Baba Yaga
Glass cobalt evil eyes from Turkey
hang in windows in every room.
A hammered tin Hamsa
hangs outside each entrance.
These baubles I placed for protection
from all harm,
the seen and unseen.
After centuries of abuse,
words and other wounds
I forgave Baba Yaga,
whom I believed
would no longer eat children.
Her advanced age, gnarled weak bones
grew frail in unforgiving winters,
she grew lonely with failing powers.
I moved her out of her high-rise hut
into our warm home
far away from black ice.
I tended my garden
as she grew accustomed
to nourishing meals and healing sun.
I began to wonder
if there was maybe a little love
or was I merely a place to eat and rest…
Her voice regained
familiar strength and timbre
I heard her chanting spells behind her door.
Her responses to my questions
growled back
Her elderly hands grew talons
ready to pierce and slice
even the most innocent requests.
In between battles about last century’s war
I prayed daily to my god of poetry.
I found myself denying recent scratches
rinsing drops of blood down the drain.
I shielded torn flesh from my loved ones
I was cursed with guilt
for welcoming her in.
When the plague locked us all inside for months,
it was easy to cover my scars and wounds.
“Come here”Baba Yaga hissed one day,
after she again drew blood with her tongue,
her claws reaching for me,
“Mother knows you need redoing.”
Originally published in Furious Gazelle Magazine. I retain all rights.
Midnight Hour
Witching hour.
The moon casts
an opium haze
along the paths
of stones along the river.
I’ve been told
never to enter
those trails after dark
for they lead
to intoxicating potions
exploration of arcane language
and fornication under
hidden constellations.
I part the veil of tree limbs
looking up, I see 2 large crows,
possibly vampires, perched
atop coastal Redwoods.
Well-hung on their branches,
they turn their gaze to me
squawk and squint.
Animated twig arms
undo my dressing gown
an elixir pressed into my palm
my robe falls revealing naked skin
as smoky essence surrounds me.
I’m dancing, whirling in semi-circles
beneath the night,
under the spell of what spirit?
The crows appear before me,
lying in a mound of leaves,
their feathers are now velvet cloaks
softly brushing over my body.
A kiss then, rough against my neck,
another, sharp at my nape.
The folds of black velvet envelop me
as darkness descends.
Come morning, I awaken
gather my gown around me.
I am alone in the clearing by the river.
Black feathers between my fingers,
in my creases of nakedness
a curious thing, I don’t remember
I don’t remember the night.
Blood on my collarbone
dripping like candle wax,
I run, reach the trailhead
Without looking back, I hear them,
Crows raucous call from beyond ,
“Mine, Mine, Mine”
Monster
You must realize
a monster
is created
not born
Stitched together from
a mixture of parts
others put at the curbside or the yard sale
That greenish color comes from
grass clippings
pruned rose bushes
fire-perimeter
whack-jobs
in a rush to avoid fines
Tangled hair and blotched faces
excuses for their broken mirror
Diet of spoiled market goods
hastily eaten before taken away
Memories fade of sit-down dining
losing a seat at the table
Fleeing the village graveyard
where all the parts were once buried
ripped like weedy roots
up through fetid soil
put together
by the madwoman
who only recently
escaped her own attic
Originally published in Sublimation
Chew Thoroughly
I want conversation
We chew our food thoroughly
swallow all opportunities
with chipped cups of coffee.
Time passes
dishes cleared
Pour ourselves into recliners
Netflix anyone?
More silence
Flip through the options
Drama, too much already
Comedy, could hurt to laugh
Horror, what could be more scary
than the unmasked
Psychological thriller, no one knows
just who the psychopath really is
until the very end
Good extended family fare
As for romance
We unite in our darkened room
Far from the tv blaring
From her room, despite hearing aids
And closed captions
She prefers serial killer crime shows
How many is she up to now
and where are the bodies hidden?
Diane Funston lives in Marysville, California in the Sacramento Valley. She was appointed the 2020-2022 Poet-in-Residence for Yuba Sutter Arts and Culture. Diane created and facilitated Poetry Square, a monthly live online poetry reading featuring three poets plus herself reading their own work. She featured poets with diverse voices as well as diverse geographical locations via the online platform.
When not weaving words, Diane is an urban farmer, with fruit trees, vegetable beds, succulents, and flower gardens. She also makes mosaic art and garden sculptures and enjoys collage art and needle-felting with wool. Diane lives with her husband Roger, three dogs and a large freshwater aquarium.
Diane created a poetry group in Tehachapi, California in 2001, where she lived for almost twenty years in a rural cabin, she is still involved with the group today. She is also very active in Sacramento poetry and poetry in her hometown area of Rochester, New York. Diane holds a degree in Literature and Writing from CSU San Marcos, California. She has been published in a variety of anthologies including F(r)iction, Still Points Quarterly, Lake Affect, Penumbra, California Quarterly and Metaworker Magazine. Her chapbook. “Over the Fall” was published by Foothills Publishing.
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