I fed her soup, cleaned her wounds and I held her hair while she vomited day after day. My husband looked both sad and terrified, he paced the floors. He and I cried together when Amber was sleeping soundly.

On the fourth day, she began to eat solid food and keep it down. I took her walking with me on the fifth day, high on a hill overlooking our tiny town. She walked about forty feet and collapsed, we came back the next day. Eventually, she began to sleep without crying out, and she began to eat heartily.  She began to walk with me, two miles each day. One day she began to run. I took her to mountains where we rent a little cabin each fall, we hiked and we dressed up in witch garb and took pictures of ourselves “pretend” flying. She began to laugh often. She attended a support group for survivors of domestic violence, she attended a women’s Alcoholics Anonymous group. She volunteered at the local Veterans home, she read every day.  I began asking her to write essays about her thoughts and feelings, and to my delight, she wrote beautifully and her spelling is far better than my own!  

By the time the end of October came, she was able to run the house while my husband and I took a much-needed trip. We have a little rescue shelter here for elderly, disabled and small breed dogs. Amber was able to care for every one of our fur kids with great tenderness, skill and efficiency during our absence.

In November, she began dating a couple of nice, bright, interesting, young (Crone pre-screened) men here and there, slow and casual dates, without booze, drugs,  or sexual implications…..the way healthy, sensible, confident, careful, self loving, adult females often do. She was looking beyond their exteriors and going out with young men who were deeper and who were blessed with gentle souls and gentle ways, she had never dated that kind of man before. She was pleasantly surprised that she actually enjoyed their company very much.

She was growing more lovely with each passing day, more strong, more empowered, more capable. She was reading more too. She began to speak in a new tongue, the way a free, strong, happy female speaks. We listened in awe. My husband and I hardly daring to take a breath for fear this was a dream.

Now, I think, our Amber is nearly ready to fly on her own again, this time with better judgment we would hope. She still has work ahead, but, we think she can do it.  She knows about the crone path by now, having sat at my knee, and walked by my side (literally)  for nearly five months. Having done a little “witch therapy” during the long nights during the early days of her life here on the mountain. She knows how to light the corner of a dried safe leaf and clear a room of negative energy, she knows about carrying the “house” bugs to the door and not crushing them out with her foot, she knows about the sacred harvest time and the thinning of the veil, she knows about the shortest day of the year, and how we welcome the suns return and the rebirth of nature at Winter Solstice.  She knows that she is new, and as bright as the sun, filled with hope and purpose now. She knows that one day her sons will come to her, their big blue eyes searching, meeting her big blue eyes and she will be all that they ever dreamed of in a Mother. She knows about the Goddess within her divine self, she knows that she is worthy of love and tenderness, and more than anything else, she is worthy of nurture and Motherhood.

This crone has much gratitude and much respect for her young cohorts efforts of these last months. It is not the crone that has greatly given, it is Amber. She gave me purpose, she gave me a hallowed connection with my Emmy, she allowed me to give a her something that Emmy would have wanted her only best friend to have, and I am warmed by that thought.  Still, I realize that Amber has a long road before her.

 I have been richly blessed by this young woman, I am grateful to the universe for her precious and vibrant life force. May her path be kindly blessed as she moves forward.

Amber Running For Her Life!

See You Anon!


A "hack" poet desperate for money, f...

Image via Wikipedia

A pining poem waiting to be read,

A hungry poet begging to be fed.

His last money spent on a new pen,

The final draft approved and then…

*

Someone knocking at his door!

Poet spills his ink upon the floor,

in his haste to welcome the reader,

who surely needs must be his feeder.

*

‘t Is just the Reaper come to call,

the poem’s the writing on the wall,

read by a grateful audience of one.

Goodbye poet, don’t try to run!

If’n only I’d knewed!


English: Portrait of Rudyard Kipling from the ...

Image via Wikipedia

 

Here’s an immortal poem that I want to share with you, brought to my attention by my late grandfather, a wise man, if ever there was one:

“If” by Rudyard Kipling.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master,
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

He Smote the Word…


from english-heritage.org.uk

What does a wordsmith

really have to work with?

Vowels, consonants and phrases

and unpublished works in phases.

*

No lurid platitudes allowed,

he has long ago since vowed…

Lovingly crafted spinnings of yearning yarns,

tales of a lone acrobat storming barns!

*

He dreams of plucking heartstrings,

of visions floating on bright wings

and taking on a life of their own,

for the toddlers and the grown.

*

Adding strength to newborn sprouts,

allowing his many doubts,

to flower into adulthood,

but never fully understood.

