"crone" poems
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.
35.4k
I am she
Who compliments & completes
The dream-lover and wishes
Made when he is asleep.
I am she
Who suffers the most,
Giving birth, cradling ghosts,
As the crone or maid,
(Once and always)
Sister, mother, daughter, wife.
I am she
Who waits through the night.
I am she
Who equals the strength
Of his light.
"See me with your loving eyes,
See me more than the tears I've cried!"
I am she
Who is willing
To go with him to war,
Not a man but as an equal,
(I'm both soft yet hard)
I am she
To whom he'll give his heart
I am the tunnel's bright end
I am where
The family starts,
The breast which nurse small men.
I am she
The twin,
The Juliet,
The Goddess divine!
I am she
Who deserves the same
in life, and for all time.
(Peace be…)
I am she
I am you
I am her
I am the one besides
And inside
She is I…
The romance in the dress,
Patient Partner to the ends,
Tiny dancer on the floor
I am
The one that loves you
Forever &
Evermore.
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 10:20 AM UTC
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.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Samhain's Eve With Friends
The Lady's light is ripe and full and orange
so heavy the sky can scarce bear her up
as I tread slowly tap tap my staff clicks
my feet in their hurry crush sweet maple and acrid fir underfoot
and the early evening mist grasps at bare tree limbs like heart broken suiters
It's an early celabration Samhain Eve
No Matter
tis me alone and of course The Lady
Slowly I find my stone grove and rest a bit ... price of a Crone
No musicians tonight
Ah the tape will do well enough
No Sisters tonight
too far to come obligations trick or treat ...
No Matter
Circle swept and Caste,Quarters called
next all in turn music soft but building
insence sweet shrouds me
Fire my element crackles and spits with blessed heat
Time to steppe the Circle
This Dance I know so well
This Dance I have taught and danced and dreamt it always
Eyes Closed Cleansing Breathe
Bells on wrist and ankles chime
Now swaying stepping Luna's great course across the sky
once this way next reverse
slowly gently all recedes
there is nothing now but
me and She
She Morghanna Isis Gaia Mother Maiden Crone
My Lady
The flute is faint and hard to hear now
but the drum is strong heartbeat strong slow and deep
suddenly there are voices far yet whysper close
so soft full of laughter and secrets
..ghostly hands Sisters past, lost to me and spirits new entwine with mine and voices long forgotten soar
So Sweet
and my feet so clumsy and slow seem to fly and I hear the flute in the chime of Her laughter
She Has Come
Welcome My Lady
I hear nothing now but the drum and the rush of the wind through my hair
The Drum The Sisters The Fire
and My Lady
Suddenly my step slows no longer is it sure
aware of the stones beaneath and my hand blest but a moment ago now feels the loss of my Sisters grasp
but we are never far from one another
no matter the side of the veil
I tire and stop
the night has waned
the tape has stopped..when I cant recall
Never Mind
Close the quarters with thanks
Sever the Circle
Douse the smudge
and
Thank The Lady for a
Samhain's Eve , with friends
Solita Arcanes ShadoeWalker 31/10/10
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 2:50 PM UTC
I lay my head upon my mother’s chest
And for a moment, I’m a little girl again.
I remember what it’s like for the whole world to stop
For worries to melt away like candle wax
My jagged edges smoothed by a warm embrace
It’s a feeling I’ve rarely felt since
Maiden, Mother, Crone
I watch the wheel of fortune spin
Daughter, Mother, Grandmother
Me, Myself, I
The passing of time I there observe in all its stages
In our faces
Growing old,
To be young,
The illusion dissipates when I look into the eyes of those who I love most
In those luminous pools I see more than a person, I see a mirror
I see my connectedness and yet
There’s an immense need to defend what is mine
I wish I could stay here
Just for a little while longer
But we are all just passing through
I can only hope, this selfish desire
Is justified
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
She danced
a symbolic grace
with a look of malice
written on her face
She cast a
lunatic eclipse
of my erratic soul
The Maiden
The Mother
The Crone
It was more than a phase
Just a glimpse into our story-lines
She was the moon
I was the son
The anima
The animus
star-crossed
in our own paths
in our own way
I crowned her in stars,
she shed the scales
from her eyes
and we met
in a fiery embrace
Heaven on Earth
aligned like syzygy,
but only for a moment
We destroyed each other,
Yet we were complete.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
But I'm Not Bitter
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
a dark and dreary day ( I know its Tripe but today it is true )
rain makes me sour and truly an old crone
My skin is too tight and my bones are not nimble but stiff and useless
Stairs are insurmountable and the phone seems too far away for the effort
I no longer try to be pleasant and am left alone
but for my furry mob who can care less my bad mood
my desk chair is surrounded now with hot water bottles
electrical pads and nuke em packs and of course pill bottles
the detritus of pain
It is now a companion old and well known to me
I am told ever "Its age my Dear, Just live with it
I am told "It's all in your mind there's no pain at all"
I am told :Push through it and endure don't acknowledge it ignore it"
When will it leave ? at death ? What a thought to have to drag it with me at the end.
