Witches & Folklore
A collection of poems inspired by folklore, hedge witches, old magic, healing, ravens, herbs, and the quiet strength of those history misunderstood. Here, witches are keepers of stories, not villains.
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There is magic that summons. Magic that heals. Magic that protects. And then— there is the spell someone casts when they promise tomorrow and never return. No smoke. No chanting. No moonlight required. Only hope. Hope is the oldest curse I have ever survived.
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They warned youabout womenwho talked to crows. Womenwho preferred foreststo cities,stormsto sunshine,silenceto small talk. They called us witchesbecause they couldn’t understandhow someone could survivewithout asking permission. We learnedour medicinefrom grandmotherswhose nameshistory never botheredto remember. We stitched ourselves togetherwith lavender,rage,and moonlight. If that makes me dangerous— perhaps it is only becauseI finally discoveredthat my wildnesswas never…
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I have always believed that abandoned housesremember women kindly. Perhaps becausethey knowwhat it meansto be misunderstood. So I lay upon the old stone,wrapped in candlelight,while ivy swallowedanother season. The house watched. Not with hunger— with recognition. Every crack in its wallsheld another name. Every shadowanother storytoo oldto frighten anyonewho had already survivedtheir own. The candle…
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Tonight, the abandoned house became my cathedral. The ivy climbed the walls like spells written in a language only roots remember. I lit a candle on the broken porch. Packed my bowl. Watched smoke curl upward until it became impossible to tell what belonged to the flame and what belonged to me. The wind carried…
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The candle was small. The night wasn’t. The moon watched through broken branches while I sat outside an abandoned house that looked like it had been slowly adopted by the forest. I sparked the bowl. The ember glowed orange. For a moment, I couldn’t tell if I was smoking cannabis or breathing in the last…
Between Bruises and Blooms 