Long poem by
Stanley Carter | Details |
Saul’s twinkling eyes took it all in – the platinum hair framing a first-class face, the silvery sheath dress wrapped around a figure that was out of sight, but in plain view. She was definitely the classiest thing in the joint -- Bannister’s by name, a jazz club just off Camp Street in New Orleans – and she was leaning against the side of a very lucky piano, crooning a sultry tune as Saul watched her from his table at the other end of the room, nursing some straight-up rye and taking puffs off a Lucky Strike – which wasn’t half as smokin’ as Marilyn. The ceiling fans didn’t put much of a dent in the muggy air, but that didn’t stop a cold chill from making its way down Saul’s backbone as Marilyn belted out the last few bars of her suggestive little ditty.
When she was done the patrons roused themselves from their stupor long enough to beat their hands together like they meant it, and Saul did the same, then motioned a cigarette girl over and whispered in her ear, dropping a fiver onto her tray. The girl swayed her way over to Marilyn, who was having a tête-à-tête with her piano player. After a few seconds he split, disappearing through a curtained doorway, and Marilyn perched herself on a stool at the far end of the bar. The cig girl muttered the message, jerking a thumb in Saul’s direction, and Marilyn started to shake her head as she turned toward him, but the moment her baby blues locked on his, the “no” turned into a “yes” and she crooked a beckoning finger. He picked up his drink and made his way through the clouds and the crowd till she filled his field of vision.
“Hello, handsome,” she said as she gestured at the stool next to hers. He parked his keister on it. “I understand you’re a private peeper, come all the way from New York City just to talk to little old me.”
“I’d have come farther,” he said, “just to get a good look at you.”
“Aren’t you the charm boy,” she said, producing a Kool from her silver handbag. He lit it. She puffed. So did he.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m in town on another case, but when I found out you were here I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”
“Good thing I’m not a bird. So what do you want to talk about? Dicky Delgado?”
“I didn’t know you had a mind-reading act too.”
“Mister, if I could read minds I’d be slapping your face right about now.”
He grinned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I know this. Delgado’s in a jam and Barry Bason is defending him and everybody knows you’re Bason’s pet gumshoe. I’m just trying to decide which I like better -- the tall, dark, handsome one or the lighter version. You and Bason are a couple of dolls. Although your pictures in the paper don’t do you justice.”
“Thanks. Neither does yours. And you’re right about Delgado. I’m investigating all his enemies, trying to figure out which one of them framed him.”
She crossed her legs. The oh-so-tight dress parted, nearly up to her waist, revealing the shapeliest shins this side of Betty Grable.
“You think it’s a frame job?” she said.
“And you figure I might’ve had something to do with it?”
“Oh come on. Sure, I resented that heel for giving me the boot, but I landed on my feet. In fact, I’m grateful to Dicky for setting me on a new career path. I’m moving up in the world.”
Saul glanced around the small, seedy nightclub. “This path leads up? Looks more like a dead end.”
“Hey, don’t let the decor fool you, handsome. This is one of the top jazz joints in the country and the boss pays a lot better than that skinflint Cuban. And a girl could get noticed here if she plays her cards right.”
“I mean by record producers, smarty. All the big shots stop in here looking for new talent. We’ve already gotten a couple of nibbles.”
“My husband and I. Bobby was the guy tickling the ivories during my number.”
“Quite a cozy arrangement. Was it that way with Delgado too?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I wonder if you and Delgado sang a few after-hours duets. And when the lyrics got too hot for Dicky to handle he changed his tune to the wedding ring blues. That casts the brush-off in a whole new light, doesn’t it?”
“Is that what he told you?”
“No, but Bason figures it’s an angle worth pursuing.”
“Which proves that brains and beauty don’t often go together, especially in men.” She blew smoke in his face. “Bason is all wet. And you can tell him so.” She got up off the stool. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go change my tune.”
“Hold on, I’ve got a few more questions.”
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. Bobby Trope, blonde piano player and annoyed husband, stood behind him, along with a burly bouncer with anchors tattooed on his biceps.
