Friday, January 21, 2011

Magpie #49 The Three Sisters

Euphoria and Rochesphere were star-crossed and
abandoned lovers
which left Winnie to wince
she always felt this emptiness
left out in the cold
her sisters
can be so cruel sometimes
so cruel
like day old porridge
eaten sullenly in silence in her room
their company far too good for her
where would she stand she thought
there by the sand banks
where would they try to sink
her last battleship
I hate having my picture taken Cindy said
the tight-lipped photographer
with the tight pants
two-stepped his way
into her heart
motioned for closeness
to suck her soul she felt overwhelmed
he'd never want me she thought
he'd leave me for Euphoria she knew
eventually he'd find a younger woman
where did she stand they knew
and her thoughts were theirs
what was she thinking now
as their sinister and sarcastic glaze
from the evil ones' one eye
met briefly her recoiled glance
synchronistically living in sin
the two both had had him
she'd have at it too
and do the dirty dancing again
I'll have him
they'll see
then the two
those star-crossed twice
would never know
vengeance is mine saith the Lord
those ruthless witches
years ago swallowed the bait
who was it that abandoned her
as a mere babe
left her to die
on the broken back steps
the door always closed to her
left her to shiver
then hopefully expire from pneumonia
in twenty below
their body language never lied
those two
whose ungirlish girth
no match for their sin
from eating candy all day
pacifying deep-rooted angst
as they held onto their youth
for far too long
to refrain from remembering
Rochesphere's child out of wedlock
it was a strange nativity
given to a very wide berth
a breech on a backward day
Ma had said
that rift that had measured
the distant stars
only inches between them
could have easily been miles
Poor Cynthia
the object of no man's desire
due to spinsterhood by proxy
the sisters would see to it!
no man would ever marry you they'd say
she should stand on her own
she could stand on her own
A suffering suffragette
Cindy eventually would stand on her own
only to falter waiting for father's return
but they'd always win
amassing the wealth the sisters' chagrin
though thick mostly thin the years
they always did manage to exist
always without a man
Cindy sensed they could
telepathically transmit thought
invisible telegraph wires
to each other they had meshed
crossed wires
while Cindy was to be crossed out
a huge X they had written
lonely hens in a lonely world
had reinvented the macabre
and Cindy their hapless victim
remember phones hadn't been invented yet
nor party lines that could keep in check
nor farmers' fields with electric lines
early inventions yet to be
no telephone poles that hung
at odd angles to the earth
and Papa's old watch
kept ticky-tock
in Euphoria's cedar-lined drawer
the watch she knew she should have gotten
as Papa had promised
but they snatched it away
from her light clutches
on the last day of the funeral
before the casket closed
she recalled Papa's last words
keep in touch
but he didn't
she didn't hear him anymore
The Ancient Ancestors
Intermediary Intercessors
Angels of the Woodlot
behind the farmhouse
acting on behalf of Winifred Cynthia
these robed seraphim
on behalf of the meek
that being Cindy
found no ill will
not even an X
for Cindy's defence
no male heir to replicate
why cry said Cindy's Angels
surely the sinister sisters will
Maybe someone would hear their lament
and be resolved to absolve their sins
Cindy lost in the other worlds
Implored one of her relatively and recently dead
Grandpa, where'd ya go?
No one is here
through the acres of back forty
she'd walk lead-footed at dusk
recounting every step in her life
as if her last days stretched on before her
her search for these genetically departed
a routine and sullen ritual
whilst they at home would plan and scheme
their secret plot for her
awaiting her first fall from grace
an opening in the ground covered
by lightly by new-fallen snow
by the old tractor that did sit by the dirt road
she'd always take the same route
on the evening walk-about
this night the sight of something she'd stumble over
curious fragments of easily discarded old bones
buried with all those broken things
fancy porcelain teacups
one perfect teapot
and saucers thrown about
all still perfectly good
thought Cindy
but seen as tawdry items by
the sisters
their cardinal sin
being one of omission
they'd had forgotten
no matter their building up
the biddies bid for batchelor's
always came up somewhat shorthanded
not even the farmhands would touch them now
not enough life left for the living
and they were putrified, dead rotten souls
living partially two feet in the grave
the vultures circled the farm each dayd
during the spring run-off
while lots and lots of discarded items
along with time
left precariously awaiting burial
permanence had vacantly stared them down
in fact the empty field across the yard
held the massive refuse lots
Cynthia's fate sealed within cryptic layers
of stinking, rotting decay
not so much the kind of fertilizer she wanted
How she had been the once treasured baby daughter
now only known as Sister Number Three
easily she dismissed
the course her life had taken
guided by the guiless wiles of the Sisters' Two
this young woman once so full of promise
she felt her life as a train wreck
a place where they discarded their trash
had she had more value to them
The Sisters let her carry their two bitter crosses
up to the scape goat in the barnyard
but he won't bother with her either
a scrap cleaner and scullery maid for soiled souls
she didn't feel their real wrath come upon her yet
Cindy would not stick around to hear
when it was time to do the dishes
those objects that would often fly inches from her
tools of divination
always narrowly missed
like her paramours; the certain advances
rather she'd pretend to ignore them
forget for awile her day-to-day pain
indwelling for the living worse than hell
open up to the world not theirs
and freely dance in the rain
through her mother's fancy irish lace curtains
she could see the candlelite
the parlour's warm glow
slowly she bent down to peer
through the transparency
as darkness encroached