The Fruitful Hands Of The Crone Witch


The Fruitful Crone

She has hoed her rows,
been baked by sun
Her back is bent
Her prowess lent

No time to cry
With tears to dry

Tasks and labor
Love to savor

Plant and sew
Her seeds shall grow

Reap the harvest
Wait for snow

Her cauldron brew, a hearty blend
Of Summer days and Winter winds

Quilts of  cotton, sunshine blessed
Baby faces, stroked and caressed

Son and daughters grown and gone
Empty the breasts they fed upon

Her Book of Shadows, she pens with care
Love and magick, she enters there

The “Revolution” Has Already Started


 

Français : Zazen Kata-Sarbacana

Image via Wikipedia

The “Revolution” Has Already Started.

Some blatant truths spoken here by Zazen. How to change things though? The masses are becoming more aware, but will it help? The “occupying” movements are spreading, but is it too late?

It Could Work…!?


Most people, myself included at times, think that everyone else is telepathic and should read or sniff or smell what they(or I) want. To tell the truth, most people suck at this! Therefore some individual has come up with an entirely novel idea, which might work, if everybody joined in. Which will never happen, of course. But here it is anyway:

from DaILy DoSe Of InSaNiTy

Hmmmm… well here goes nothing: I LOVE THE LOT OF YOU!

Candle Lighting Ritual


candle in the dark

 Each day during this dark time of the year, I rise long before dawn and light a single candle before I do anything else. As I light it, I plea for a day that is laced with kindness. I plea for love and patience, for understanding, for meaning, for spiritual guidance, for peace, for thoughtfulness, and for tenderness. I sit with myself and as I watch the candle flame dance. I listen to the predawn traffic on the road down below this little mountain where I nest. I think of the lives of each driver of each car, and I send them kind energy and in my small way, I bless their day and they bless mine.

Preparing the Move…


Her Majesty!

I’m as nervous as a cat at a hyenas’ wedding! Ten trillion thing to take care of and all of them have to be finished yesterday. You know how that goes, right? And I don’t even know the exact date that we’re supposed to move. Well, I’ll know when I start seeing camels, I suppose.

Those who have read most of my writings will know that Linda is not actually my dog. I’ve been house and dogsitting for months now and the boss was hardly ever here, therefore I kind of appropriated her in my mind and in my heart. But the problem is that she is not mine and when the boss’s daughter and her family came over they fell in love with Linda and I suppose you can guess the rest.

I took her to the vet yesterday and had her chipped and vaccinated. I’ve also had to ring everywhere to find a transporter cage for her, because she will be joining her new adoptive family on the 22nd of January. It’s a consolation that their two little girls will spoil her rotten and the family is a kind and loving one, who deeply care for animals. Linda will have lots of room to romp around in, etcetera, etcetera…

But I already miss her and she’s still here next to me! Funny, isn’t it? Not really… I’ve had nothing but her for company for months and now she’s going aswell: BUGGERATION! I’m a trifle upset about this. I certainly hope that I make new friends over in Morocco very soon. Inch Allah!

The Mother Spirit


The Crone Witch Enlightens, Teaches, Inspires!

 The way of the crone witch is one of great responsibility. She is an elder, it is upon her to teach the old ways, the ways of nature and honor.  She drinks from the chalice of life thirstily, her life blood is freedom.  She dances upon the path merrily, she is unapologetic for her passions. She is set apart from the rest of the world, by her uncanny steadfastness, by her humble gratitude for life, by her hard-earned understanding of the fragile human condition. Her sorrow is her closest friend, for within her sorrow, she has found her joy.

She  casts no scorn, for discouraging spirits never rest. She is mercy in motion. She loves with her whole being, she forgives, always. She ponders the saints and she relishes in goodness. She is rarely surprised at the unceasing wonders of this life. She teaches self-love, self praise, she empowers. She believes that all of humanity are precious spirits clothed in needful flesh, she is awed by the capacities of the human heart.

Her task is to inspire kindness, creativity, and acceptance. She is captured by the great powers of the sacred imagination, she is ever-blessed by simple living for she knows “things” can steal ones very soul.

This earth is her temple, her brief sanctuary until she is called to Summerland. She comprehends that love and compassion are the only jewels in her crown. She is humble in all of her ways, ever willing to learn, to teach, to heal, to be healed.

Blessed is the knowing crone, for she is our Mother spirit. She is love, light, forgiveness, and comfort.

The Crone.


