Now my tendrilled soul,
Has found its pergola-- Christ--
To wind its way up....
It was “Death” you drew.
You rolled that slip of paper
between your fingers
thin as onionskin,
and dropped it in your pocket.
did you wish to spare
us? You fluttered fingers
over the basket, and drew out
a subject we must address
before we meet again.
How many great poems
have been penned on Death?
How many on a
Glenn Turner and Randall "Randy" Thompson were the best police officer and volunteer firefighter in all of Cobb County, Georgia, until March 1995 (WWF Monday Night Raw and WWF Wrestle-Mania XI) and January 2001 (Raw Is War, WWF SmackDown!, and the WWF Royal Rumble) when their lives were taken away from their loving families by Julia Lynn Womack: aka the "Black Poisoning Widow." It seems that it was these two guys in uniform who married the same woman, especially when she was after their money, totaling hundreds and thousands of dollars, even in life insurance. Glenn and Randy have been killed by a deadly liquid by the form of Etheline Glycol rich antifreeze; Lynn Turner used it to spike that of lime-flavored gelatin (green Jell-O), sweet iced tea, and chicken noodle soup. Now, how cold-blooded was that? But to be honest, Maurice G. Turner and Randy Thompson, God rest their souls, really never should've met this gold digging assassin named Julia Lynn Womack (who's now dead) to begin with. Their families, their colleagues, and the citizens of Cobb County, Georgia, they still don't understand why the lives of these two men have to end in a tragic manner. They've got a bunch of whole lives ahead of them. But now that Lynn Turner, who killed both her police officer husband and her firefighter boyfriend, is dead, she can't hurt anyone else ever again. Randall and Glenn are no longer with their friends and families (including their moms), but their spirits will live on forever and they'll see their loved ones in heaven one day. And as for Julia Lynn Womack-Turner, she got what was coming to her and may she burn in the giant pit of inferno for all eternity.
Up into the sky
like an Angel
at Soupland, watching him as he soared
like an Angel;
a strong love he had, sharing it till the end, yet
could not resist the resounding call
and he left,
Leaving us his poetry, for
when great storms come in, his laughter
will dry our tears like rain.
for Tom Bell, a great poet who taught us all--
to laugh and to smile…to learn… and to give.
In God's own ink
with bloody hands,
he writes his life away.
yet he's free
to have his final say.
Dark and dank,
his tiny cell
becomes a living tome,
to tell a tale of villainy,
and of home.
His maiden fair
returned his love
with evil and deceit.
She led him here into a trap
his enemy to meet.
she saved him
from an end
a death both quick and sure.
She left him in this dungeon dark
forever to endure
of her false heart
and one who stole it all.
He tells it all right from the start
it flows upon the wall,
and when his bright red ink runs dry
the angels come to read.
He falls upon the stones to die
with no words left to bleed.
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
I know I may be kidding myself,
many see it as absurd.
But just because they think that way...
does it kill the written word?
Should I not write in rhyme,
Because it's no longer formal?
When did expression through the art of words,
become so strict and normal?
If the melody has died,
and the ancient bards subside...
then I shall mourn the loss of beauty,
that has receded into the tide.
I was born in Amhurst Massachuetts
on Decenber 10 1830
and had died May 15 1886
My hair is bold like the chestnut burr
and my eyes like the sherry in the glass
that the guest leaves behind
I cannot write about the world without
first backing away from it and then
comtemplating it from a distance
A word is dead when it is said
Some say I say it just begins
To live that day
Who Am I ?
My Poetess Sweet
Your hands would just reach up
And control my life
Your eyes would open wide
And rip open through my spine
You would stir awake in your casket
If only you could
Your vengeance would never cease
And you would rule the world
From beyond the grave.
