Chicken feed
9-27-09


There’s a path into the woods
a little deeper still,
where the children fear to go
past the old gristmill.

The miller’s wife ugly as sin,
nagged him night and day;
when thoughts rose get rid of her;
he had the perfect way.

He’ll grind up this nagging crow
there beneath the stone,
turn her into chicken feed
hair, flesh and bone.

It’s said on calm moon lit nights
in the midnight gleam,
you can hear the grinding stone
churn, churn, screech, and scream.
~~~~~
Now I’m not one to say it’s so
maybe it’s not true
but I’ll not wander past the mill
even on a daring-do

J.C. Hill

Dear Jack,

What a turnaround to your usual fare, although besides expressions of love, childhood memories, some really funny poems, you've thrown a few in as surprises. This is one of them. I like the way you developed this. You set the mood and established the motive in the first stanza, and followed through with the remaining...climaxing with your own refusal to go by the mill at night.

Have you been inspired by the Hallowe'en goblins a little early this year? You may have jarred me into thinking about a few ghoulish ideas. Thanks as always for sharing.

Thanks Beck, not much going on around hear and myself as well. This came on me last week. Worked on it Saturday about two hours. I’m hoping this will get the juices moving.

Jack

I hope so too Jack. I'm still working full time -- on call 24/7, and it seems to take a lot more to get the juices moving. Looks to me like you've done real well. Speaking colloquially, I'd have to say, "You done good, hon!"

This is a harrowing tale. Well done.

Many thanks Delta, just be careful where travel at night, and stay away from old mills.
Have a good one…Jack