the candles flickering light
through the remaining vision
the brittle corn husks rustled
she could imagine herself there
she could see Cindy as the dreamer
the girl she should have been
with all the benefits
properly bestowed
with him so enchanting
her secret lover awaiting
every subtle motion
and they would dance a jig
this night to end all nights
the tight-lipped photographer
would suddenly smile
then ask Cindy for her hand
and there they stood for suspended
a moment out of time
and just as suddenly
the wind blew
the great candle snuffer
his smile disappeared from sight
Cindy could no longer see him again
as it was only a vivid dream!
and all dreams certainly fade
if the only the sisters knew!
she had him eating out the palm of her hand
they'd be so much more than jealous
as she held the photograph tight
which made the sepia ink
turn a deeper amber shade
the remainder of the memories she left behind
as acid burn by way of the sun then left to set
in the cool shade of the banks by the river willows
for far too long this bitterness enveloped her
as it lingered so did the forming of her intent
like her sister's afterall!
as all sin wound past the river's last bend
embroidering curly-kews on the bordering lands
the course and purpose of her life faded
like the flooded banks of the Bateaux
alway she thought of then
remembering their tragic end
the photographer running to hide
the emulsion paper and
his stark bluejay nakedness
as he unwittingly bared his buck behind him
and after he had promised her not to tear anything
he and she dancing wildly in their mad and hurried frenzy
before the sisters woke up
with the commotion he had tore his pants
too much ripping it up, I guess
on the dance floor
dancing the devil's dirge in the moonlight
as all had watched in horror
those who were her soul had
morally inclined to do just that so
the thing they liked most
was to watch
to watch
as the toppling of the stepped dominoe
they'd set up for her in the dark
and one by one when they fell she'd come undone
fufilling every prophesy of her sured disaster
set upon her like hungry wolves
the poor child's feet had snared her
as the sisters liked to watch
sadistically belittling her every move
while in unison condemn her action
and with swift action
an unreliable form of justice
as they'd always admonish all who sinned
and held it in
never to confess to Father
who who never listen
now just as the wind blew
suddenly the sister's swift dismount
from their pampered perch on their Friesan stead
atop their conquered hill and rampart battlement
to tell her
how plain her face
how unattainable her suitors
how unmerciful her Maker
their chatter could make the Mad Hatter
writhe in much psychic agony
as she suddenly connected
her unfocused mind dots
suddenly to realize
she was an unwanted step-child
brought to roost on these steps
by a wayward aunt
born this rotten day
poor Cinder Ash!
they'd say
she must certainly have suffered
more than slings and arrows
from their attempted premature embalming
this butter box baby unburied the lot
and the wicked hemlock tea didnt take
almost did her in, though they snickered
as these Arsenic and Old Lace ladies
so happily and convincingly
but secretly greedy and coniving
knit loose nooses
darned, needled eyes dolls
canned and muffled their laughter
they should be the only daughters!
hung crocheted lilies sullenly
affixed on the pine box
they'd would stuff her
in way too early,time to act non-chalant
the neighbours might notice
those who knew suspected
nothing out of the ordinary
as life was very ordinary on the hill
almost droll
on the surface
underneath the trollipes
behooved, bejewelled the devil with their spell
the unloved!
only the mourning doves cooed
the Victorian doilies tatted together
chatted up a storm; all just fluff
lost in the myriad of over-stuffed
those long lost pioneer years
bygone days gone bye-bye now
but then it did
drew them in like flies to honey
the moths crispy in the flame
the story of The Three Sisters
etched their graven image
can you imagine?
found this wind-scattered paper
with the evidence so glaring
heaven forbid
they'd ever find out
or get told by the parson to repent
twhen they scolded then
put fear in them til they soiled their diapers
scalded like hot potatoes at the Sunday dinner
they'd be burned at the stake most certainly
or should these horrible; the two bewitched sisters
definitely now they'd know what to wear
now they would be the worse for wear;
Not Cindy The Misbegotten, Unbetrothed, Belittled!
However all who knew these two
never thought it odd
That Star-crossed and abandoned lovers
could stoop lower than the front stoop
to knock off their heads in the process
to think that they'd never ever
die old maids without finding pleasure
would never grow old or find a consciencous mind
a body or soul, a spirit to fly
no indices that fair play would ever convict them
or ever resurrect or incarnate them
toppled like dead wood; all the rotten rotted
we're gone they cry
in two-part harmony
too far gone
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
let us alone!
to rot
like stinking old cabbages
in the back wood lot
our only friends
were bitterness
those who never let us
find our happiness
those who never really knew us
let our blood curl
if only we could have
been their wives
never to grown old together again
paired up with a sister
instead of a husband?
As father had abandoned hope for us
The Spinster Sister
What could we do?
But spin a tall tale or two?
Lie, cheat and steal
what's the matter
our only way out
of this embittered life?
Judges we implore
do not
let us again to grow old
or be together for infinity
or be born in this skin
affixed to the same star
and stay that way til kingdom come
would only makes us chance fate again
only wish to be left
hopeless and alone
at the altar
all over again



  1. How wildly imaginative and colorful - it really kept me scrolling.

  2. What a tale! Bitter and biting.

  3. ouch- what a tale of Cinderella and the Two Horrible Sisters....

  4. What a story and what great imagery!

  5. Bitterness wells within these sisters just a bit... Wonderful, intriguing, imaginative piece.

  6. You sure can spin a tale, Chicco! Wow!