Your will would just drive everyone away
And I would be alone
Your words would be heard by all
And none would hear mine
You would wake from the dead
If only you could
Your vengeance would never cease
And you would rule the world
From beyond the grave
Your desires would stir the restless
And they would do your bidding
Your arms would open up wide
And prepare to embrace the sky
For you would rise to this occasion
If only you would
Your vengeance would never cease
And you would rule the world
From beyond the grave.
Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
Here lies a man who had no name.
There was a funeral; Nobody came.
No one cried, and None was blamed
Only three men attended; what a shame.
It was February 2002 (WWF Raw, WWF SmackDown!, and WWF No Way Out), that Jessica McCord and her then-husband, Jeff, killed Alan Bates and his new wife, Terra. Before their deaths, Alan "A.B." was in a custody battle against his ex-wife to have determined who'll have gotten full custody of their two daughters (born in 1990 and '92). The custody hearing might have taken place in November 2001 (WWF Raw, WWF SmackDown!, WWF Rebellion, and WWF Survivor Series), but not until December 2001 (WWF Raw, WWF SmackDown!, and WWF Vengeance), when the lady had spent that time in jail for skipping custody hearings more than twice. It seems that Jessica had disapproved of both of her daughters having the late Terra for their step-mother. the only two things that describes Jessica McCord are selfish and a coward. She selfishly pulled both of her daughters out of their respective schools, she hid them away so that her late ex-husband couldn't gain full access to them, and/or whatever. So, the fact that Jessica McCord had used her own daughters as a pair of pawns as if she's been playing a game of chess had made the late Mr. Bates, the attorneys, and Birmingham Police officers of Birmingham, Alabama, very sick. The lady, Jessica, was afraid that the judge would grant Alan and his new wife, Terra, full custody of the girls, so she and Jeff killed them; thereby dumping both of their bodies in a burned-down car outside Atlanta, Georgia (aka Hotlanta, aka Dirty South, and aka ATL). Jessica McCord may have tried to label her late ex-husband as a bad guy, but no one bought it, not even her in-laws, the prosecutors, and the judge. She knew that she and her husband were going to get caught; they knew it. And where is Jessica McCord as of February 2003 (WWE Raw, WWE SmackDown!, and WWE No Way Out/World Wrestling Entertainment's first 'No Way Out' pay-per-view event, ever)? She's in prison, along with her then-loser husband, Jeff McCord, serving a life sentence in prison with no possibility of parole. Ms. McCord should've gotten the death penalty, but that's the way the law works. And as far as the Bates family, the entire community of Birmingham, and the two daughters are concerned, prison is exactly where they belong. Well, it looks like the ghosts of Alan and Terra Bates will be haunting the two-then McCords for life. Let's hope that the Bates sisters don't suffer the same fate their father and step-mother did. And if I see the Bates sisters in person, there's just no telling.
A Dark Fairytale
As I was chained, I breathe in.
As I was burned, I breathe out.
As I was cut, I looked down.
As I was broken, I looked up.
As I was destroyed, I closed away.
I had killed myself damaging beyond any repair.
To keep myself closed I chain, cut, burned, and destroyed what was within me, isolation my fear around me. But suddenly as I had nearly been kindled to a shivering light, something braver and stronger then I appeared and took me and held me and once again I was fixed and this is what happened;
Suddenly I breathed in as I was unchained.
Suddenly I breathed out as my burns disappeared.
Suddenly I looked up as my broken body mended.
Suddenly I looked down as my cuts faded.
Suddenly I was opened up and my destruction was nothing more then a dream
As my knight, you entered that shadow and held me now I grow with a unprofaned radiance.
I was held once more, and my soul emerged.
I was spoken to once more, and my mind went blank.
I was kissed and my body reacted without a second hesitation.
And before I could run away once more, I was trapped.
Unlike my prison I lived in a fairytale, in were I don’t want to live this place anytime soon. What happened then and what happening now are so fair apart it hilarious.
I’ve forgiven the past, not forgotten it. Prove never to make the same mistakes or else be locked back inside that tower I call my mind.
Let me in brave knight, into your mysterious ways.
