Short Crones Poems

wicked woven words
	scattered on a Ouija board ~
		game of cagey crones...

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Mountain oyster stew for lunch
Lovely for an old ladies’ brunch
They down them with glee
Happy as crones can be
I do not think they have a hunch...

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The susurrus breeze 
of spring’s ingénue trees 
now rasps and wheezes,
rustling sparse leaves as
the trees, now crones,
rest brittle bones,
primed for winter’s coming....

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Crones
           soporific, deranged
        leering, smirking, hexing
heretics, prisoners, saviors, warriors 
     mesmerizing, smiling, casting,
          hypnotic, kindhearted 
                    Witches....

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Jones, Jones, where are your bones? 
I'd like to hear again your moans, your groans, 
underneath loathed graveyard stones, 
all with weird sepulchral tones, 
me and all my friends, the crones, 
wailing o'er the bones of Jones....

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Gray arteries 
are laid bare
An altar
is beset
by hands 
of crones
begging alms 
in pulses
of arboreal blood
grasping 
at drab vestments
of indifferent sky


1st Place
Early June Standard Contest
Sponsor:  Brian Strand
Submitted:  6/6/17...

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write a poem
make it rhyme
catch a word 
out of time
trap it
wrap it
serve it up?
have it read?
boxed like that
is it dead?
limit thought?
how absurd!
why do that
to a word?
rehearse
free     verse
---------------------------------------------
from book of crones by kj hooten, 1996...

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Wild woman campfire with amber eyes
Dynamite gathering for happy seasoned crones
Ethereal magic in a boxed setting with a joyful squeak.
Dry crackling barn grass thrown on fire by winking slaves
Whose witch cackles rise gloriously 
And Eyes are dancing and prancing 
In the lantern-like light of the campfire....

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Cosmic Crones

Alone
beneath 
umbrella of lilacs
moonbeams

I meditate
contemplate
how infinitesimal
we are.

While 
entranced
by nature's symphony  
a revelation 

women 
are the essence of life
guardians of the Universe
spirit of heaven and earth

yesterday
         today
                 always......

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There was a time when 
pleasure came on the tip of a tongue.
When fear fled and the senses
did indulge.

Though visions dim and
sound distorts, dismays…
the tang of sweet and sour stay
abides within the aged form
in figureless grace.

Released are we aged crones and cronies
no longer the baited traps, the pollen
for the laden prongs
of progeny....

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Winter scatters moth bones.
For a while,
it refreshes the turgid and lax.
Then the chill legs of small dancers
pirouette over warm bodies.
Flesh recoils, lungs curl around 
each breath.
Hedgerows offer their huddled masses,
to the underground and hidden.
The light is going color blind,
Wind-crones whip rabbit hair
into wickiups 
for the newly dying....

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Massive, ancient, maple crones 
rise from the loam.
Bereft of garments, their bark a tatter,
naked roots and limbs 
pocked by woodpeckers.
Remnants of their crowning glory, long gone;
lay supine in the jewel weeds.
Moss adheres to the maples northern face
like chin whiskers…….
and shelves of mushrooms skirt their trunks.
Aged, yet strong…..
still, like Atlas;
they shoulder the sky....

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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....

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I’ve got quite the appetite for mayhem

Thus from these desires my problems stem

Prozacidasical perhaps

Headfirst into Lady Luck’s slaps

Crumbling foot stools under my whim

Why if there be heart ache, I’ll have a bite

Just another serving of bittersweet spite

Bring on my many foolhearty excuses

Distilled crones, my destructive muses

Pluck from my sour patch mood, a pickled fight...

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One Stark Trumpet Peals


At eve, old melodies unwomb,
old ragings wake
as crones, 
stringy hair unbunned,
creep downstairs
to supper on a loin.
As they feed, 
their fingernails
roll back 
and so they gravitate
or, better, crawl 
toward the dawn,
for in the din
that eddies in each ear, 
they can hear 
one stark trumpet peal
as they creep
toward the sun
a final time, 
drawn by 
ancient echoings.


Donal Mahoney...

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I am sitting in front of an empty building.
Large red, white and blue sign says “for lease”.
What would I do here?
Creative writing center?
Art center?
Botanical garden?
Toy museum?
Clutter our Way or the Highway?
Birdbrains Anonymous?
Crones United?
Hag’s Homemade Brews?
Psychedelic Phenomenon?
Krutsinger’s Believe it or Rot?
Voodoo Dolls and Vampires?
The ideas are endless.
I dial the number, to find out what the rent is....

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A gentle rustle in the breeze
Carried some whispers from the trees:
To us has come a falling out.
Our fine leaves are divorcing us. 
Swept away by the siren wind -
To dance and twirl colorfully -
Until wind dumps them, shriveled crones.

We hear their whispered grunts and groans
But our bare limbs they cannot reach
Wrinkled they writhe around our feet.
We shiver with whispered silence,
At best we offer sappy tears,
When Winter shrouds their final rest....

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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....

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I used to love People Magazine
Which may be why I am still getting it
Delivered to my house thirty years later

I stare at the strangers on the cover
Flip through pages about people I do not know
I want a specialized magazine

We will call it Old People Magazine
It will feature people I know
Cher, Tina Turner, Eddie Murphy

But if we named it Old People Magazine
Would I be the only subscriber?
Probably.

Better name it
Sassy Seasoned Stars
or Crones and Codgers...

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I curse the night that lives in me
and turned my heart so cold.

I blaspheme the hollow gods
who failed to save my soul.

I blame the laughing crones of fate
who placed me in this cell 

and bargain with Beelzebub
to pardon me from hell.  

Though I burn inside the flames
of infernos I made,

I shall suffer silently,
and feign I'm not afraid.

I damn the tears inside my eyes,
for I won't cry aloud.

Although I know that I am doomed,
my head shall ne'er be bowed....

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All the world was covered in a white frosting, shining under a slice of the moon.
Like a pale rising star on this Mother Night, shines upon the moor a bright noon. 
We huddled as feeble field mice in the frigid fright and dare the disir for a boon.
Humble boasting and well wishing, to the Norns the crowd will croon
You weave the wyrd, from babies to old crones we grow too soon.


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mother night- christmas eve, disir - ancestral spirits [female], norns-weavers of 
wyrd/fate...

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