at a distance I thought just three crones with a fire
but my fears increased as we got closer, said McSmire
I saw then they were ancient ancestral witches from another time
They were harmonizing an incantation in melody, their rhythm fine.
I tried to keep hidden, because I felt they could snap me in two.
There were three of them, saged and seasoned, making a brew.
I laid down under a log and tried to not make any kind of sound.
Unfortunately, a twig snap and they all three looked around
My hair is sable and silver
My skin has become a strange softness that I've never felt
but I do not want, no
I no longer lament my youth
What lies inside of me is timeless and eternal
I had many nights as the autumn moon, honey filled and glowing
relishing each dance with Persephone before she crawled back into Hades bed
Quietly I began brushing fingers with Demeter
Crones speak to each other in ways only we can understand
Soon my life will be winter
I smile knowingly, taking her hand
The gold star weeps
twelve silver tears,
one still unshed.
Dawn's bow twangs
in the doe's soft ear.
Tang of fog,
tang of frost,
tang of fire:
three blonde crones
cast the horizon
of the chestnut hearth.
------------------------------------------------
I never knew some girls could be so mean
and carry on like a trans high school teen.
It sure ain’t raging hormones
cos this coven are old crones
who crave attention and wish to be seen!
So I shall grant them that wish they so crave
and make ‘em my witch ‘n make ‘em my slave.
I will immortalise ‘em
with my satirical pen
until they want more and make me their fave!
(I think I already am)
Written March 2025
I have heard of crows and crones
But these old geezers are overblown
over dressed with suits that squeak
beady eyes, scrawny necks, and beak
are they from the barnyard then?
Their necks all wrinkled to their chin
I have heard of crows and crones
But these are ugly as crawdad gnomes
it’s weird you say that said the chicken
they are abnormal roosters, hearts a tick’n
we call them Slim and Slam for fun
They walk real slow, neither can run
They appeared out of nowhere in the fall
They are scrawny and weird added pig Paul
They do not talk, whistle, peep or talk
Weird to even us fowl, added the chicken hawk.
She sits patiently, trying to keep her face appreciative
As he crones a love song; his sincerity obvious.
He is not a great singer, but his heart is fully in it.
He loves her, and that is what matters, right?
Her face must have given something away.
“I’m not that great a singer,” he apologizes.
“You are my everything,” she assures him.
He sings the last verse with a bit more confidence.
In the woods lurks the grey angel;
Wingless and disillusioned, he awaits
The onset of diarrhoea,
Bismarck’s jocular displeasure
And the seagull’s lugubrious weightlessness –
Later than previously, he erects
A flag made of wormwood
Brought all the way
From the ceiling of an underground café in East Berlin -
He sighs….and it is like someone playing
A musical saw: it expresses harmoniously
His perpendicular musical soul –
Expecting nothing, he is perpetually disappointed
By the visitations of crones desirous of petty miracles,
Of repentant tax-gatherers requesting absolution,
On New-Age moongazers seeking enlightenment,
Of people who desire certainty, answers,
Of people who pursue truth and self-righteousness,
Of people who just want to see what an angel,
Any angel looks like. Only these curious rubbernecks
Touch his bland and ironic soul with a faint luminosity –
Their enthusiasm for life, if crass and tawdry,
At least provides the salt which otherwise
Has lost its flavour….a pity
That it just rubs salt into his wounds.
wicked woven words
scattered on a Ouija board ~
game of cagey crones
A fright filled night is Halloween
Monsters and goblins make me scream
Scary costumes, some too extreme
An evil scheme An evil scheme
Red splattered shirt from fake blood stains
No! These drops spilled from human veins
Vampire fangs caused the victim's pains
His warm blood drains His warm blood drains
Night prowlers will lead you astray
With candy treats they tempt their prey
If you see them best run away
From haunting fey From haunting fey
Witches are spiteful and cruel
Casting spells with newt and toadstool
Halloween crones who spit and drool
Beware the ghoul! Beware the ghoul!
