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storm siren Oct 2016
"Do not judge them,"
She whispered softly,
"You may be old,
But you have yet to live as well."

And they stared at her,
For the first time in decades,
With eyes wide with wonder.
"But I have seen so many things,
I am certain I know more."

Smiled the crone,
Orange eyes twinkling like starlight.
"You know what you know for yourself,
And yourself alone. Your wisdom is yours."

"Shouldn't I make my wisdom theirs as well?"
Cried the playwright.
"They're making too many mistakes, I have to fix it."

And still, the crone continued to smile.
"Their mistakes are theirs to make."
She reached out and placed a hand upon the playwrights' paper.
"Just as your wisdom is yours, their experiences are theirs, and just as valid as yours."
She took the quill from the playwright, and tucked the crow's feather in her hair.
"Allow them to grow without your bias."

"But I don't approve--"
The crone gave the playwright a bright smile,
Though her eyes were dark,
Which ultimately shut them up.

"Your place is not to judge. It is to nurture. It is to guide."
She said softly, though her tone was much more assertive.

"Then let me guide,"
The playwright began.

"There is a vast divide between guidance and control."
The vision of her shimmered, and she took a step back.

"I don't understand."
The playwright held their head in their hands, knuckles white while gripped onto curls.

"And you will not understand until you yourself live."
The old crone cooed, before her image blew away in soft red wind.

And there the playwright was left,
A half written letter filled with judgment and smudged ink,
And no quill to finish it with.
They fell back into their chair,
Glaring at their writing desk.

Whether or not the crone was right or wrong,
They still didn't get their quill back.
Just a thought.
denise brownlee Dec 2010
The crone sits hunched
in her little cell
has played all her cards
and cast every spell.

She's baron and empty
a dried up husk
and no one can see her
not even at dusk.

She was a wise mans daughter
now just a drudge
and life's passing by her
and that really hurts.

A young girl loves her
and takes her advice
calls her mother and other things,

Her daughters father
he twists the knife
the crone who sits hunched
he call's her wife.

She call's him DEATH.
Unlucky the hero born
In this province of the stuck record
Where the most watchful cooks go jobless
And the mayor's rôtisserie turns
Round of its own accord.

There's no career in the venture
Of riding against the lizard,
Himself withered these latter-days
To leaf-size from lack of action:
History's beaten the hazard.

The last crone got burnt up
More than eight decades back
With the love-hot herb, the talking cat,
But the children are better for it,
The cow milks cream an inch thick.
K Mae  Aug 2012
Hooker and Crone
K Mae Aug 2012
Oh how I do Desire you
you luscious vibrant creature
Dance with me ! Do not resist !
Our Passion we'll uncover

And I the Crone am here to offer
Wisdom, Grace and Power
Handing you a Magic Key
to Honor your own Fire

Allow us now to merge in you
Relax and see we guide you true
Your path is not a righteous hell
but sweet Creation~
All is Well
mûre  Oct 2012
Summer's Crone
mûre Oct 2012
it... it's too small for my hands
I smile winsome to convince
the loose doily cloth of naivete
the backwards crone covered in bark
the little old lady who looks young in the dark
she belongs under secrets in a lemon grove
she's the oldest and newest in all of the park.
İlayda Korkmaz Sep 2020
The candle on the window was a-flickering,
Struggling to draw its light from the waning moon,
With the flames, the east wind was playing,
There as her proud vanguard, already waiting.

The crone herself had arrived at last,
With the clouds promising rain ******* her heels,
Those clouds were mimicking the sharp waves of her stormy hair,
And the spirits were all dancing with the thinning veil.

All raised their glasses to welcome the crone,
All revered the dark mother, whose might could never be surpassed.
They all knew that now they could reap what they had sown,
And sit by the hearth as the winds howled past.
‘Where are the spirits of those who went
Before, do they still survive?’
I said to Alice who pitched our tent
Outside, in the cottage drive.
We couldn’t sleep in the cottage then
There was still a mess to repair,
And rubble lay in the dining room
With dust, most everywhere.

We thought that we were so lucky then
For the cottage and grounds were free,
An ancient Aunt, called Emily Sahnt
Had left in her will, to me.
I’d never met her, the dear old thing
But I raised a glass to her now,
Despite the fact that her neighbours thought
That she was a right old cow!

They said that she was a witch of sorts,
Had given the evil eye,
Had grumbled all round the neighborhood
Had killed some pigs in a sty.
And out in back was a wishing well
Uncovered, that somebody found,
And that’s where Emily met her end,
She fell in the well, and drowned.

I said, ‘I’ll clear it away some day,
The rubble that hid the well,
You never know what it might conceal
A tunnel that leads to Hell!’
And Alice shuddered as Alice does
Whenever I freak her out,
I love to tease her as well as please,
She knows what it’s all about.

There wasn’t time for the well just then,
The cottage was coming first,
We cleared a couple of rooms inside
Moved in, and Alice had cursed,
The paint peeled off from the ceiling and
It dropped in chips to the bed,
We woke, with bits in our mouths and ears
And Alice felt strange in the head.

She felt quite ill for a day or two
Was sick, confused for a spell,
I left her sleeping it off and went
To work in clearing the well,
I dropped a bucket into its depths
For the water, clear and chilled,
And used it up in the cottage then,
And kept the bucket filled.

The groaning started that very night
And a grumbling in the eaves,
I said to Alice, ‘Is that you, Pet?’
Then I heard the crunch of leaves.
There were footsteps round about the place
And I lay, tensed up with fright,
I wasn’t game to be venturing out
In the middle of that dark night.

Alice said she was hearing things
And I tried to calm her down,
We’d burned our boats in moving there
And couldn’t go back to town,
She seemed to be sleeping a lot by day
And plagued with fears at night,
I wanted to do the best for her
What I did, it wasn’t right.

We were using the water from the well
To wash, to cook, for tea,
I suffered from blinding headaches then,
I found, and so did she.
The pigment in her nails had changed
She convulsed, not once, but twice,
I said I’d bring in the doctor just
To get some sound advice.

Alice died in the morning, she
Lay still on the side of the bed,
I shook her a couple of times, she was
So cold, I knew she was dead,
The doctor sent for forensics, and
They checked the place, the well,
There was arsenic in the water there
And the ceiling paint that fell.

I’m lying here in the hospital
But I’m chained, and under guard,
The police think they have a ****** case
And they say I might be charged.
But I had a dream of a rustic crone
Who was clutching Alice hard,
Who said, ‘I don’t want to be alone,
You can walk with me in the yard!’

David Lewis Paget
Salto Angel dances an Aqua-Skirt
Such Fashion pleased the Tourists below
How else can the Latin earn your Fervour
But surpass your Record of height and snow?
Funny, how her Majesty can suppress
Even more when viewing up from this Point
Like a Crone who often tries to oppress
A Revolt which a Priest failed to Anoint
And lowering my Camera, I see
The many Prizes I did Hit-and-Miss
But she roared with showers raining gently
And, enough! They saw Rainbows turn to bliss.
So I sat on a Rock to watch and live
Hoping my Partner would rise to forgive.

— The End —