Ella at Fourteen (or Why Being a Teenager Sucks and Royalty Has Its Own Issues)

 

He always thought the kid wasn’t his. Just before his wife died, she confirmed

his worst fears. He was stuck with a fourteen-year-old and he had made plans.

 

They didn’t include Ella, although she wasn’t much trouble, didn’t talk back

when he came home drunk, raised his fist, and yelled at her for being born.

 

He had an older sister to whom he owed money. The sister had posted bond

after he’d been arrested for shooting an intruder, and he’d skipped out.

 

It’s in the presentation, he thought. Perhaps his sister would take the kid

if he explained, yes another mouth to feed, but Ella doesn’t eat much

 

and she’s used to doing all the cooking and cleaning without complaint.

And so it went, and we know the rest, except that the Prince did not marry Ella.

 

His parents insisted he wed someone with a pedigree; otherwise banishment.

The Prince needed his luxuries. Oh my, how he loved the gala evenings

 

and the fox hunts and those flirty wenches who would lift their skirts high

in dark corners of the palace. Somehow he knew all that glass slipper crap

 

had been a fantasy to pleasure him on the long, lonely nights when his bride,

a hefty German duchess, with a boil on her nose, snored at his side.

– poetry by Nancy Scott www.nancyscott.net

The Tinker’s Girl Or Why You Should Never Open Your Door to Strangers

 

The tinkers she traveled with dropped her

at the main gate. She hurried up

the road, shivering, her thin clothes no match

for March winds. She’d chucked

her plainspun dress and shawl

for pigskin boots and embroidered silk dress.

Rubbing a smidgen of dirt on her cheek,

she banged on the lion’s head knocker.

I’ve escaped from highwaymen, she cried

to the servant who opened the door.

That night over dinner, she told her sad tale

to the lord of the manor who fancied her.

Rather than hard ground next to a fire,

she tossed about on a featherbed, stifling

sneezes from her allergy to geese.

In the dead of night, she tiptoed through

rooms, stuffing jewelry, coins, anything

valuable into her satchel, then fled

through the woods to the tinkers’ camp

where they raised their cups, well done.

– poetry by Nancy Scott www.nancyscott.net

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The Dreamer or

Why You Should Not Trade in Your Day Job

 

Her husband had been gone four days.

On the third night. she began to be afraid.

The thatched roof had sprung leaks.

The children ran with buckets to catch the torrent

of rain, which threatened the miserable cottage.

He’d promised to bring food, but now she fed

the children dandelion greens and bramble berries.

Under cover of rain, she sent the oldest boy across

the meadow to steal eggs from the neighbor’s coop.

The meat, cured and hung in the larder, long gone,

her husband had set out after a fresh supply.

How many times had she begged him to find

regular work, like whipping mules at the grainery

or sorting nails for the village ironmonger?

No, he was a dreamer. He’d take a jug of malt,

a wrapper of bread and cheese, and curl up

under the bridge, sometimes for days,

waiting, hoping for that one stray goat.

– poetry by Nancy Scott www.nancyscott.net