Crone Poems - Poems about Crone

The wizened crone understands bee medicine Her friends are honey bees and bumblebees. They have given her a special formula Unshared with any other humans She gives it to an adventurer He discovers a new country. She sells it to a rapist. He falls down dead. It helps good people get stronger It gives seekers what they need But those who hurt others do not...

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the old crone’s dome boiled skull scalding, full of trouble and toil oily face, razorburn neck my eyes the type to scan salamander like darting here to there wondering where to next where to next? I tire of the comfort in mom’s crockpot, I'm hungry for another bite of syringes in the soil slippery like a leech, i suck blood because its richer than what I'm loyal...

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The older woman is seasoned, sassy and secretive, just ask Ms Mim She can unleash her confidences, but she has learned to keep them Knowing when to keep quiet, is learned in the hardest of ways But the experienced crone realizes it makes for much better days...

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An withered crone in a park where the young play. Her eyes are deep set but the blue within them is clear. Her flesh clings to crooked bones, yet she is a vision there among the youthful, a message for all those who will overcome. She’s foreshadowing, an augury that we all must, in the end, survive ourselves with a formidable and life well lived....

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There she is, she’s grown beyond root and branch, at peace despite the incontinence of an unlooked for wisdom. And there I am, of a sudden snagged by her knurled spell as if she were the Virgin Mary, and I a stumbling beast wandering through her world. I want to keep my silence let only my hot breath snort but there, on a creaky...

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They never know what a crone like me will do I have news for them I never know myself Sometimes God has me do things that make no sense I am wondering “Where did that idea come from?” especially when it works beautifully. Forgetting for two seconds that I have never ever been in charge of me....

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I can read your mind she says she is a crone, old and wizened Arrogant and haughty, aloof, opinionated But not magical or empathetic She is not my idea of goodness I paste a frozen smile on my face which she is not wise enough to read or understand and go another direction...

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Please let me be a tiny drone today. Hovering at a house far away. In Omaha at a quarter ‘til two. I’ll see my grandchildren, that’s what I’ll do! I’ll buzz past their heads and give them a wave. All six will laugh, giggle, rant, wiggle and rave. Hello Space Grandma! Please land and stay! I am a crone drone, I’ll yell,...

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IV. Liesel looked down to the girl by her side, her brother’s features were perfectly clear, she hugged the small girl, and her fears vanished, replaced by a cascade of happy tears. She look up and cried, “Tell me, what’s your name? Who is it that care for kids after death?” The woman replied, “In life I was known as a Duchess from...

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III. Lost in a daze, but her fingers still shaking, Liesel turned the great brass knob on the door. She felt herself tense, was ready to shriek, Expecting to see some Satanic horror. Instead she found herself looking into A cozy great room with a massive hearth, Yule logs burned hot, warming up the whole space, A great table ran down the center...

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II. Liesel spent months worrying about this, about dark minions and young souls that hurt, she even started fearing for herself for questioning the teachings of the church. She did not want to damn herself to Hell, but she couldn’t believe that it was true that a loving God would punish children for something that they themselves couldn’t do. How did it make sense...

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I. It was in 1554 that young Liesel watched her little nice die, a fever had swept through Bavaria, and from her tiny frame all life did fly. She wasn’t the first, many died that year, but at the funeral for that little girl Liesel was to see something so shocking that it would forever alter her world. She saw there, at the edge...

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No One by Michael R. Burch No One hears the bells tonight; they tell him something isn’t right. But No One is not one to rush; he lies in grasses greenly lush as far away a startled thrush flees from horned owls in sinking flight. No One hears the cannon’s roar and muses that its voice means war comes knocking on men’s doors tonight. He sleeps...

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The haggardly crone defiantly stood on Lone Tree Hill. So valiant that she gave the newly born cat a chill. Daring the north wind to blow her around or down, There were no other witches or warlocks anywhere around. I wanted to be your familiar, the tiny cat said. How can I be your sidekick if you are going to...

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So there she is, a park bench crone, mother of the listless, the passing-by; head bowed, caught between dark and light I sense her yet. There she is, she’s grown beyond root and branch, at peace despite the incontinence of an unlooked for wisdom. And there I am, of a sudden snagged by her knurled spell as if she were the Virgin...

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