I curse his name
His Family
His Heritage
His Intellect
His Temper
His one action one blow in fury his one tantrum ...
And the sentence is life ...for me
I wonder ..If I saw him could I strike back?
I know there is no forgiveness no saint like pity or absolution
Every time I hit the ground in a seizure he has hit me again
Everyday I cannot climb the stairs in my own home He has thrown me once again through the window and I fall the 6 floors again
Stop holding on to it you'll never get any better ... And I try ..I really do ...
Then the seizures come or I cannot do a simple household task
or I must once more tell a friend I cannot meet them for tea (a selfish luxury)
You know I bet he has not thought of me in years ..but his actions govern what I can do every day of my Life
But I am not Bitter
Solita -2006
Author's Location: Toronto, Ontario
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
I am resilient today
I've yet to right a wrong,
Write poem,
Sight a note,
Convey in pros,
Hope for hope,
Join the stream,
Bathe in logos,
Come close to host the thoughts of all;
Boast? I don't think so.
What's not achieved Isn't real?
Really?
I cannot convey the souls that reside this body,
This mind,
Chimed,
From which end of the chimera?
The poem intoned,
Vocal aspects of the crone.
Cyclically saying,
I am resilient.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC
Three Mothers stood alone.
Aleph, Mem, and Shin.
A great mystery are these three,
Watching, weaving, and true.
From the Mothers came three Fathers,
Stranger still are they.
Six rings around the Twins,
From six proceed all things.
A riddle I ask you, a riddle so true,
Can you answer me this?
A musing I give you in the form of a poem,
Do you catch my drift?
Three stood alone before all things,
Three who are older than time.
Six stood alone in the Outer Dark,
But which came before which other?
How old is Nimue, how old's the child,
Is she younger than all the rest?
How old is Ninue, is she younger than you,
Who was the very first born?
How old is Mari, how old's the mother,
Was she born and when was that?
How old is Mari, is she older than that,
Who's the reflection of God Herself?
How old's the Anna, how old's the crone,
Is she more ancient than all the rest?
How old's the Anna, is she older than dirt,
When was the Priestess born?
How old's the Blue God, when did he dance,
Was he very first born of all?
How old's the Blue God, how young's the youth,
Who is the last to endure?
How old is Twr, how old is Krom,
Is he father or teacher of all?
How old is Twr, in his tall tower.
Who's sword will cut through us all?
How old is Arddhu, how old is Death,
How long has he stood at the Gates?
How old is Arddhu, did youth or true death,
Come first in the order of things?
Three stood alone before all things,
Three who are older than time.
Six stood alone in the Outer Dark,
But which came before which other?
A riddle I ask you, a riddle so true,
Can you answer me this?
A musing I give you in the form of a poem,
Do you catch my drift?
From the Mothers came three Fathers,
Stranger still are they.
Six rings around the Twins,
From six proceed all things.
Three Mothers stood alone.
Aleph, Mem, and Shin.
A great mystery are these three,
Watching, weaving, and true.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 9:40 PM UTC
Maiden,
New beginnings sprout in feminine Earth.
Legs rooted in blossoming
Spring.
Newborn innocence cultivates in
raw purity.
Mother,
essence of life,
predecessor of power.
Like fruit ripening in preparation of harvest.
Fertile fulfillment found in
abundance.
Crone,
a culmination of earned experience,
compassionate wisdom.
Cold winter bears bereavement.
Change in continuous
cycle.
~
Mother earth,
complexion of cosmos.
My celestial
creator.
Maiden, mother, crone. Woman.
Goddess.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
Taffeta dress.
Pink bows and ribbons,
Plaited elegantly through her shiny hair.
Shoes made of crystal glass.
Azure eyes that allure.
Princes and spinsters.
All vying for love.
In ball gowns.
Feel the frowns.
The pauper descends.
Out of place, amid friends.
