The Crone and The Adulteress

Beaten down, nearly naked,
eyes blurred
the whites stained pinkish
from far too many tears
mouth parched from wailing
cries no one would ever hear
she arrived and knocked at the crone’s door

the little lady stood
short, wiry, strong
aged yet
masked in
youthful mischief
Her braided hair gray
up in its kerchief
she took in the sorry sight
and noted soon what was wrong

she sighed
a quick “tut tut” at the girl’s chest
and the elder of the two
concern on her face
wasted no time
set about to making a place
for the woman
with the emblazened A upon her breast.

Just happy for some kindness
the younger didn’t speak
The elder took her things
set them aside
Poked at the hearth to get
the fire going inside
Prepared her a plate of food
and insisted “Eat.”

She nibbled a bit
no hunger for the food
As the crone applied salve
by the light of the moon
to the still bleeding lashes
and seared-in-skin wound
“Ah now, I promise.
You’ll soon be back to good.

I know it’s hard
minding the young alone
while the man is off
earning the keep
leaving the missus
many nights to sleep
just herself,
in an empty home.

I’ve been there,
Where you are now.
We are expected to be content
nary a complaint
Keep the fire burning
food on the plate
Like a bought at auction
complacent cow.

It’s not easy, though is it?
A woman needing more
Than a man’s roof and boots at the bed
A feathered pillow to rest your head
So now,
here you are. The Whore.”

The younger gasped at the word.
How it stung.
More than the cuts
More than the coming scars
She missed her children
They were now kept so far
Would they notice?
They were still yet so young.

But before her the crone
gently came to kneel
She unbuttoned her blouse
scarred but now faint
Her own A from long ago
“Yes, I too, had taint.
And soon yours will fade as well.
Now, please. Eat your meal.”

The punishment she had endured
none was worse than her own.
But the days passed
though they felt like weeks
Wounds began to heal
the color came back to her cheeks
All this
while under the watchful eye of the crone.

The crone never varied.
Each day the same as the last.
Reminding the younger
that no one was pure
while she wasn’t innocent
Neither were those before
Things were difficult
But all would soon pass.

Together they lived,
quietly though rumors swirled –
(The crone was a witch
And she had a new student!
Well, she is getting old,
she’s just being prudent.)
But no one knew the truth
The honesty of their world.

They were both women who had
no one but each other
Everyone holding themselves
to be judge and jury
They kept themselves from
the indignant fury
They knew their own hearts
and couldn’t be bothered

Soon enough, the younger’s scar
began to fade
Still there, a reminder of her failings.
Her faults.
But she carried on her new life
in that crone’s house.
For when it was her turn to take care
of another woman gone astray.

And they stayed together, the two of them. Breasts scarred with A’s.


She is graying.
She is flawless.
Her mouth is a soft peach of a grin
her laughter is used sparingly
sprinkling her audience
and would be mates
Like rain
on droughted dirt
so they know they are
they are drawn near
for another


I love her sex magic
The way she moves
A gliding grace
A sultry shadow
Which they chase
trying to grasp
at her wisps
with desperate wanting
and lust
But their
can’t touch

I like watching the younger girls
Watching her
out of the corners
of their
judging yet
undeniably appreciative

What does she have?
Witchcraft? Sorcery?
Why do I not
have it?

Oh, but you do, loves.
It is in the
way you enter
a room
Head held high
Of your womanhood
The control you have
of yourself
your mind
your body
Mischief which
twinkles slightly
in your eyes
as you offer
the slyest
of smiles
Because you know secrets
They never will
And they’ll fall at your feet
Trying to find out
You are the Eden
The Paradise
The Promised Land
And only you have
the Power
to allow entrance
To Those You Deem
Never forget that.
She hasn’t.
She is a Lesson
Learn Well

You were born with this magic.
Own it.

They Won’t Love You Less If You Don’t Make A Mess

all the skeletons
sitting quietly in my closet
piled one atop the other
neat and organized
collecting dust in storage

are others
as orderly as mine

are they a haphazard mess
femurs and fubulas
tumbling tibias
scattered scapulas
avalanching out in a chaotic cacaophony
whenever someone
the knob

not sure
but the idea
bothers me


its best to keep
these things
trim and tidy

should a stranger
peek in

They’ll see
winter coats
rain boots
and stacks of

She’s Gone a T’ch Crazy Again

I want to dig into my head
claw and scrape at the spongy wetness
scoop it
my tapioca brain pudding
and smear the pulpy bloodied mess
across the pristine white walls
of everyone’s preconceived notions of conformity

while I laugh madly

and then
i want to shove it down their

“eat it
swallow my chunky parts
choke on the tough chewy
the unpalatable
the inedible”

But I can’t
and they won’t

I guess I can
spin spin spin
until dizzy
and I vomit
my mania

(she’s in hysterics
with eyes on fire
and her obnoxious
bouncing off their


Do you know
that most nights
I sit quietly
and knit?

The screaming in my head
turns to a song
a light melody
knit one, purl one
knit one, purl one
knit one, purl one

until I forget
about what was disintegrating
my thoughts in the first place.

many forms.

Not Bitter… much

If I had a dollar
For every time you said
“I’m Sorry”
“Guess I’m Just An Asshole”
“I Never Meant To Hurt”
“I’ll Leave You Alone”
“I’ll Never Bother You Again”

I guess I could take myself
For a rather extravagant meal
Somewhere posh
With cloth napkins
and well dressed

I’d enjoy every bite
many things rich
and deliciously fattening

My belly
happy and full
I’d leave a
generous tip
and smile with contentment
That somewhere
you were choking on your own bullshit
Wasting away to the Nothing
You always knew you were.


I have too many things going on in my head sometimes. Serious things, ridiculous things – all manner of subjects running around like sugar soaked toddlers, haphazardly and clumsily bumping into each other, making a high holy mess of all I have worked so hard to compartmentalize. And I am powerless to stop what has already begun.

When it’s over (it does eventually wear itself out) there goes everything. All my ideas, opinions, notions, deep introspections, flights of whimsical meandering musings – just trashed and laid out. Passed out amid the broken boxes of what I had once tucked away, never to be bothered with again.

But that happens. It happens all the time. And I am once again set to task with the cleanup of my mind. And this makes me moody. It is not something I can easily explain to my significant other. To my friends. Hell, to myself. I have tried… but the best I’ve come up with is, “My head is messy today.”

Today is not Messy. It is the Day After Messy. I assess, recalibrate the gears of my inner mechanics, and attempt to move forward again. The Day After, I am in a much better state of being. Happy, even. Or as close to happy as I can get. Maybe this makes sense, maybe it doesn’t.

Eh. Just trying to maintain a semblance of sanity. *wink wink*