The Struggle in Being a Muggle

Holding a ball-peen hammer.

Trying to ring the bell.

Knowing you must strike now.

Knowing that here is Hell.

There is only work.

There is never pay.

The odds are all against.

Signs lie ,

don’t point the way.

The witches send the fog.

Their plots win out the war.


there is no prize.

There is nothing more.

If only this crooked stick

were a magical wand.

I could remove the thick

feeling of being beyond.

But the stick is rotten

and I am forgotten.

When it snaps,

can’t feel pain.

Numb to it all,

not feeling the fall.

Just the pound 

of the confounded rain.

Why can’t the tell of a spell

somehow eradicate

the smell of death-knell

in this shell.

We’d no more need to hate.

I would pronounce


and there would ensue confusion. 

Then you too would renounce

what’s doomed us,

breaking this true illusion. 


Photo by Mar Startari, 2019

Maria Startari-Stegall