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21st August 2014

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4th May 2014

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Broken

By Christopher Courtley



When I first saw you, you were alone

Alone, but happy

Happy, but incomplete

Incomplete, but not broken



And all that I ever wanted

Was to be that missing piece

To make you feel complete

To make you feel less alone



I didn’t mean to make you unhappy

I didn’t mean to leave you broken

Tagged: brokenpoemmy poetryspilled ink

25th May 2013

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A TREE SPELL
By Christopher Courtley
The seed of love already holds within its mystery The fair and fully formed tree of its prosperity; Its many branches dressed in leaves of green and gold Already bear the countless treasures of its wealth untold; The fruits of our passion that ripen in the night From which we daily press the sweet wine of delight; Its fragrant flowers open to the sun eternally As deep into contentment run the roots of our tree. In hope we planted it; with joy we tended it; With love we reared it and love rendered it. With joy we reared it and in joy now reap its boon In the circle of the seasons, by the cycle of the moon. The fruit of love in turn now holds within its mystery The seeds of many more trees into infinity; Their many branches dressed in leaves of green and gold Already bear the countless treasures of their wealth untold; The fruits of our passion that ripen in the night From which we daily press the sweet wine of delight; Their fragrant flowers open to the sun eternally As deep into contentment run the roots of every tree. In hope we planted them; with joy we tended them; With love we reared them and love rendered them. With joy we reared them and in joy now reap their boon Forever and forever by the cycle of the moon.

A TREE SPELL

By Christopher Courtley

The seed of love already holds within its mystery
The fair and fully formed tree of its prosperity;
Its many branches dressed in leaves of green and gold
Already bear the countless treasures of its wealth untold;
The fruits of our passion that ripen in the night
From which we daily press the sweet wine of delight;
Its fragrant flowers open to the sun eternally
As deep into contentment run the roots of our tree.

In hope we planted it; with joy we tended it;
With love we reared it and love rendered it.
With joy we reared it and in joy now reap its boon
In the circle of the seasons, by the cycle of the moon.

The fruit of love in turn now holds within its mystery
The seeds of many more trees into infinity;
Their many branches dressed in leaves of green and gold
Already bear the countless treasures of their wealth untold;
The fruits of our passion that ripen in the night
From which we daily press the sweet wine of delight;
Their fragrant flowers open to the sun eternally
As deep into contentment run the roots of every tree.

In hope we planted them; with joy we tended them;
With love we reared them and love rendered them.
With joy we reared them and in joy now reap their boon
Forever and forever by the cycle of the moon.

Tagged: pagan poetryheathentree of loveseedslove poemspilled inkChristopher CourtleyTree Spell

21st April 2013

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For more of my poetry, download my latest FREE ebook, Thirteen Black Roses!

For more of my poetry, download my latest FREE ebook, Thirteen Black Roses!

Tagged: poetryGothicromanticpoemmoonChristopher Courtleyspilled ink

20th April 2013

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A cry in the darknessA howl of despiteA wolf’s lone starknessIn the pale moon’s lightPiercing the blackWith an ancient mightLike a thundercrackIn the lap of the night
~Christopher Courtley

A cry in the darkness

A howl of despite

A wolf’s lone starkness

In the pale moon’s light

Piercing the black

With an ancient might

Like a thundercrack

In the lap of the night

~Christopher Courtley

Tagged: howling wolfblack and whitewolf howlspilled inkpoetry

Source: mortem-et-necromantia

18th October 2012

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I built a fortress formed of words:
Four walls reached endless up and down.
Hell yawned at its base and heaven formed its crown…

~Christopher Courtley

Tagged: poetrypoemspilled inkFortress of WordsChristopher Courtleyrecitalpoetry readingTower of BabelPieter Bruegel the Elderprimacy of experiencewordstowerBabylonlanguage

12th October 2012

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Bloodbath →

Some who have committed murder have spoken of the thrill of the kill—the ultimate rush. But you haven’t truly lived until you’ve had a man’s warm blood sliding all over your naked body. Oh, I drank it too—as much as I could stomach, for which reason the papers have named me the Vampire Murderess—but in truth, it was not so much the thought of drinking the blood as wallowing in it that occupied my disturbed imagination.

I wanted it all over me, even inside of me—filling me, covering me, erasing me—I would have swam in it if I could have amassed so large an amount at once. There were countless times that I would lie awake in bed at night, hearing the screams of my victims in my head, imagining myself drowning in a sea of blood. Then as I sank into that ocean of deepest red I drifted off into dreamless sleep and thereby partook of the oblivion I had brought to so many others. We became one in the absense of everything, my victims and I, in that unholy communion….

Tagged: bloodbathflash fictionshort short storyfreenewspilled inkChristopher CourtleyBathorydrinking bloodvampirismcannibalismmurderevilhomocidehorrorfictionVampire Murderessbathing in blood

11th October 2012

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The Briar Rose

By Christopher Courtley

Old Father Time will tell this tale again

And yet again in his senility:

Brave knights and princes ever rise and fall.