“This quiz show just got cancelled,” Bobby said. “Time to sign off, shamus.”
“Hi, Mr. Trope,” Saul said. “I hear you barely made it back in time for Marilyn’s show last night. Your flight out of New York got delayed due to engine trouble.”
“Who says I was in New York?”
“The girl at the TWA counter at the airport who sold you your round-trip ticket. Why did you go there? To tend to some unfinished business?”
“Unfinished or finished, my business is none of yours.”
“You got something to hide?”
“Nope. I just don’t like nosey questions from private dicks. But I got a question for you. Are you gonna blow this joint under your own power or do you need a little breeze in your sail?”
Saul glanced at the bouncer, then stood up and turned to Marilyn. “Nice meeting you, Miss Leeds.”
“It’s Mrs. Trope to you,” she said. “Now blow.”
(This is an excerpt from my mystery pastiche novella, "The 'I Love Lilly' Murders"
Copyright © Stanley Carter | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Kelly Deschler | Details |
There are roads that seem inviting in the light of day
Only to cast its eerie shadows when the sun begins to go down
Engraving a revealing legend after the darkness has given way
To the blood curdling horror that once terrorized an innocent town
The legend says that years ago a terrible event took place
When a patient known to be psychopathic escaped the institution
The doctors notified the police who immediately gave chase
Though disappointed they became after finding no resolution
On one Halloween night, screams of murder were heard by Haunted Road
Now, no one ever dares to enter those woods where the tragedies took place
Some have sworn that they still hear the screams within suffering echoes
Still see the trail of blood stained puddles that mark his evil trace
It is here that he and his victim's spirits may forever hide
Where voices of the dead lead you to a darkened cabin in the woods
They cannot escape the horror of the way in which they died
Only the brave hearted would dare to go where this cabin stood
A few trick or treaters decided to dare themselves to enter Haunted Road
They convinced themselves that this would end up being just a thrill
Little did they know that evil was waiting for them when they chose to go
The ghost of the psychopath, eager to commit his next kill
They walked along slowly, barely breathing, and listening to the sound
Of another pair of feet behind them, dragging heavily on the pavement
All the kids stopped with their hearts pounding, only to see nothing around
Just the moonlight, a howling wind, and scattered leaves, twisted and bent
A dense fog soon began to fill the air, giving them more of an eerie feel
Still, they proceeded to walk to where they planned to be
A run down cabin slowly came into focus, reminding them that the legend is real
It was then they decided to turn back around quickly
Standing behind them was the killer's ghost, grinning from ear to ear
His red glowing eyes could not hide his psychotic, bloody thirst
The trick or treaters ran to the cabin, thinking, it's time to face our fear
As they approached the door, one said, "okay, now you go first"
One by one the trick or treaters tried quietly to lead the way with regret
Though their footsteps creaked the floor boards of the old wooden floor
It began to thunder and lightning showing the theme in silhouette
Then all of a sudden they heard the slamming of the cabin door
It was locked, there was no escape, they were trapped for certain
In this abandoned place where the victim's bodies were stored
Then near the corner something stirred like a blowing white curtain
Their eyes grew wide with terror, this occurrence couldn't be ignored
Out from the darkened shadows he came into sight
His eyes glowing red, his breath smelled of death
Suddenly, he grabbed hold of one of the trick or treaters that night
While the others tried to break free, out of breath
The cabin door was broken open, they ran through, and heard a scream
From the captured boy in evil's clutches, with his costume now torn
The others were relieved to finally find a way out of this bad dream
They were too afraid to help their friend, and a new legend was born
The two trick or treaters were shaking in their warm beds
Traumatized about the horror they faced from a dark legend
They couldn't believe that one of their friends was actually dead
Left them both wondering if this is really the end
They yawned, and tried to get up, but their hands were tied
Still in the cabin, they had not escaped this living nightmare
As the killer came closer and closer, the young kids just cried
Knowing that their lives would be ended right then and there
Written by: Gail Angel Doyle & Kelly Deschler
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Ivor Davies | Details |
A hive of activity, twenty four hours,
The centre was where they controlled,
All the technicians, in all of our vans,
Delivering the service we sold.
