She earned the title Nine Days Queen,
But hitherto, she was just Jane.
Just Jane, and she had no idea
That when she married the son of a duke,
A plot was forming around her to steal the crown.

A crown she did not yet wear,
But inherited when the King was gone.
She rose to power instead of Mary or Elizabeth
Through an amended line of succession;
She was never meant to be Queen.

The plots and plans and goals of others
Led to the end of Lady Jane Grey.
Mary conquered the throne with little effort
And Jane was one of many to be sent to death
By the woman history calls ****** Mary.

Nine days was the length of Jane’s reign,
Unscrupulous were her advisors.
Just Jane, she had no idea what she was:
A pawn in the games of those around her,
And she was never meant to win.

Rocking on the front porch
Watching the stars in heaven play
Rocking back and forth
Sipping from my lemonade
Melting all my cares away

ALesiach © 08/05/2017

What a place, oh what a place
a place so strange to rest one's face.
Three people parked for the night instead of cars.
No ordinary family should sleep in such a space.

This was normal in our case.
This is what we did.
We'd sojourn from here to there.
Sometimes at a nightly rate,
sometimes with men who bore not my father's face.

I remember one smokey spot
where drunk men found women to chase.
There were rows of open green and sticks and smooth round stones.
Crashing and clinking and cheersing
while whiskey went down at a freakish pace.

A steady stream of Shirley Temple and a roll of quarters could keep me busy for hours.
As long as I didn't sit on the stools
or get too tired you had all the time you could waste.

I had to sleep eventually
so you let me sleep while you went and watched the horses race.
I woke in a teary terror in a silent and empty place.
I dialed my dad, hid under the covers

and grabbed a kitchen knife just in case.
That was the end of our run mommy our time together was done.
You fell ill shortly after all this and  you died in a feverish haste, in a feverish haste.

Feelings,
those insidious little things.
They ******, make you squirm,
sneak in unawares,
make nebulous all that is firm.

Feelings,
those traitorous little things.
They lift you up, make you float
then change without a warning
and sink the **** boat.

Feelings,
those warm little darlings.
With you through harmony or strife,
your companions, they let you
revel in the drama called life.

It is remarkably difficult to find
that moment in the middle of a day
when nothing is on your mind,
all the chaos just fades away,
and somehow you know that you will be okay.