The Crone In Red

She is wise

She walks with tender knowing

She is old

Not as old as she will become

She is love, power, sorrow, passion

She is kind in all of her ways

Her heart blazes with care, she feels beautiful

Like warm earth beneath the cold foot

Her eyes are holy lights

Lay flowers before her

She is worthy

The Rat-race…


from museofelipebello.com

Brrr, I’m shivering in my soul. After almost a decade of being jobless and seven years on the street, I am finally going to have to start doing a proper job as logistics manager again. Frankly, I am not looking forward to it. The freedom of the street is so alluring, to be able to go where you want any time and do more or less do as you please is addictive, BUT I’m really getting too old for it, for it is a hard, hard life.

Many of my friends have died because of the harshness of this travelers’ life. I decided that I wanted to live a while longer and therefore I have to bear the consequences and put the yoke of servitude to the rat-race  back on my weary, old shoulders. I had sworn to myself: “Never again!”, but had I remained, I would surely have perished, like my young, best friend Rauli, who died at the age of 38 a year ago now.

It feels as if there is a vice strapped around my temple and some horrible tyrant is twisting it ever tighter, but there is only me, the decision is mine. I shall just have to look upon it as another adventure in a corporate jungle instead of in the urban or outdoor jungle. I hope I meet my Jane, while playing Tarzan with bills of lading, etcetera…

Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle

Image via Wikipedia

It’s off to Morocco next week or maybe even this week, to start in the marble import business. Oh, what a joy! Probably hardly any time for writing or reading or painting, just numbers and calls from irate customers. I dearly hope that this occupation does not extinguish the flame of my muse. *sigh*

One Witches Alter


The Caudron with floating candles, and rose petals

Salem: The Black Cat window shopping for birdies
My Alter

The Alter table came from rubbish, I freely admit

Yet, after some clever crafting, it has no less than a high priestess fit

It is round, and ever willing to bend

It holds Magick and Wonders that never end

Upon it, I cast my peaceful ways

Lit candles burn there, through the nights and days

There is a rock, a shell, driftwood and sage

Incantations written in script on a parchment page

Oh holy alter, know all of my heart

Permit me to craft my sacred magic, how wondrous, thou art.

Living The Magickal Life


The Virgin, The Mother, The Crone

It has been said that the life of a woman (and some special men) is divided into three phases. The youthful years of the tender virgin, the reproductive or sexually potent years of the mother/matron, and the wise years of the crone. This witch considers all to be equally magickal, productive and fully empowering phases.

I am a woman, I am a witch. I have powers, I am power. I am also vulnerable and wistful. I make magick because I can, not because I am set apart as a mystic, but, because, I fully embrace and understand the ways of the human heart.  I understand that we all eternal children, even in our elder years, our hearts leap and plunge based on our ability to dance freely or to weep openly upon the path of this great life that we have been gifted.
What makes a witch set apart, is that the witch (male or female) understands the brevity of this life, and earnestly seeks contentment, love, and joy without apology. We are crafts people, we are fully engaged in creative living in bold and colorful ways that may appear to the unknowing eye as “intimately empowered” and/or, “peculiarly assertive.”
How do you know that you have encountered a witch?  How do you know if you are a witch? When the witch enters, she/he fills the room with obvious evidence that a vivid, rapturous life is being lived.  They may bring with them the aromatic scents of nature, cinnamon, pine, patchouli, sandalwood, seas breezes. They wield a reputation for kindness, forgiveness and mercy to all plants and beings. They live a life where their passions know no end, and they encourage/inspire others to be passionate as well.  There is evidence of a life where creative sensuality is an honored art form. Merriment and empowerment come easily in his/her presence. The witch is exceptionally alive, aware, empathic, ever flowing, ever sparking, ever soaring. The universe may feel as if it has suddenly sped up or slowed down when the witch is around. Ears are open, eyes are wide, senses are fully and blissfully engaged.
“Something Witchy this way comes.”

Next Messiah German or Dutch?


from sherriejohnson.blogspot.com

Read all about it!

The Christmas star was witnessed by millions and even recorded on video and pictures for all posterity. Why the second coming has decided to wear clogs is a mystery though(or possibly lederhosen). Asses flocked out in droves to watch this amazing spectacle and a stable has been prepared, just in case!

In the Netherlands the hunt is on for a female, who might loosely be described as a virgin! What with wise men having become such a rarity, one wonders who will show up to greet the little bugger? 2011 + 33 = 2044 We still have over three decades before we can mess for up the second time, folks. No need to worry just yet.

Huge Fireball recorded over Germany and The Netherlands on Dec 24, 2011.