Let me in brave knight let me have secret passages into that world of yours.
Let me in brave knight so I can truly capture you.
I was as cold as ice even more then winters hail, but you with a ridged past that icier then I could have imagined is as warm as the summer sun and sweet like spring air.
For saving me, for taking my heart, for releasing me, I’ll become everything you want and then more, I’ll stand by your side and hold you like you held me and I shall be everything you need.
My sweet Knight.
Here lies the golfer,
Richard P. Shore.
He expired at 5
'Cause he didn't yell "fore."
Im look happy on the outs but Im sad deep inside.
I know none of ya'll mother ****ers gonna see my silent hidden cries.
Death's right around the corner so if I die I die with honor not pride.
In this life of mine everyday is a do or ****ing die.
Here in the land of OZ you face the truth even if it's a ****ing lie.
Here you either do or you don't, ain't no such thing as giving it a try.
Here fantasy ain't *****once the truth hits you finally realize.
I was once a young lost soul trying to fit in and be just another one of the "guys".
Smoking weed getting drunk feeling so dam low while getting so dam high.
Flying so dam low at the same time walking so dam high Im fly.
I know not one person here can understand or know my hidden cries.
The only one who can truly understand me is the one who I pray to in the sky.
I know I look happy but I feel like *****from side to side,
I need to better understand my own silent cries......
As I draw my eyes I think about what I have seen, what I have witnessed, what I have turned my eyes away from with but a blind stare, and all those special moments I missed that done passed and gone, but above all I think about what I have yet to see when I die.
As I draw my face and hair I think about I think about how the "Great One Above" has made me what color skin that I am and how he has shaped my attitude into what my life has become and what society and environment I was placed and grew up in around which culture or cultures I have become or unknowingly integrated.
As I draw my ears I think about what I have heard, what I am still hearing and what I choose not to hear among the many noises surrounded within ones hearing, but above all I think about what death has sounded like not in just one but many different loud but yet still very silent noises around one.
As I draw my body I think about what my body has endured, what it has failed to do so many times but also what it has finally conquered and still yet to conquer in a world of complete competition with sports so violent and unforgiving for winning does not forgive losers in a world striving to be winners.
As I draw my hands I think about how they have created so much but also trying not to think about how much they too have destroyed. I think about how I can easily create bad more than the good like an addiction that cannot be stopped among an addicted world full of fiends waiting to get their fix….but above all as I draw these words of life I think about how the heck I am still here today writing about it…..how I am still here enduring it and how I am still here even to share it…Thank You “Great One Above”…..
I can see the truth clearly now, and the truth is we live in a world where almost everything is shaded to a lie. (We act as if we are someone else and just can’t be what we want to be.)
Truth remains strong that our very own fables cover our very own two eyes. (We only choose to see what we want to see.)
Only fibs and tall tales are left on the local store corner….for they the only things left on the shelf that we can buy. (Many Profound Truths remain imprisoned while too many lies are out there living free.)
I look at the ground because I can’t look at the sky; I laugh more with death rather than crying with life. (Shakespeare once said “To be or not to be” but I say F%$k trying “To be” because I’d rather “Just BE”.)
Living amongst a world of shaded illusions upon the mind eye, upon which we have many wrongs more than our rights, yeah I know we all want peace but yet we still choose to fight. (We long for death but fear it; we want to go away but don’t know what will happen when we leave our loved ones with certain grief stolen away in the night by death like a thief.)
So why is it so many of us continue to stare at our everyday truths as if we are blind, as if we cannot see our own struggle through our very own lies……..