They are aged, decrepit, seriously weird old crones Gladys said
I cannot believe they are alive, they probably should be dead
She is the kind of Alzheimer’s lady who says whatever is in her head
She is as crazy as any of the rest of us, agreed a loony bird named Ed.
Two of us kept quiet, for we did not think we were as weird as she.
We whispered about Gladys and were not kind about her knobby knee.
We hissed around about Ed, as those with eyes could clearly see.
At least we don’t look that old! Said my friend McDig MacGee.
With a nod to Macbeth's three weird sisters...
Midst rats, black cats, and screeching bats,
Cackling crones in pointy hats
Add a rag, a bone, a hank of hair
To a bubbling pot in their witches' lair.
Next a drop of your blood to mix into the stew
As they mutter and moan o'er this most loathsome brew.
Harken well as the hags recite ancient verses
That invoke magic spells and malevolent curses.
An elixir for love, another for fame,
If fortune's your goal, play the witches' game.
If malice or spite for another's your bent,
They've special potions for ladies, and some just for gents.
But be wary, my friends, for I'm telling you true,
When the game is played out, and the bill has come due,
Don't try to renege, and don't be a griper,
If you dance to his music, you must pay the piper.
Pay promptly on time, don't default or denounce,
'cause witches are bit**es when checks start to bounce.
A foggy morning with dreary overtones
Can cause the spirit to spiral downward
Eliciting slow-moving, guttural groans
A foggy morning with dreary overtones,
It makes us feel like decrepit, old crones
Roadblocks in the way of moving forward,
A foggy morning with dreary overtones
Can rapidly spiral the spirit downward.
Roadblocks in the way of moving forward
Can seem like an insurmountable barrier
Sometimes it’s difficult to look upward
Roadblocks in the way of moving forward
Should make us immediately fast-forward
To see the future through a smile-carrier
Roadblocks in the way of moving forward
Can seem like an insurmountable barrier.
To see the future through a smile-carrier
Ditch the blasé and change your attitude,
Look upward beyond any limiting barrier
To see the future through a smile-carrier,
An attitude like “the more the merrier,”
Instead of carping, face the day in gratitude
To see the future through a smile-carrier,
Ditch the blasé and change your attitude.
Written September 10, 2022
[interlocking triolets dedicated
to our own Panagiota Ramios]
Backyard mavens, wise crones
recall generations of groundhogs
that have dwelt in these hedgerows.
In winter
they seed the ground with 'Puffcorn Delites'
bought wholesale from Sam's Club.
The comfortable groundhogs nap in their burrows
contemplating evening feasts.
Furred paws in tartan house slippers
shuffle at back doors. A grey whiskered fuzziness
that is part critter, part elderly granny
stand ever ready
to lend a hand in case baby groundhogs
need burping.
The cats are prancing with a cha cha cha
Chick a boom a chick a boom a rah rah rah
We hire out for birthdays the little one said.
They were throwing fish in the air, many were dead.
The cats are prancing with a cha cha cha
Chick a boom a chick a boom a rah rah rah
We are cheap and available all day long, they purred.
This was terrific news for the cat ladies who acted absurd.
The cats are prancing with a cha cha cha
Chick a boom a chick a boom a rah rah rah
We’ll pay whatever we have to, one of the old crones said.
Just then two dead salmon landed on the old biddy’s head.
Witchcraft got a bad rap thanks to jealousy and beauty.
Male authors put women into books, calling them hags and crones.
Women read these books to their children in form of Brothers Grimm.
These adorable faerie tales gave them horrid nightmares.
If children were up all night, men did not have to console them.
Witchcraft was a great excuse to get rid of beautiful women in Salem.
Plain and ugly girl with an uglier heart would make up lies about Jane.
Because Jane was gorgeous, and kind, and people loved Jane.
Male judges would declare a trial, and Jane would be drowned.
If she died, it proved her innocence, so there is this happy result.
Witchcraft is actually not what many people who are not Wiccans think.
The witch's actual motto is to “do no harm”.
The Wiccans are master gardeners.
This is why rumors say they cast "spells"
Because the earth loves them and responds to their excellent care.
Witches are confident and kind, and many are beautiful.
Where are these faerie tales about witches?
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