'Fairytales are in my head and in my head they start
to tell you bout the deepest thoughts that live inside my heart.'
- Alice Deejay

Thursday, October 7, 2010

The Whittier Witch

October brought to mind an old poem from the archives & an all-time favorite of mine to write...



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Once upon a time, a peculiar little girl
always hid
behind 
brooding eyes & unkempt hair
    
Her look read your soul
and 
    stirred it inside you, 
mysterious intensity often defined her
    
Mystic behavior 
puzzled 
    her parents, 
hours & dollars
    foolishly spent
on
    experts' conclusion:


Forces of darkness are heavy influence; 
SHE'S A WITCH.” 
    
Parents instructed,
“Hide her behind a locked door!”
    
Prevention 
of
    contamination 
of
The excellent parents & children of Whittier
    a musty room
    upon
the top floor
    of a 
Victorian house, ravished with age,
    the little ‘witch’
    cooperated
with 
    unjust confinement,
    completely ignorant 
of
    special privilege
her
    only play,
    interrupted 
by 
sounds of childish giggles
    throughout
    the day
 she heard from an open window
    many feet above 
her
    stony floor


“Why not permitted the company of other children to enjoy?”
    
    Thought unanswered burned inside her,
day-by-day, month-by-month, year-by-year
until
    curiosity
into 
    jealousy
grew
and into 
a frothy, bitter brew
of 
which the young ‘witch’ 
diligently stirred
    against
The excellent parents & children of Whittier
   
 “Witch, witch
witchy poo
which we know,
    Witch, do you?
    Witch, witch
witchy poo
which we know,
    Witch, it’s you!”
    
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Over and over 
    the mantra went,
day-by-day, month-by-month, year-by-year
until
    the rage brewing
    overflowed 
from
    the ‘witch’s’ stew
&
    her hands, bony,
reached
for
    the handle, dusty,
of 
a broom
and
growled,
A witch am I? Then I must fly!” 
    Suddenly, 
a jolt, flutter, twitch
    propelled 
    the wiry ‘witch’
up 
&
through
the window atop her
    convex
    room


Icy wind against her face
    planted the smile
matching 
    her grace
as 
she soared across the sky


The youthful grin
    then 
    into
    turned
a sneer seeking
    revenge 
    upon
The excellent parents & children of Whittier

    were her notes
the following day which read,
    “Warning:
    Do not be out past the hour of ten.
    For tonight,
    my collection of children begins!” 
And now, 
doors are locked,
  windows shut tight,
    sleepless eyes
    watch through 
the night
    all
    because 
    so long ago,
fear kept 
an odd girl
    invisible 
    & 
    deafeningly unheard
    among
The excellent parents & children of Whittier



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--Christine Kincer 2003