(xxi the world)

November 1st, 2017

poetry races through me like a blast of cold air off lake erie. dramatic clouds over white-capped water. sand & stone & searing exhilaration.

i was kidnapped when i was 10 & sold to the gypsies. now i dance wildly every night & tell fortunes.

poetry crackles in the campfire. poetry is the wine in the jug we pass. poetry is alive in my snapping fingers. my swirling red skirts. my magic red shoes.

poetry. the great liberator. the lover of my life. poetry. savior of my soul.

poetry. the damp grass underneath my back. a million stars over my head.


About the Author:


Polly MacDavid lives in Buffalo, New York at the moment but that could easily change, since she is a gypsy at heart. Like a gypsy, she is attracted to the divinatory arts, as well as camp fires and dancing barefoot. She has three cats who all help her with her magic.

Her philosophy about religion and magic is that it must be thoroughly based in science and logic. She is Dianic Wiccan and she is solitary.

She blogs at silverapplequeen.wordpress.com. She writes about general life, politics and poetry. She is writing a novel about sex, drugs and recovery.