All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Beyond the crooked creaks of a village in leak
Sits an old woman cackling an old fable.
Hair perfumed up with chopsticks; mouth lipsticky and lined
With a crimson chocolate smear
And A heart-shaped rhyme on her face.
Old Woman, Old Dear,
The Poor Dame, the Raggedy Child,
Rock in your little damaged chair.
The children whisper, whisper
Creep round the old house
Straining for a glimpse of the old trout.
Old Mother Hubbard sits sinisterly, silently,
Tapping on the edge of her chair.
And the children watch, the children wait,
Bright eyes like orbs, hers like fading stars.
Old Woman looks up at last;
Toothless, veiny, grey,
Through a child’s cruel lens she is a visual burden;
Lined, aged, the demon of youth.
Old Mother Hubbard sings along to her magical tunes,
And though her voice is old, and quavers,
She knows every line, every smile, every tap to the beat.
And that day…she blinks, eyes down, cheeks soaked in heat.
Silly Old Woman…recite your rhymes.
A Witch, is she a Witch?
The children cry.
No! Says one.
She’s a spy in disguise.
And Gretel’s End!
Away with you, witch
The brazen b****.
Old Mother’s eyes crease like snakes,
The Pupils vivid as firelight, bright as the furnace
As it breathes the breath of
Ancient dragon smoke.
She rocks, shrivels, shakes,
One last time
For at last the withered woman with her painted face
Can surrender to her moans, her raspy breaths, her sighs;
And finally, she dies.