Life as a lonely lost poet bred from dark cracks
Lost soul living plain and simple among the people black and white
Drug along with alcoholic among us distracts
Lost values and principles around one many continue to lack
Everyday simple facts, its like breathing through plastic sacks
Slowly suffercating until the brain goes wack
Once death comes my way I must keep it part of my past
Aint no way God going to bring my little brother back
I guess its a curse upon all those of us living like outlaw of an outcast
How the **** will I ever truly outlast until I heal and break out my cast
God cant you see Im tired of wearing this permanent mask
I know my poetry has hidden answers if I look and read closer so I shouldnt have to ask
Staying lost is a choice in the open road with no gas
So as a lost poet through hardships now and in the future I will outgrow it
The devil trying to get my soul and behold it
but I know only this one man controls it
Its too priceless for even my own greed to have sold it
So as a lost poet I will climber higher than high if not then right below it
Found in a world of lies with few truths as but another lost poet
We sometimes drink and smoke so much We get beat until we are battered
Our dreams were like one giant wall of glass where upon they were destined to be shattered
Broken in a heap of glass we now stay occupied where lost souls continue to gather
Dark yet so desolate living amongst those were nothing in life but a quick death seems to matter
It seems as if the harder we try the more below we get needing somekind of ladder
All I hear are silent screams among gossiping chit chatter
Our truth is getting skinnier while our lies are well fed by the way the are getting fatter
Crying souls overcome those that are filled with laughter
The clock for many of us gets slow but our life train to death only gets faster
Many of us which remain lost in addiction looking for a positive leader, a mentor, some kind of master
But when shyt hits the fan we must remain strong even if we just lost someone close and are feeling sadder
If life is to throw us those curveballs in a the ring then its time stop mr nice guy and get badder
You must endure the shyt that you got to endure even if it gets your hands and feet a little tathered
Life can and will get you drunk so handle your drink or let it bring you down until you can no longer stagger
You must tell yourself **** them and everybody else because you still got skill even if you aint got swagger
Just tell yourself "**** they judgements" because you know in your own eyes you still look sharper than a dagger
SO QUIT ACTING LIKE YOU AINT NEVER BEEN MENTALLY BEAT UNTIL YOUR PERSONALITY WAS BATTERED.....BECUASE IT WHAT YOU MAKE IT IN THE END THAT TRULY MATTERS!!!!!
My poetry is normally thought provoking that its insane
Word rhyming that can rip up the direct thought line in the brain
Words so hard they concrete steel bars locking on the mind with chains
Words bleeding that they mentally leave thought with stains
Writing my life away before I die in a world with no change
I take *****in poetry so serious its my only range of life written about our past experienced death pains
We all going to die someday in someway so we best look for someway in this some kind of day before you lay your head down as you pray past this darkness looking at the sky gray so please Lord help me do something the people can face with the uttermost respect regardless of gender sex or race
because someday we all going to go A Little Crazy in this crazy place.......
Now who would of thought the thoughts that would truly get the mind lost in fragile thought?
So much on our known life,
about unknown death when we laugh at others but at ourselves we really cry,
in our very own hidden truth lies,
amongst our own poeple who we defy,
until we fight,
for wrongs for personal rights,
**** the darkness is what make us appreciate the light,
I dont talk the talk nor do I walk the walk because I walk my talk while I swagger and swerve im my talks through these walks,
Life can get so messy with death that its time for those of us here to grab the broom so God can mop,
I live life to the fullest with what little I have because I dont have a lot,
I live life shitty sometimes like almost everyone else like it or not,
Im not special Im so unique Im individual with word talent I know I got,
I know what I dont have so its important more knowledge among me is sought,
I can be wrong half the time but can still make it 100% right I was self-taught among a young soul that seems to be bought,
I got a bad limp but dont get me wrong I can still gallup through darkness while I jog lost in the early morning fog waiting to be patiently found in the midnight lounge where I trot,
Truly lost so easily in profound hard thoughts litterally running from the cops waiting to duck and dodge from open gunshots,
Bodies and shells drop where caskets are made among a dying crop,
I can still make a splatter where there was just but a tiny dot,
I used to have merely nothing now atleast I can truly say I have a safe spot,
I was found looking for truth in lies lost in thought....
