Long Crones Poems
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Written: January 04, 2024
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Magnificent orchids are being flourished on this land.
Love lyrics serenaded for odd lovers of this land.
The whirlwind carried the rest of my nest fodder away.
A wingless bird's exclusive abode is in a wrecked land.
Beyond the grapple of men, two sisters knit at a loom.
Each thread of their bright tapestry is woven on this land
Lines head to be draped amid the admirable shadow.
Many emboldened spirits had raised labels in this land.
They process into the droves to explore the sacred halls.
Discovering an understanding of love in this land!
I've embraced the lovely planet I won't whine to the sky.
I can grasp all of it, but I lost my skills in dreamland.
Light a blaze in flatter for solace to a weary soul.
Crones sat down at the embers with dignity in this land.
The world is nebulous and my purpose never dwindled
Life is bereft of motivation that sticks in this land
Sadly, my unique resource of approval has been lost.
People deceived me and misinformed me about my land.
The spatial layer has taken on architect's labor.
With no intention of standing unaided in this land.
Despite how accurate my ear is for faraway chords.
Watch over the trumpets superbly blasted in this land.
I feel upset and have a strong desire to catch a nap.
Why did I acquire it? How did all arise in this land?
Dancer’s grace and wisdom
Tens of thousands of minutes of practice
Mystical hush from the crowd
Feeling her strength
Crones in the audience
None feel her pain.
Prima donna, seasoned ballerina
Determined reverence, unparalleled loveliness
Mindful students, enjoying the craft
Her disciplined strength
Sinews poised and ready
Shackled, yet adorned and adored.
A gypsy’s blessing
Ancestral anklet forged
In the cosmos
Well-worn leather ballet slipper
Nineteen sixties ballerina, still dancing.
The pirouette begins
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?
* Paid my heed my friends for the frost giants begin their march southwards,
* and their hounds of winter ,shall Slather and bay awaiting direction from their masters
* as then ,
* they fall upon us .
* Even the sun wains back at the feel and shadow of their March.
* Our brothers the oaks stand true ,
* as these giants now put breath upon them.
* And so it is ,
* the sacred grove now sent to slumber,
* until the giants and their hounds, call for retreat.
* The longest night approaches and no advance can be made in our labours,
* For the ground is now of stone and freezing fire ice .
* We shield their attack with fur cloaks , glowing hearths and summers blessed mead .
* Our friends, family and forgiven foes gather and give thanks to the old year and for its bounty.
* Calls for the sun to return and warmth for the soil ,
* echo amongst all present .
* In the coming born year may our land , wives , and beasts be fruitful.
* Now darkness is abound,
* but for this bastion of kindred folk , the hounds of winter now tearing at the door , scream their howling and send their cold and shrills, about this protected steading .
* Grandfather places his knowing hand upon a beam "The carved runes in this lintel shall keep the frost wolves from our door, since ages past, and so mote it be" .
* All nod and agree at this given truth.
* But
* Not but for the silver light of our lady would we know anywhere else existed this darkening , he exclaims ! .
* A drum starts to beat softly as the crones of this gathered tribe begin to chant .
* Our oldest tribe member steps forward, for on this night they will carry the youngest in their arms .
* Together it will be their honour to sing for the log of Yule to then be consumed by this ,
* our holy fire .
* As the longest night starts its ending and the folk kneel beside the sacred glow messages are shouted to those who have passed through the great veil .
* They hear our shouts of love and joy , they hear us call their names as we tell them , "all is well ".
* We send our gratitude ,thanks and blessings may they be,
* as we have been, on this longest of all nights
A visceral prayer, a tragic curse, and an evocative love letter to a missing muse.
A spiritual lament and artistic testimony — a merging of ancient myth and modern existential anguish.
It is both a prayer to the divine and a punishment from it — a paradox at the heart of the artist’s life: creation as both suffering and salvation.
Title.
My Confession.
(A lone voice whispers)
Am I cursed like poor Orpheus, the son of Apollo?
To just wander through life, wasting my time.
Cursed by the Three Crones, to now write rhymes.
For just you, who I silently follow?
Writing about our love and sorrow.
Whilst hiding alone in here, my hollow.
For only two invisible pennies or dimes.
Because my Goddess, Divine, has called in all my worldly sins.
To be tormented in every known way, like poor Orpheus by the Maenads.
To play with only words, with this as punishment, for all my eternal crimes.
So every night or at the break of day.
I'm now doomed to write for and to you, sometimes in darkness.
Sometimes in light.
Writing for my soul.
For my freedom to really see.
Unlocking old mysteries, hidden deep down within me.
To take back some form of control, using secretive newly found keys.
To unlock mysterious occult doors.
To traverse through strange literature about inner kingdoms.
As I now speak to you, my love.
Hiding cleverly amongst life's many moors.
Hidden in the vastness of The Universe.
My simply forgotten trespass into salvation and tragedy linked to sin.
When the Leviathan tricks you into thinking:
This time, we're going to win.
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
.
Slinking silently through the night
on tiny tipped toes, claws withdrawn.
He mustn’t sleep until daylight’s dawn,
prudently prowls, avoiding light.
Clever, cunning crones craft a spell
to purloin his priceless powers,
control them in Eve’s evil hours,
condemn powerless prey to Hell.
Hither, fine ferocious feline.
Soulfully sing your sacred song.
