This house is the loudest house ever!
crashes in the middle of the day
exploding Jack O Lantern
slamming doors
and the knocking on glass
a wind sweeps by me
I seem to get along with her just fine.
I look forward to her visits
As a young girl at age 14
her long dark hair
and brown eyes
were becoming of her.
just a glimpse is all I ever see
I put a chair in the hallway
and wait for her to come sit
she always enters the room
with a loud noise
and a familiar smell
she is not a quiet visitor
the house keeper
and she shows me around the house
in the most delightful way
this is what she wears
found in the attic
and her shoes
were made to order
she was one of a kind
and is
this old lady
can be aggressive
as she warns me
The house has taken me
I care for her
my ritual
is held within
unknown

another entry from the diary, her tone has changed within the last few years. I have to wonder is this part made up? She only vaguely speaks of him. Is this phantom character make believe?

Weather: It's getting cold outside, the flannel sheets are on the bed.
every time he leaves
I think
if I just would have given him
one more kiss
or that I should have
squeezed him harder
and maybe even
a little longer
I walk through the emtpy house
finding remanants of him
"weekend leftovers"
hold me
over again.
You never really part
because I keep you
in my heart
Amalie Grimm

debris

LIKE A SINK HOLE
MY THOUGHTS ARE SLOW
TO WONDER
AT WHAT LIES
BELOW THE SURFACE
UNDER GROUND
CURRENTS FLOW
BREAKING AWAY
DEBRIS
OF THE PAST
SWEPT AWAY
A NEW CHANNEL
OF THOUGHT
IS SUMMONED
af

death becomes me

It is a beautiful night
low dark blue skies
a dark house
surrounds me
a lantern burns
in every room
a sound of content
comes from me
a celebration of death
becomes me
my fame
of mind
escapes
to another place
where she greets me.
AF

Dedication to Laughter

THE GARDEN PATH LESS TRAVELED   

growing wild   

a place enchanted   

entertaining self 

with laughter   

a current occurrence   

of truffles    

walking the walls    

in the dark  

 to see the light  

 hot bath  

candles might  

 save you from the trip  

you don't take   

no food   

no music   

solitude  

luxuries of life    

expect nothing   

with gratitude   

life sparse   

speaking freely   

of non cents  

 laughter in my head   

fills the space between my ears  

 a lasting night   

rain, wind,chimes   

 trash can 

put you to sleep   

a symbol   

of things in the wrong place  

 drip drip drip drip   

TING   

lace curtains blow away  

watching day light turn dark blue  

 with nothing to do  

 it is here   

I dance  

 whip cream  

 records play  

 the intimate connection grounds my soul  

 bare naked lady at your garden gate   

 rambling rose  

grows a faint sweet scent  

 to lure you into a place   

of make believe   

 bed time stories told a tale  

 never ending.

AF

Anna Funk

You know it is just the wind; but ask "who is knocking at my door?" being answered by "No one!"
The name Anna Funk comes from a line of direct descendents: women I have learned from, through their lives, I tune mine to the highest vibrations. I honor them for teaching me, not through lectures or conversation but from the lives they led. Inspired by the need to escape a reality; a prison created under the guidelines of tradition, including my upbringing as a preachers daughter. Taunted by incest from an early age, I brought dominant partners into my life to play out aggressive behavior, becoming the character they sought, losing a sense of self. Prison walls lined with anxiety and decaying cells, the character of "the witch" appeared at a primal level, challenging me to a never ending dual, it is here that I suffer to grow or die.
Anna funk is a real witch, not the kind that is affiliated with organized cults. She is not a member of a coven, or of organized groups, for this reason and this reason only; she is considered a Classic Independent Witch. Now if you know anything about real witches, you will know the reason of this, the Classic Independent Witch not relying on the wisdom of other witches, all spells and potions are made from the depths of her dark soul, to be protected, not shared.
Most likely you will never know whether or not you have met a real witch; witches are exclusive, revealing their identity to but a special few; always subservient, they have no inclinations as to the services they are performing, they are manifested by her, beings from the dark, she gives them experience they have never encountered and this is in return for the task they have ahead. The reason I know this...
I am one of the chosen.
hearing her say "anna funk exist only in your head."