But in the small hours, those there at night,
Would tell a strange story to all.
About a small woman who looked very sad,
And seemed to walk right through the wall.
This came quite a problem, for staff working there
Refused to be present alone.
Although the late shift would need only one,
Nobody would work on their own.
Their manager called me, for I was her boss,
And said this needs sorting today.
She knew I had knowledge of things of this sort,
And asked me to chase it away.
Now can you imagine, the rules I would break,
If I had agreed to this task.
A senior manager leading his staff,
In a séance, is that what you ask?
But somehow this problem seemed deeper to me,
A poor soul adrift with no light.
Although staff were frightened and that was quite bad,
The woman was tied to her plight.
I gathered my team from the centre right there,
And met at my home late that night.
A manager, supervisor, controller as well.
With for some others, we’d try to do right.
Though none of the people who worked in this place,
Had walked on this pathway before.
Almost as soon as we dimmed down the lights,
The voice from my ‘manager’ swore.
She’d gone in full trance and as plain as could be,
Was the lady who shared her workplace.
But t’was me she resented, she saw me a threat,
For she thought I’d no right to her space.
A very long evening, but I’ll tell you most,
Of the things that took place there that night.
This lady was wandering and bound to the earth,
After having a terrible fight.
An immigrant woman, from somewhere in the east,
Had been brought by her spouse to this land.
He’d beat her and kick her, and keep her in fear,
When his drinking was guiding his hand.
Than one day in torment, she’d suddenly snapped,
And run a steel blade through his heart.
Then buried his body in our building’s vaults,
But could then never make a fresh start.
So even when passing, she carried her guilt,
And was shackled by this to her home.
It now was our duty to help her get free,
Or eternity she’d have to roam.
But alas as I open my mouth to begin,
My brother’s face changed and ‘he’ swore.
”You murderess bitch, you’ll pay for your sin”
Then he rose up to “murder the whore”.
Now though I have travelled this pathway before,
I think you’ll agree on that night.
The last thing I wanted was two people there,
In séance beginning a fight!
Thank heaven my spirit can stand on it’s own,
For I sent this madman whence he came.
And when ‘she’ stopped shaking from meeting her man,
We finally got back to the game.
Convincing this lady, that she’d really died,
Then took up the most of the night.
But very soon after, with one of her friends,
We helped show her the way to the ‘light’.
The control room now happy, they’ve only one ghost,
And nobody wants him to go.
He’s a cheerful chappie they meet with a smile,
And he stays in the shop down below.
For three of the staff it has altered their lives,
Though they knew that her ghost they had seen.
They thought she was evil and wanted them dead,
But now know, she was walking in dream.
These three never ‘shopped me’ for playing my role,
Though at times, when alone late at night.
I’m sure they all wonder what fun there’d have been,
If I hadn’t broke up a good fight!
Ivor G Davies
Copyright © Ivor Davies | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Details |
Good Cop You're a cop. In Hitler's Fatherland, Nazi Germany, 1964. Little more than a rookie. Normally catching petty criminals and hookers in dark alleys. A call came through, a body in the woods. You the cop, first on scene. Little did you know that you, the cop, would bring everything crashing down like a house of cards. By investigating this crime, you the cop, sent fissures right to the top of the Nazi regime. Secrets spread forth like acid; burning everybody. The death of a race, the Jews. Extinct. Retired top Nazi murderer told you, 'Not a brick remains. The Jews are in the East.' You knew you had to see with your own eyes, you the cop. Where it happened. So you went to Poland and saw. There were bricks there; moss covered, dirty and half buried. What untold story did they tell? Millions of ghosts hovered around you. Crying for justice, permanent release. As the SS came for you, you knew the cost - your life. With Kennedy visiting, you got the secret out. By forsaking your life, you collapsed the most evil regime in human history. Ended Hitler's reign of terror, allowing peace to ignite.
edits look fine here. on final post after edit some text is out of line. not as bad as epub system i use tho which screws up word 2007 onwards. oddly word 03 is fine. hit enter key, text on next line. not like carppy 07 onwards. progress huh? yea right...
Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
T Wignesan | Details |
Mama – Translation of Kevin Gilbert’s « Mum » by T. Wignesan
Kevin Gilbert (July 10, 1933 – April 1, 1993) - father of Irish-English ancestry, mother an aboriginal from New South Wales - was orphaned at seven. His elder sisters looked after him until he left school at 13 to scavenge a living through hunting rabbits and kangaroo and thriving on what he could pick up from white peoples’ rubbish heaps. He was also a seasonal worker, as he says, « …not just because times are hard, but because I was BLACK and the white man had taken my country from my people and kept me and my people as victims, as slaves. » In 1957, he was sentenced to penal servitude for life for having killed his white wife in a brawl when he was « pissed » in the wee hours of the morn. « …of which I can only say that, I was a Black boy in a white court where the jury, the judge, the lawyers were ALL white. What chance of justice ? » He served fourteen and a half years in prison where he managed to get some training in printing : a good many of his works were self-published at first.
He has the distinction of being the first aboriginal playwright (his first play, The Cherry Pickers, written on toilet paper, was smuggled out of prison) ; the first to anthologize aboriginal poetry ; the first to produce a political tract or dissertation, and the frist to produce an oral history of his peoples in book form. Like his contemporary Oodgeroo Noonuccal, he enjoyed the reputation of being a great talker. This poem and the quotations are from his anthology : Inside Black Australia, Penguin, 1988.) T. Wignesan, december 4, 2016.
Quinze chiens rôdaient
ils hurlaient sans relâche
leurs poils sales
broussailleux et leurs os
désignaient leur forme
rappelant d’un passé maigre
voire, encore plus pénible
autour de leur vieille maison
dont ils restaient toujours fidèles
comme si ils voulaient dire
il y ait quelque chose plus que le manger
que nous retiennent ici
une qualité que nous nous sentons et apprécions
laquelle fait hérisser et briller nos pelages
par l’amour de ceux qui habitent là-dedans
et en entrant par la porte de la tente
je m’étais pris à la gorge
une femme sur un lit
ses jambes pareilles à des boîtes d’emballages
morte – elle resta immobile
le drap d’une couleur jaune sale
la couverture déchirée se trouvant
sur ses pieds
la condition déplorable de sa tente délabrée
des casseroles enrobées de graisse m’ont presque obligé
à pousser des cris d’horreur – mon esprit
divaguait tout azimut - le bruit me tambourinait aux oreilles
j’entendis la voix douce d’un homme : « Ma Mama
elle est aveugle et pendant toutes ces dix-sept
années je n’ai jamais vu
sans rime ni raison la décision
pour ne pas nous accorder un chez-soi
témoigne de cette vérité-là : la tente le lit
les chiens sont mieux abrités,’ lui dit-il.
‘Ma Mama, elle est aveugle, elle dors maintenant
elle réveillera bientôt
la vérité est que
elle n’ira nulle part
ailleurs que restait dans son lit
La Commission décida : pas de foyer
ne pas mérité
ou Noire ou quelque chose et…’
‘les chiens vivent mieux que nous dans ce pays
et nous ne pourrions faire mieux que mourir
ma mère, elle est aveugle,’
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Diane Lefebvre | Details |
The pale apparition swirls in on night mist.
It envelopes her body, then breathes out its kiss.
Cold to her cheek as the fog to the shore;
She utters a sigh then sleeps deeply once more.
She’s new to the house, uninformed, unaware.
But soon sleep will not come for she’ll sense it is there.
Soft scuffs on the staircase, strange sounds in the hall.
Doors opening and closing, pale face on the wall.
Something behind her: she’ll turn now aware.
The cold then surrounds her, first taste of despair.
The house knows her panic. The house knows what’s there.
What lurks in the hallways, haunts bedroom and stair.
The house is aware of the present . . the past:
Knows happiness here in its walls cannot last.
The old house remembers the lives through the years.
The pain and the sorrow; the sadness, the tears.
It creaks in the darkness recalling such woe,
Of year upon year empty lives growing old.
