poem 85 of a poem a day for 2012

Frau Trude  (I might have been burned bright this way once too) 

if the Devil can't come himself

why does he send a crone

to hone in on young skin  

with calls to sing 

a milk and dust 

and iron and guts song

(all paid off, all paid off )

the elves and brownies sing

each reprise

so even a cobbler

knows too this call 

of what not to do

with the bloodstone 

eyes of children 

staked as crumbs

wanted to renew

crow footed mysteries

of seeded intrigues

when travelling alone 

in the forest

after being told not to

what is in store for those

that have not listened 

to their parents

that might not have 

heart enough 

to provide surrender 

when given chance

after chance

to dance a

oh yes mama

oh yes papa

to quiet their want

of something

they're told

they can't have

just yet

this is what weaves 

this is what some 

would call Divine

this is what is

really Winter's soul

demanding a role

to age what the piper

culls every gift 

that fills 

every womb

between the sorrow of loss

and tomorrow set adrift

as a petulant child

who runs away

day after day

seems to forget

a parent's 

call to stay

do not go 

into the forest alone

your flesh is sweet

and there's magic 

in your bones

spirits there

they ring bells 

to make a fire of you

and torches to bear too

each mark of the woodsman

the butcher and the huntsman

and what they will do

perhaps

their children 

once didn't listen too

so now they

all sweep witch corners

and watch 

the clung curiosity

trace the faces

of borrow

to sorrow 

the ash

in pockets of posies

staked for cash

these tales

never kill 

innocence

all at once

they always let children

find what grows in bunches

in those thatched little homes

in a forest clear

with a hunch

of an old woman

and red apple near

where finally fear

severs the cling of fingers

to the last window

of what used to be 

the reckless abandon

of childhood you'll never see

we now give memory to be

just to feel warmth 

take a knee

and burn as bright

as one can

when finally 

you know

you're alive 

with one reason

only,after being

turned to wood

ready and

seasoned

to be eaten

and to toast

that crone's 

two feet

propped

as a smile 

might slyly lace 

the whisper-cackles 

of run on home 

to cry

but you know

as I do 

dear

little one

it's too late now

because

you have come 

here to die

EJR (c)