Whiskers hoary, lavishly long
subtle signs of ancient bloodline.
He will not succumb to witches
who wish to control, to command.
Here he makes a substantive stand
to thwart wicked witches’ wishes.
Cruel claws render stinging slashes
slitting through wrinkled, withered skin.
They shrilly shriek their dying din,
melting ghoulish, gray-green ashes.
Loret, our lovely lithe flutist called the rest of us to the woods
with her charming tune.
Melody called 'Song of the Women',
it was uplifting and cheery; a break from our daily work.
Where are mamas and grandmas?
A new one to the fairy forest asked.
We laughed.
The older crones no longer hear this kind of music,
so beaten down by daily drudgery.
We congregated in the woods,
admiring her handiwork, settling down to commune
The oldest, the youngest, the first born, the middle born;
we had youth in common.
We were all tired of being bossed around by our daddy’s wives,
some of us griped a bit.
My ma is so bossy, Delva said.
The rest of us agreed, but not aloud; we were afraid of her mother.
They will be looking for us soon, Christette whispered;
we knew this was the truth.
Cooking, cleaning, baking, slaving over loads of laundry,
we were all getting worn out.
Maybe we should have asked to go to war with the men,
Loret suggested. This made us laugh.
It was the first laugh of the first meeting
of the young female faerie society, but not the last.
We stayed out there for a full twenty minutes are so,
until guilt pulled us back inside
To help our mothers and grandmothers
do all of the jobs that needed repeated daily.
What drudgery we thought.
Not realizing we would never get over this thought.
We began meeting monthly,
pulled out of our houses by the lovely melody 'Song of the Women'.
A Dark Spell
I dreamed I was a boy of ten
With hair of raven black.
I wandered down a faerie glen
And never made it back.
I met a pair of ancient crones
Their kingdom was a dell,
They lured me in with dulcet tones
And cast o’er me a spell.
The spell was baked inside a pie
I’d gobbled down with glee.
The filling, full of fruit and fly
My head buzzed like a bee.
I morphed into a big black crow,
Or maybe I’m a rook?
They put me in a cage, and lo,
I’m hanging from a hook.
The wizard whispered soft to me
‘Don’t worry, do not fret.
To break the spell, and so be free
Recite the alphabet.’
I cawed and cawed with all my might,
It was an awful sound.
The old witch danced in sheer delight,
My voice would not be found.
When darkness fell, I could but croak,
My throat was raw and sore.
Then sunrise came, and I awoke
The nightmare was no more.
The Prayer That Snows—From Incense to Milk Tears
Your prayer conjugates the verb that snows gently—incense from blood burns on altars,
Our white love went to be repainted—color spun in bones by old women,
Master crones weave poemspeaking when they talk and poemsilence when they're quiet,
Your lips have resonance power—their river revives the dead sea with words.
Your waves chatter like old women—your tresses are a storm that envelops me,
Your spirit thunders inside—northing and southing through your sacred geography,
Your diurnal skin cracks in patches slowly—paralightnings and parawhispers protect me,
Your milk tears flow white—old age is vaulted sunset over us.
Your life stands in sterile maidens—mourning between dying and undying we carry,
Famished for your bare thighs—I want to poison your hands and days gently,
Your fingers are lazingers—your arms are nectars—shivers that caress destiny,
The destiny of the heart sings the trill—vampires of blooming suck from blood incense.
Orchard bats fly through ardent departures—immortal present holy and hoary,
Of ordinary longing a frail guardian—our love's thought floats toward you,
The sculpted barefoot with belly as loss—decapitated ostriches wander through empty desert,
Decolorized devils guard the horns as icons—your prayer snows white over me.
Poemspeaking when I call you—poemsilence when I feel you—your lips resonate deep,
The river revives the dead sea—your diurnal skin cracks gently under paralightnings,
White milk tears flow—incense from blood burns—unpainted love remains,
Color spun in our bones by master crones—your prayer snows forever.
Imagine paranoid schizophrenia evolving
as Right-hemispheric totalitarian bipolarity
living in a rabid stress-filled ecosystem
of dismaying relationships
with human nature over-populating systems;
right-winged family
and those other terrorist aliens.
Now imagine paranoid behavior's function
finds an entirely natural schizopathic response
to an abusive
marginalizing
institutionalizing monocultural reaction against madness
wildness
discontinuous liberation of ego-identity
explored within one eco-primal Othered.
We used to call less paranoid, more manic, bipolarity
Shamans and Prophets,
witches and androgenous medicine [wu wei]men,
wizards and saintly dry sages,
wise old crones,
messiahs and muses and wise womb/men,
mystics and hermaphroditic hermits,
awesome pot heads
and opium worshipers.
Now we call such mediums
schizophrenic and really nothing more empathic,
other than paranoid, of course.
We fail to remember that economically disempowering paranoia
is co-empathic intuition
worthy of rational political merit
if "they" really have decided you are merely insane,
without any cultural or commercial value.
Our purpose
and perhaps even our sacred promise
remain clouded in unknowing.
For hyper-curious co-arising dipolarity,
a constantly stressing threat
of perpetual solitary confinement,
deep listening
in silent echoing silos
of trauma's non-communication
Ominously silent noise
followed by angry
frightened monotheistic voices
screaming prophecies of AnthroSupremacist doom
Reciting slender mythic HerStory memories
of lost panentheistic potential.