The 1% Fairy Godmother Strata, By Janet Bowdan

If you ask me, they get more credit than they deserve

swooping down at the last minute with a wand and a fancy

dress

like that’s going to solve all the world’s problems.  Where

have they been while the rest of us are struggling to get the

day’s

work done?  Sure, they came to the naming party, brought a

gift,

something useful like “the voice of a lark” or “tresses as gold

as wheat,” flutter of wings, wave of magic wand, bye-bye, see

you

in 20 years or so once you’ve grown up and gotten interesting.

By which they mean ripe for romance with a side order of

toppling

the status quo just to set it right up again claiming to be better
at it

than the previous lot.  Different, maybe.  Less experienced, sure.

And okay, let’s say our fairy godmother pops in, rights a wrong,

restores the lost heiress to her family and high position,
throwing in

a makeover while she’s at it: where was everybody else all
those years

watching as the wicked stepmother abuses her, the oblivious
dad

neglects her, the family she doesn’t fit into bullies her? 
Assuming

a small flock of bluebirds and a couple of mice were going to
step up?

Thinking that was going to be sufficient?  Why was nobody
noticing,

or if noticing, why was nobody trying to help? How is that
godchild

going to turn out by the time the fairy g shows up—good,
sweet,

patient?  What view of the world would you have, left to fend

for yourself?

Bio: Janet Bowdan's poems have been published in APR, Denver Quarterly, Clade Song, Verse, Gargoyle, Free State Review, Wordpeace, and other journals, most recently Meat for Tea and Amethyst Arsenic. She teaches at Western New England University and edits the poetry magazine Common Ground Review.  She lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with her husband, son, and sometimes a stepdaughter or two.

Image by Emma Florence Harrison.

The Lady and the Ghost, By Jennifer A. McGowan

"The Ghost's Petition," By Emma Florence Harrsion

Editor's note: Jennifer's work has been featured often in EC--she knows how to evoke a mood. A touch of the macabre and a nod to classic story-poems from the British Isles made this a winner.

 

Bess, she had a likely lad,

and that lad he had Bess.

Why he went out on Hallows eve

is anybody’s guess.

He lost his way and climbed a hill

to see what could be seen—

Glided up to him from out the mists

a grim and ghostly queen.

“One kiss, my handsome Will,” she cried,

“One kiss!  I claim my prize.

or those who climb up Tanner’s Hill

are driven mad, or wise.”

Now Will he fancied wisdom

if it would get him back to Bess.

He bowed to the ghostly figure,

bestowed on it a kiss. 

Just one kiss from my clay-cold lips

and you’ll never be alone. 

And he saw gold abounding,

riches more than he could name.

He gathered gems up in his hands

and then he turned back home.

Bess waited with a lantern

brushing her flowing hair.

She thought she heard Will in the lane

but nobody walked there.

She thought she heard Will by the byre

but no-one passed it by.

She thought she heard him at the door;

she thought she heard him sigh.

He climbed in through the window

reached his hand hers to have.

But Will had found his wisdom

in the bed of an early grave. 

Just one kiss from my clay-cold lips

and you’ll never be alone. 

The Lady and the Ghost cont’d. 

Bess felt his hand pass through her own

put on her cloak of green

ran crying through the lonely night

to face the ghastly queen.

“I’ll pay your price, you hag,” she swore

as she clomb Tanner’s Hill.

“You shall have my cursed kiss,

and I shall have my Will.”

The queen laughed soft but she laughed long,

“I fear not to be spurned.”

A kiss then to her Bessie threw

and was kissed in return.

The morning sun dawned bright and gay

and Bess awoke and saw

The ranks of dead men in the dew

a hundred strong, or more. 

Just one kiss from my clay-cold lips

and you’ll never be alone.

Now Bess among the living waits

for Time to claim his own.

The faithful dead walk at her side

and she’s never alone.

 Jennifer A. McGowan lives near Oxford, England, and has published widely on both sides of the Atlantic.  For more poetry, info about her first collection and anthologies, and for samples of her medieval calligraphy, visit http://www.jenniferamcgowan.com