*Newcomer looking for genuine critiscm*


Let me die an old hag in my bed.

Leave me naked as the day I was born, ass cheeks flaccid against the sheets, breast
sagging to my ashen ankles, breast
with dimples dug into bowls
where I now collect dust
instead of baby’s tears.

Let me die, fingers aching
and cracked
and creased.
Shriveling testaments
arbitrarily
holding onto what’s left.
Back arched in defense
like some black cat
and feet callused; ankles swollen
from the sugar,
corns cooking on my toes.

I’ll dance one final Beltane,
sunlight scorching the hallows
of my leathered cheeks, catching
the twinkle in my crusted gums.
A prophesy
fulfilled at last, a woman
turned Crone, for all the world to see,
in my bare skin get up; coughing up chronicles of kaleidoscope climaxes
in my time.
I'll look directly into the sun
And tell my children the secrets I saw in there.

Let me die on my own terms,
both breast still rocking
like bells and the balls
of my feet
still taking me to Hell.

Let my brow be drenched in sweat, beaded mirrors migrating down my nose, beat
from running by the river.

Sweat from a frenzied afternoon
of lovemaking, two old bags
rubbing their useless bones together
to get off in the bathroom.

Still tasty enough to eat,
I’ll tell my husband
“ Remember your manners!”
And to take,
to the table,
for his meal.

Taking to the front porch, naked,
I’ll start watching the wind lust after the grass.
Calling her name,
with the promise of flight,
and rumbling down in between her blades; Before leaving her
for the Big Assed trees.

Let me die in his arms.

Let me die, on my own terms,
with just enough sense
to make sense
when I want to,
and enough to laugh
when I’d rather not.

Let me die,
Cackling crows leaving prints,
Cut into the crooks of my eyes.
Rivers and mountains and forest
and boulders and villages and wise tales mapped waywardly
on my clay canvass.
Homemade butter will still be churned,
so as not to forget
how to conjure the memories in my hands.

I want to be exhausted,
catching my breath,
savoring it
for just a moment,
this last time
before letting it slip away
in the faint chuckles of one last good laugh; Fantastic noise
echoing into the rafters
of my creaking home, a house
built with my own hands.

Let me die
some old hag in my bed,
clad in black.
Don’t bury me at all,
I’ve welcomed death.

Cut me open
and assign my able parts
as gifts.
Pass my beating chakras
to a young girl willing to change the world
as it sees itself.

Lay me out in the fields,
to be fed to the night;
Feature my carcass
in the body farm,
detailed in her Forensic dissertation.
Research
my rapid deterioration and
report it
to the young gods of science.


And once all this is done,
And no further use
can come from my corpse,
Set me to the flames.

Fling my ashes across the world, saving
Only the last dime of me
for the land in which I lived.

Sift me then over the four corners
of my backyard and in the house
my front lawn and in the garden
so that I may haunt
this bit of earth for all time.

Watching over mine.
The Old Hag
who once lived here.

Welcome SpellFreedom, This piece works extremly well. Yeah, we can discuss line breaks and all that, but I enjoyed the story and vioce displayed. This must be a real fun one to perform.

A terrific spoken piece; like grey said, there are linebreak and spelling issues, but minor. I think certain sections of the piece can be deleted and it's potency increased even more. I'd delete the following bolded sections.

Let me die an old hag in my bed.

Leave me naked as the day I was born, ass cheeks flaccid against the sheets, breast
sagging to my ashen ankles, breast
with dimples dug into bowls
where I now collect dust
instead of baby’s tears.

Let me die, fingers aching
and cracked
and creased.
Shriveling testaments
arbitrarily
holding onto what’s left.
Back arched in defense
like some black cat
and feet callused; ankles swollen
from the sugar,
corns cooking on my toes.

I’ll dance one final Beltane,
sunlight scorching the hallows
of my leathered cheeks, catching
the twinkle in my crusted gums.
A prophesy
fulfilled at last, a woman
turned Crone, for all the world to see,
in my bare skin get up; coughing up chronicles of kaleidoscope climaxes
in my time.
I'll look directly into the sun
And tell my children the secrets I saw in there.

Let me die on my own terms,
both breast still rocking
like bells and the balls
of my feet
still taking me to Hell.

Let my brow be drenched in sweat, beaded mirrors migrating down my nose, beat
from running by the river.

Sweat from a frenzied afternoon
of lovemaking, two old bags
rubbing their useless bones together
to get off in the bathroom.

Still tasty enough to eat,
I’ll tell my husband
“ Remember your manners!”
And to take,
to the table,
for his meal.

Taking to the front porch, naked,
I’ll start watching the wind lust after the grass.
Calling her name,
with the promise of flight,
and rumbling down in between her blades; Before leaving her
for the Big Assed trees.

Let me die in his arms.

Let me die, on my own terms,
with just enough sense
to make sense
when I want to,
and enough to laugh
when I’d rather not.

Let me die,
Cackling crows leaving prints,
Cut into the crooks of my eyes.
Rivers and mountains and forest
and boulders and villages and wise tales mapped waywardly
on my clay canvass.
Homemade butter will still be churned,
so as not to forget
how to conjure the memories in my hands.

I want to be exhausted,
catching my breath,
savoring it
for just a moment,
this last time
before letting it slip away
in the faint chuckles of one last good laugh; Fantastic noise
echoing into the rafters
of my creaking home, a house
built with my own hands.

Let me die
some old hag in my bed,
clad in black.
Don’t bury me at all,
I’ve welcomed death.

Cut me open
and assign my able parts
as gifts.
Pass my beating chakras
to a young girl willing to change the world
as it sees itself.

Lay me out in the fields,
to be fed to the night;
Feature my carcass
in the body farm,
detailed in her Forensic dissertation.
Research
my rapid deterioration and
report it
to the young gods of science.

And once all this is done,
And no further use
can come from my corpse,
Set me to the flames.

Fling my ashes across the world, saving
Only the last dime of me
for the land in which I lived.

Sift me then over the four corners
of my backyard and in the house
my front lawn and in the garden
so that I may haunt
this bit of earth for all time.

Watching over mine.
The Old Hag
who once lived here.

Well done!

L.

Thanks for the feedback and I will consider the edits!

i love the "laugh when i'd rather not" lines
and especially:
"I'll look directly into the sun
And tell my children the secrets I saw in there."
maybe more references to previously forbidden/dangerous acts?

this is very beautiful, miss

gosh are you a natural born poet or what. great piece. your words stimulate the senses.