Pretences of sisters who whisper and moan.
Two sisters and mother that clamour the throne.
They're trying for love.
Met on the staircase.
We really don't really care case.
Sisters on ladders of heels,as they stagger .
Their mouths filthy as bladders and bowels.
Nasty creatures.
Vile in lust.
Lustful greed.
Maternal demon seed.
Stepmother, toxically crumbles to dust.
Crone godmother.
A quick sip of milk.
Cinderella my lovely became but a sylph.
Dispelled stepmother and daughter's that cussed.
Transport to the princes ball.
In a pumpkin, should maybe have been made into a sickly sweet pie.
Lizards as footmen, stood fast on the back on the coach pulled by white mice.
The creatures were shocked.
By the changes, all the rearrangements.
Built up with Cinderella before, a creature comfort kind of rapport.
Be back by midnight said the fairy godmother, she knew he'd really grow to love her.
Midnight came midnight went.
A glorious evening only lent.
She tripped on the stair,
Nobody cared, except the prince and cute cinders.
She lost her shoe, in a hurry to flee.
Prince himself picked it up, unable to believe in lady luck was meant to be.
He searched his dominions far and wide, just to find his princess bride.
All the best things found in fairy tales.
What do I find?
Just slugs and snails.
Yep, you guessed it I'm a bit of a cynic.
(c)Livvi MMCV
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
It’s All Hallow’s Eve and there’s little sound,
Except for a few goblins dancing around,
An old witch creates another evil spell,
Summoning demons from down in Hell.
The old hag stirs her boiling stew,
Adds eye of a newt, and another shrew,
The cauldron bubbles over the roaring fire,
The smoke rising up, higher and higher.
A black cat watches and suddenly screams,
It’s enough to haunt anyone’s dreams,
The old woman smiles an evil grin,
Her wart covered face personifies sin.
Looking around the spooky room,
Perched in the corner is a wooden broom,
Later she’ll get on it, and will take flight,
As she rides off on All Hallow’s Night.
Somewhere another victim will await,
Helpless to control their coming fate,
Another body that will soon be cold,
Another life that will never grow old.
Just another night’s work for an evil crone,
It’s what you do when you’re bad to the bone,
For another year, she will take leave,
And be back again next All Hallow’s Eve.
11-01-14.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
'She will change,' I cried.
'Into a withered crone.'
The heart in my side,
That so still had lain,
In noble rage replied
And beat upon the bone:
'Uplift those eyes and throw
Those glances unafraid:
She would as bravely show
Did all the fabric fade;
No withered crone I saw
Before the world was made.'
Abashed by that report,
For the heart cannot lie,
I knelt in the dirt.
And all shall bend the knee
To my offended heart
Until it pardon me.
2.7k
three ripe figs: maiden-mother-crone
fresh and green, not fully grown
gravid, blushing, ripe allure
nut-brown, wrinkled, sun-matured.
which of these the sweetest be?
high upon this old fig tree
maiden tartness bright and young
full womanhood upon the tongue.
drooping breast and brown age-spots
spurned by youthful hungry thoughts.
adolescent, first one picked
complex taste is not quite fixed.
plump and ready, sun-touched mother
ripe fig flavor like no other
ignored by most, her dried-up skin
sags dessicated on the limb.
with sweetest nectar deep inside.
never plucked and never tried.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 1:22 PM UTC
Posing squirrels
Legs crossed
Hands on hips
Chins held high
And a smile to drive
Your mind like
A merry-go-round!
Talking trees
Strong limbs
Thin and thick
******** for more space
Their high and low
Pitched voices
Sending thunders through
The ear-holes
Of birds
Zigzagging
For escape
Through the branches
Dancing water
Taking form of the
Most beautiful treasures
The eye can behold
Then suddenly transforming
To a most frightening sight!
In one moment
A nymph strumming the
Horse gut strings
Of an oak guitar
An instant later
A giant serpent
All slim and
Venomous goo
With the head of
The death crone
The legs of a
Rooster
It's iguana tongue
Searching for
Your face!
You look at your own
Reflection in the mirror
You try to speak to
Yourself
Only you have
No mouth
No ears
No nose
No taste or voice
No ability to listen
No smell
But what's this!?
You ask...
My reflection has all these things!
And with the
Evil jest of a
Jealous twin
Your mirror self
Mocks you!
Poking out her tongue
Dancing to music
You can't hear
And making exaggerated
Sniffs of the
Perfume air...
All this
with only your
Eyes to see
What a nightmare!