But in my dreams the story changes when

I hold you in my arms triumphantly

Beyond the high enchanted briar-wall

That spells eternal winter on your lair

With claws that catch your champions and rend

Your would-be conquerors, and hold them fast,

Like bone-white twigs entangled in your hair.

Against such charms, what armour can defend?

I strip myself, and naked of the past

Advance upon your bower without fear

For I am one with every fool who keeps

His faith in dreams, whose passing no one mourns

Because he walks alone, year after year

Into the wild wood where Beauty sleeps,

To die a hundred times upon her thorns.

Copyright 2011 by Christopher Courtley. All Rights Reserved.

Tagged: briar rosefairy talepoemspilled inkChristopher Courtleypoetrybeautysleeping beautyenchantment

1st September 2012

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Witch Hunt

Witch Hunt

By Christopher Courtley


The groaning of the oaken doors

Announce my swift-approaching death

On feet that pound these hallowed floors

I cling to with abated breath.


I’ll find no sanctuary here

From this unholy war they wage.

I try to calm my growing fear

As I endure their shouts of rage.


The angry mob is led by one

Whose daughter lately did succumb

To fever, and by one whose son

By means unknown was stricken dumb.


They will not hear my arguments—

The preacher looks on with a sneer

As I protest my innocence;

He says my guilt is all too clear.


The mob now having found their witch

Beseech of him a remedy;

He tells them they must smear with pitch

My body and put flame to me.


They seize me then, with irons bind

My wrists, and then my dress they tear

And chaining fast my hands behind

My back, proceed to strip me bare.


Men force me down between the pews

And each in turn does what he will.

They yank my hair, my breasts they bruise,

Till every one has had his fill.


Then gagged that I may cast no spell,

With prayers that their Lord may save

My soul from all the pains of hell,

They send me to my fiery grave.


§


But now on Hallows Eve a sign

Against the waning gibbous moon,

A scudding shadow shaped like mine

Foretells my bloody vengeance soon


To fall on those who did me wrong!

The preacher leads his flock into

The chapel, thinking himself strong

In Christ—as if I cannot do


What I have come to do within

That desecrated church where he

Stood o’er me with a leering grin

While twelve men had their way with me—


Yet now the groaning oaken doors

Swing open, letting in the night

As shadows sweep across the floors

Within the fading candlelight.


The flames burn blue and then go out—

The faithful huddle close in fear—

For now they see the ghost of doubt

Upon the preacher’s face appear!


But loudly he begins to pray

To God and all His angels, as

If they will intervene to stay

My righteous hand, which never has


In life or death committed sins

So black as his. But still unbound,

My shadow in the darkness spins

A cloak of fallen leaves around


Its pitch-soaked form—and now they run—

The guilty twelve beg God to save

Their lives as I hunt down each one

And send him swiftly to his grave.


§


The preacher’s wily prey, and fast

But I am wilier and faster—

Yet ne’er should I have left for last

This thirteenth morsel for the Master!


My vengeful spate must end at morn

And now I fear he will escape

My wrath, and I will be forsworn—

For with hell’s fiends that long to rape


His soul for all eternity

I bartered for my brief return

Its sure and swift delivery.

Which failing, my poor shade will burn


Forever in the lake of fire!

But then at last I see him—lo!

The object of my dark desire

In the dawn’s first feeble glow!


Still cowering on hallowed ground—

How foolishly he clings to faith!

But sensing now that he’s been found,

He turns to flee my fearsome wraith.


I overtake him quickly, shed

His blood as he repents his deeds

But without mercy are the dead

And now the earth on which he bleeds


Begins to quake and then to rock,

And then yawns wide to swallow him—

And by the crowing of the cock

I know that I must follow him.


But looking my last on the sky

I see that angels ride the wind!

They’ve come to bear my soul on high

Which ere this night had barely sinned!



Copyright 2012 by Christopher Courtley. All Rights Reserved.

Tagged: poempoetryspilled inkChristopher Courtleygothicdark poemdark poetrygothic poetrywitchcraftwitcheswitch huntmoonshadowwraithghostvengeancerevengedeathhauntingspookycreepyscaryhorrorsamhainhalloweenhallows eveall hallowsfolklorewitchburning times

7th July 2012

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Love is the only game worth playing

That can’t be won

The end game’s all about staying

When playing’s no longer fun

And love’s final surrender

Is the great game ender

So before this game is over and done

Assuming that you don’t just cut and run

You better listen to what I’m saying:

Time comes when you’ve got to choose

And then if you’re still playing

My love you’ll lose.

Tagged: Christopher Courtleygamegame of loveloveplayerspoempoetryspilled inkchoose or lose