Of dreams never realized and youth gone awry.
Of death without warning . . spilled blood left to dry.
The house wants to warn her, “Get out while you can.
This thing that now haunts was a strange, evil man.
A man with no conscience; a man without hope,
Who murdered his family then died by the rope.”
But death could not stop him returning from hell:
Five years in the future, dead child in the well.
Then another new owner deceased on the stair.
His wife dead of fright in her soft, easy chair.
And the time added up along with the dead.
The old house became empty, forlorn, full of dread.
Long years in the passing, house silent and grim.
No hope for the future as 'it' waited within.
But tales of the hauntings grew thin though the years.
A new owner then entered, unaware of old fears.
Threw open the curtains to let in the sun;
For the house a new chapter had surely begun.
But the house bides its time, for it knows 'he' is there,
With his festering hate and such wanton despair.
It watches and listens as the terror begins,
And it knows it must act, or he'll kill once again.
So it waits for a night when the owners not home.
Just the house and the specter are there all alone.
And comes the hard time the house faces the fact;
The hour is here to rise up . . to react.
A window slides open, as if on its own.
Then a breeze enters in, ever gently it’s blown.
And a thin gauzy curtain flutters soft like a sigh,
Nearing ever so moth like, a gas lamp nearby.
The inferno erupts climbing woodwork and pane.
It roars up the walls; this malevolent flame.
Then spreads to the hallway burning evil one's lair
And consumes all it touches, both bedroom and stair.
And the shrieks that were heard by the gathering outside,
Was the house as it withered, combusted, then died.
Of the tenants who'd perished so far in the past;
The old house had made certain, they would now be the last.
And a weed covered hillock is all that remains,
Of the house and its memories . . of the sorrow and pain.
With an evil dammed specter that lurks as before,
Guarding over an empire which is present no more.
And on that last day when the Lord calls us home;
The specter must stay and guard his old bone.
He'll not be allowed all that venom to quell.
He will never know heaven, for he’s made his own hell.
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
The Seeker | Details |
Listen to poem:
"... and so this court finds you, Elmer T. Roach XXIII, guilty of the crime of pushing your fellowbug off the edge of a pan and into the hot oil below, thereby ensuring that he would be fried to a crisp whilst you nibbled, alone, on what was left behind. For said crime you are hereby sentenced to death. You will hang by the neck (wait! we don't have necks), er, that is to say, you will hang by the antennae until you are dead, dead, dead! Do you have anything to say for yourself, sir?"
"Yes, Your Honor, if it pleases the court. (Ahem) When in the course of insect affairs one often finds oneself in a situation where difficult choices must be made. To eat or not to eat, to run and hide in a crack or to stand one's ground. Indeed, to live or to die. Your Honor, let us forget for a moment that I have 221 mouths to feed, with one on the way. Let us ignore the fact that a father must keep up his strength in order to ably support such ones. Must I remind this court the we all live by the law of the kitchen, i.e., that it is each bug for himself?
And so Your Honor, there I was, placed in a most difficult predicament. With only enough droppings to feed one bug and not two I made the decision to push him over the rim. Yes, I freely and of my own volition make confession to this hideous, yet necessary crime. However, let no man, er, bug, judge me. Let he who is without malice, she who is without greed, they that are without the constant, ever-present pangs of hunger cast the first stone. I am free. I am free."
And so it was that justice was executed in behalf of the state of Bugdom. Elmer T. Roach XXIII hung from the antennae until he breathed his last. Alas, he professed to be of no particular faith. Nevertheless, a mass of Christian burial, presided over by the Very Reverend Heathcliff J. Bug LVI, was arranged for him by his dear widow, now heavy with nymph. It has been reported that the hymn chosen for the memorial was, "Go rest high upon that cupboard." Further announcements to follow..
Jan. 16 2017 8:04pm
This just in. Fox news reports that condemned killer, Elmer T. Roach XXIII, had issued a public 'last request' statement before he was hung. The report states that he had asked that the song Revolution be played as he was being led to the gallows. The report further states that the presiding judge, The Honorable Norman G. Roach XCI, denied his request.