To give the weak soul something to believe in

About the artist http://notentirelylost.com/
from the past of JT Murphy

anointed prayer cloth...hanging from a nail,it drips with holy water
There is nothing better than a walk in the dark or a Grimm Tale

Amalie Grimm

I don't summon the demons,

they surround me

arriving when I need them

a sacred truth to be guarded

only to be spoken of in the heat of the day

and then

put away...forever

It brings fury to

the slaves of Satan

as the truth slips from

your lips

they punish you

from the bottomless pit of my soul

i come to you

through unknown means

It is the same story

truth or illusion will rule

the spoken word

a pact between two

broken and crumbling

disturbing the delicacy between them

it is something

coming from nothing

this power to destroy

or create

light or dark

it is a universal law
to lie is to destroy

you will soon decay

a rotten death.

I write

what is given to me from above and below

to disturb your mortal soul.

who is to blame?

the one that created the spell

now but ashes

below the stake.

AF

The Broom Handle

To: All of us who need the power of the witch.

While doing my morning rituals, I noticed I had more than one broom, I actually had several, maybe I could even say "I have a collection". they range from the Home Depot model to the beautiful handcrafted models. Each broom is unique and serves me the task at hand.

There are a precious few that I thought might enjoy this useful information...

A ritual of sweeping will put everything back in place. AF


If a broomstick was rubbed with such potions and used for riding or masturbatory purposes, a sensation of flight would result.

the witch could 'sweep her tracks from the sky.'

festival nights such as Walpurgisnacht, townspeople laid out hooks and scythes to kill any witches who fell off their brooms. The also rang church bells, which had the power to ground broomsticks and knock witches off them.

A famous Scottish witch of the 17th century, Isobel Gowdie, claimed to have used her broom for an atypical reason. Instead of using it for traveling, she used it to deceive her husband. Before going to a sabbat, Isobel substituted her broom for herself in bed. She said he never knew the difference, which might have been more of a comment on their marriage than a confession of witchcraft).

In some lore, the Devil dispensed brooms and flying ointment to weak witches who needed help.

Rumors are not always true

About the Art: JT Murphyhttp://notentirelylost.com/-a painting I would love to have.

The Funk House

This was before I learned to read warning signs.

Illusion

A witch is always mistaken for evil

when i tell you the story it is truth

or illusion

there is nothing other than this.

your bloody face and beaten body

the image remains asleep

the presence of light

awakens it.

the painting falls

My ears are in tune with the universe

I know what it offers.

to my dear friend

know this

you were the culprit

I was there

only to warn you

remember my words

are you ok?

I thought you to be wounded

with dragging limbs

under covers you lay

a dark room

down a long hall

I came to you

and set by your side.

Warning preceding

The beaten body.

you are under my care

we are connected

do not doubt

yet you question

and betray

do you remember?

"Sh...don't tell"

The Diary entry was dated: August is fucking hot

the diary entry was found in the form of a perfectly wadded up ball, twine wrapping around it in the most disorderly fashion, hair clippings and and what appeared to be blood stains, adorned the outer layer. It was hanging from a rafter in the attic by a piece of red thread; reminding me of a sacrificed head.

We would summon him

the five chosen witches

with bells and symbols

clips of hair tied and sewn into a deep pocket. His name was Kneeon,

a tall handsome black man

whenever he came near

my soul would crave the black chocolate.

I could feel it on my lips warm

melting me into a place that only he could.

The ride was long and hard

demons would dance

as they watched me ache with pleasure.

sounds from a primal past would escape

out of the mouth into a world

not to be understood but felt as a shiver,

the ice dagger piercing through a warm beating heart

turning it cold

melting evidence of all.

AF