Francine MacKenzie Roberts
July 14,1955-July 15,2055
Here does Francine MacKenzie lie
Finally her pen, it has run dry
Perhaps in Heaven she will find
The poems, that on earth, eluded her mind
for Andrea's Poetic Epitaph contest
My constant mirror from heaven,
On earth and in the sea,
Only you can be;
But can you see yourself in my poetry?
I live a life in a place where alcohol violence reigns supreme/
over a dying culture split in se7en groups of se7enty times se7en of rival teams/
I hear my brothers hollers I hear my sisters screams/
I see people live among broken glass like that of many broken dreams/
I sometimes wish I could not see what my two eyes sometimes see/
I cant act blind as if it were just a brush off my sleeve/
The more I lose in life the more it seems the less I need/
I try and overcome my own selfish greed/
I got a child on the way I now look at what kind of role model I'd be/
I was was incarcerated so I must not take for granted for the simple fact that Im free/
But it hard with tattoos on my face in place where tattoos like mine seem a disgrace/
Lord watch over me as I take last place in this life game race/
It not a matter of being first second or third Lord cuz all I need iz your grace/
help me to better walk off this destructive road and slow my pace/
Just take me now if Im done with your purpose if thats the case/
Because I dont want to live like I got to look over my shoulder right around the corner....
DEATH OF A BELIEVER
The death of soul steals slowly through the years
the fog of mind that's never known to be;
brought on by laughter, love, and hate and tears
the fate of all that few can ever see.
It brings the withering of life, and all its leaves,
once green and shining in the morning sun,
now setting on it all, in evening grieves
for lack of interest in what life has done.
Compassion leaves the mind, once fired and prime
and old and tired now beats the heart we knew
life now mundaned by passing of all time,
there's nothing left the heart would like to do.
Old man, you're numbered to your final breath
and no one cares for all your sweat and tears,
your rest is not until it's done in death,
but keep the faith in what you've done for years.
© ron wilson
Sordid, shoddy succubus
Mottled, beguiled muse
Hungry for hope
An eruption of erudition
To be showered with praise
Where dreams tease unkempt hair
And eulogize tear stained verse
Sacrificed on stripped oak altars
Trembling hostages of insatiable sermons
Mourned by cramped, fertile fingers
I pray to my paranoia of invasion
Shadows of salvation
Which pass without query
Chortling echoes of obtuse obituaries
As I lie shackled to tomes of obscurity
He sits and watches patiently
Craving some emotion
To drive his mind to find some words and
Put his thoughts in motion
So sick and tired of pretty verse
Of butterflies and flowers
Those lovely poets he must destroy
Tear down their ivory towers
His gruesome game continues
For he is not alone
He shifts a little closer
To hear his victim moan
His inspiration gathers
As their life begins to ebb
Now he's looking for another
To tangle in his web
The Dark Poet
Nobody needs an elegy,
we want release;
grief that comes
through words and
the grit of teeth
to teach ourselves
to love the dead,
only holy deeds.
Rest in Peace.
To Dine, To Die;
While thunderous eyes
Grasp concepts to recycle.
Constant debt crisis
A political paradox
Grating social devices
Over the sorting of socks.
An endless groan
The debate grants no throne.
Over a roast
Potatoes won't listen
To who talks the most.
"That point is so interesting"
The floor is open for chat
"What is real?" not a thing
"Meow" adds the cat.
They ride the good dragon-cloud towards warm light
While wistful wind was a wrongdoer on the hollow hill
Wrapped woven from the wounds and wrath`s night,
The wood will wear white woolly witness of the windmill.
Hoarfrost hitch-hikes and hoists with hoarse hood,
Drumming beat of hobble of the army`s fatal feet,
Far away from the glow-worms of their childhood;
Friends fumble the glassware where they might meet.
Falteringly frogs of fancy jump towards the lake’s glass;
Orphan souls sit on the steps of hope in winter`s time
They scrutinize the frozen sky of hope to find the rhyme
Of the verse from the other side they want to happily pass.