Thank nature
Our imagination
Roams free in our head
Not physically in our world!
If that were the case...
What kind of world
Would we live in?
Skeletons wearing
Coconuts
Singing karaoke...
Hummingbirds
******* the juice
From our eyeballs...
Again I say
Thank nature
Our imagination
Roams free in our head
Not freely
In our world!
*Inspired at a festival, while
I observed all the fun happening around.*
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
I know you, Jenny.
Your beauty betrays you.
What other woman has hair of
fine-spun gold thread
and long-lashed eyes of sapphire perfection?
Visible through white silk, your ******* and hips
lure me towards golden-freckled alabaster arms.
I’ve known your name all my life.
Now I meet you, smiling shyly as you bathe.
You’ll not get me, water spirit.
They say you wait
in wind-wild streams and lonely pools
for weaker souls than I
to surrender to your enchantment.
You beckon lovers in
to greet your body; to love you.
They say you
coil weeds around hopeful lovers’ ankles and pull them
down, white cold, into black depths.
You show their drowning eyes
the hideous crone you really are: Jenny Green Teeth.
But I see no crone, only youthful perfection
radiant in high sun’s glory.
Oh Jenny, your beauty and smile draw me.
Will you take me? Love me? Drown me?
Let us speak in whispers. Touch our fingers. Lips?
I cannot believe what they say. I cannot. I do not.
The water … so cold.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
"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."
"No,"
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.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
I am she
Who compliments and completes
The dream lover and the wish
Made when he is asleep
I am she
Who suffers most
Giving birth, cradling the ghost
Of the crone
Once and always
Sister mother daughter wife
I am she
Who waits through the night
I am she
Who equals the strength
Of his light
See me with your loving eyes
See me more than the tears I've cried
I am she
Who will go with him to war
Not a man but an equal
Both soft and yet hard
I am she
To whom he'll give his heart
I am the tunnel's bright end
I am where
The family starts
The breast that feeds
Small men
I am she
The twin, the Juliet, the goddess divine
I am she
Who deserves the same
In this life
Together in time
I am she
I am you
I am her
I am the one besides
And inside
She is I
The romance in the dress
Patient Partner to the ends
Tiny dancer on the floor
I am
The one that loves you
Evermore.
*(I am
She.
I am
Yours).*
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
Is it odd that I hate tree stumps?
I mean, really, is it just me?
Is there something wrong with me?
I walk past them on the roadside
And something seems to break free.
I feel tense and taut;
A green branch pulled tight
On the saw edge of a gardener’s knife,
Peeling back one fibre at a time.
I can’t stop it to save my life.
It makes my skin crawl
To see the corpse left jutting up
Like the last tooth of a diseased crone,
Like a tag on the skin of the earth,
A drying scab to make the mother moan.
Couldn’t they just dig it up,
Or is that too much to ask?
Not enough to slay the ancient tree,
But to leave it lying on the ground;
Like leaving the foot of an amputee.
It makes me so mad
That I wonder I don’t complain,
But then I know a letter will be ignored,
As the death of such a mighty sentinel
Is a thing our conscience can afford.
It’s not like it was alive…
But the sarcasm doesn’t matter,
And the funny looks I get while I weep
Sink like the teeth of a saw,
Cutting through the body at my feet.
Am I the only one who hates tree stumps?
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
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
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
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,
nice.
Her daughters father
he twists the knife
the crone who sits hunched
he call's her wife.
She call's him DEATH.
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
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.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 10:20 AM UTC
She is the goddess,
all-receptive and coagulating
eternally to shift with
our rhythms, our wants,
our needs.
She is as old
as all the dark rivers
that coalesce into the
perfection of the sea.
She is the lady
who opens herself
and ushers us onto
our golden throne,
and urges us to drink
from her ******
chalice.
She was alive in the Way,
and in the Water,
and in the Moon,
and in the Blood
of the Ages that flows
still in the veins of a
hidden world.
She is the perfect wife,
the wise crone,
the impetuous harlot,
ill of temper and all-forgiving.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
Lost alone
Hope forgone
Crying god
You worthless crone
No love shown
My shirt long gone
On the first whose cold could thaw
And years not days I passed away
Forsooth no lack of thanks would stop me
1/2 pause
Id say my jobs more then flattery
But now everyday is pain
And all I saved still wastes away
My philanthropy now martyr days
And worse for ware I'm, lets endeavor
**** god hell I could do better
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 12:01 AM UTC