The Owl Prince or
Why Beauty can be Deadly
Beauty was brought before the King in black, sack black,
hair pulled back with a twisted vine. She didn’t speak
or smile, fooled no one. Bone structure is bone structure.
In deference, she lowered her eyes, so the King addressed
the top of her head, a head that turned heads throughout
the realm. Her dazzling smile she tucked up her sleeve.
Hear ye, Beauty has stabbed the Owl Prince twelve times.
Convinced his son’s death was imminent, the King
waited until the last minute to order Beauty beheaded,
the ultimate price for slaying a Royal, whereupon
a breathless courier announced that the Owl Prince
was seen galloping off on his stallion, sharing the saddle
with a redheaded wench, same wench the Owl Prince
diddled in the Royal Gardens while the Gardener snipped
long-stemmed roses for Beauty. As for the stabbings,
Beauty pleaded not guilty: Your Majesty, he brought me
roses every day, every day we made love on a bed of petals.
What was I supposed to do? He stole inside me like a thief.
Then Beauty smiled a smile that so bewitched the King
he ordered her released and took her for his Queen.
Hearing the news the Owl Prince returned, but Beauty
barred her door to him. Undeterred the scoundrel forced
himself within, whereupon the next day, his body
was found floating face down in the Maun River shallows.
The Lanky Fisherman or
Why the Winter Wind Howls over Mersey Lake
Little Red Riding Hood was a ten-year-old boy
who liked to wear girl’s clothes. The lanky fisherman
spotted Little Red Riding Hood on the footpath
to Grandmother’s bungalow near Mersey Lake.
The old woman was not ill; she was hearty, tended
her garden and cared for retired rescue dogs.
She didn’t particularly like her grandson.
He would whine like a girl when she needed
an extra hand to help with the chores.
When Little Red Riding Hood strayed to the water’s
edge to skip stones, the fisherman whipped out
his fly fishing rod. Although the old woman
had dismissed the stories as gossip, that
was about to change. Hearing her grandson’s shouts,
she grabbed the fillet knife she used to scale
the plucky smallmouth bass which had made
Mersey Lake an attractive vacation spot,
took after the fisherman, and separated him
from his handcrafted pole.
To this day, you can hear the son-of-a-bitch howling
like the winter wind across Mersey Lake.