Hazy Strange Judy May
Hazy, Strange, Judy May
by Maynard Hartman
left alone, sometimes all day.
Followed the droning insect sounds
down onto the harvest mound.
There a well of eldritch lore
beckoned her to approach some more.
She slowly peered into its depths,
then climbed upon its rocky steps.
There she heard the darkest sound,
the calling richness of the mound.
As a lover it pulled her down—
a trace of her was never found.
Yet, on a steamy summers day,
talk was you could hear Strange Judy May.
Singing her songs to the lover below.
She found a place. A place to go.
There she can sing her songs.
A place where only she belonged.
Nothing lost on that lazy day,
but borne a tale of Strange Judy May
…perhaps she’ll stay.