[Cafe Writing] Rules? We don’ need no steenkeeng rules!
The prompt:
Witch and ghost make merry on this last of dear October’s days.
~ Author Unknown
Using the quotation above as your inspiration, write a poem (any form is fine) about witches and /or ghosts.
What I did: I did a story set-up that could be extended into something incredibly fun. I’m not sure if that counts as anything else, but this needed to be written because it was in my head. And my poetry sucks. 
“Lady Bless, Andrew, why are you dragging me to this ritual?” Marcy scowled as she got out of Andrew’s Datsun pickup.
“Oh, chill out, Marcy. You’re spending way too much time in your robe in front of the computer,” Andrew said, locking the truck. “You’ll thank me for this. Trust me.”
Marcy just looked annoyed as she hefted her purse — really a canvas tote-bag, because, well, a girl has to have everything a purse needs, plus two paperbacks, one half-finished manuscript, a knitting project and the requisite pattern and accoutrement that go with it — onto her shoulder, and frowned deeper. “One, I’m in a cybercoven; of course I’m in front of my computer. Two, I’m a witch, fairy-boy; of course I wear a robe. Three, I’m working on my next book, and unless you can type on thin air and haven’t told me how, in which case, ‘Harm None’ be damned, I’m beating your nelly ass, then I still need my computer.”
Laughing, Andrew said, “Pink fluffy Victoria’s Secret bathrobes, my favorite darling breeder, do not count as ritual robes.” He hugged her and took her arm.
Marcy’s scowl lightened up. “Okay, fine, you win on that point. Let’s get this over with.” As they were standing there, she watched a group of older women float up the sidewalk to the house. Long, loose, flowing grey hair, with long, loose, flowing black broomstick skirts seemed to be the outfit du jour. Marcy stopped and looked incredulously and at the same time irritatedly at Andrew. “Seriously, why are we all supoosed to look like Stevie Nicks ate Mama Cass? What, I ask you, is wrong with jeans and a t-shirt for ritual?”
“I don’t know, Cranky. I don’t make the rules.” Andrew sighed at his best girlfriend. He smirked conspiratorially at her sideways, as a woman in burgundy with wild grey hair arrived in the porchlight, and said, sotto voce, “When single shines the triple sun // What once was sundered and undone // Shall be made whole, the two made one // By gelfling hand, or else by none,” setting them both off in fits of giggles as they walked up to the giant old Victorian amidst flurries of dry crackling leaves.