Breaking News Update
Jan. 16 2017 9:03pm
What we now know. Fox news just issued a correction to it's recent announcement that murderer Elmer T. Roach XXIII had made a final request that the song Revolution be played as he was led to the gallows. Fox is now admitting that it was, apparently, fake news. A Fox correspondent had pulled the news item from the Facebook page of the killer's fifty-sixth son, Giuseppe Roach, who later admitted that his post was a hoax. In an 8:57pm Twitter post he tweeted, "Ha! Made ya look!" Fox is preparing a public apology statement to the family.
Copyright © The Seeker | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
John Arribas | Details |
THE NEW HEAD MAN
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
I’m off to bed early I’ve had a really rough day
Ramos, my boss is difficult that’s the least I can say
He’s made a day at the office a time that I dread
I think of the guillotine and cutting off his head
He’s an example of what’s called schaden fruede
That type of personality will cost him some day
I’ll just hug my pillow and close my eyes
And think of ways to hurry his demise
I can’t fall asleep I keep tossing and turning
My face is freezing but my body is burning
I feel nails or thorns are poking me in the back
Oh god there’s someone here with me in the sack
I don’t move but look down at my feet
Claws and a tail are sticking out from under the sheet
It must be a reptile or some kind of bird
I’m frightened I’m trembling was it a scream I heard
I jumped out of bed, turned on the light
I’m the only one here no one else is in sight
The room darkened and smelled of rotten eggs
I tried to run but there’s no strength in my legs
I see someone in black from the corner of my eye
Points his finger at me says you are my prize
He’s wearing a robe with a hood covering his head
When I look straight at him my vision is blurred
He changes into a jester sporting a conical cap
Says you are a fool caught in your own trap
I turned to find the most beautiful woman I’ve seen
Tall, red lips, long black hair with a greenish sheen
I asked how did you get into this room
We’re wed my love, I am the bride you are the groom
She pulled me close, she was sweaty and scaly now
Her slimy forked tongue slowly caressed my brow
Head man (2)
She said mate with me I’ll grant wishes, three
And when they are filled you will belong to me
I stepped back and looked into her eyes
So gorgeous and tempting I was mesmerized
Music started playing with a rhythmic beat
We started dancing I was inflamed with heat
Animals, mostly cats, were filling the room
The odor of sulphur was the acrid perfume
The dance got faster I was scared and dizzy
She said my name is Lilith but never call me Lizzy
I guess I fainted, I don’t remember much more
The phone started ringing with me on the floor
Looked at the wall clock it was quarter to two
Caller said cops are here they’re waiting for you
I hadn’t missed a day at work for over a year
Tell me again what you said I didn’t hear
They found Ramos this morning cold and dead
They have his body but can’t find his head
By the way:
I just saw the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen
Tall, red lips, long black hair with a greenish sheen
She’s your new secretary came from company staff
Poor ole Ramos, seems you’ll have the last laugh
I had a headache, exhausted and badly battered
I wished I felt better that was all that mattered
I’m hoping the cops won’t treat me as a suspect
No alibi will surely be an incriminating aspect
I bent down to get my shoes from under the bed
Something was bundled in a pillow case was it a
Copyright © John Arribas | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
William Masonis | Details |
In those slow, dead hours that hang attendant
Upon the birth of the dawn,
When all things pure lie safe abed,
Nested in sleep's safe oblivion,
The rituals take place, unseen, unfelt
In the woods or in the alleys
In the dry, dusty corners of the old parts of town
In any of the legion of lonesome fragments of our world
So neat, so ordered -
The rituals go on;
The rituals of rage and fear go on
Wherein the innocent are sacrificed
To the furies that howl in derelict souls.
When they had done with her,
As she lay used, broken and spent -
Their savagery hung briefly satisfied,
But their need for power still surged within their veins
Abating slowly in the cold air's caress
And they thought then of the possible payment,
Of the cost that might be exacted
As the price of the evening's dark fun.
The thought crept into them,
And quietly whispered
That she might someday return
From the deep mist of pain she was floundering in,
And rise with a strength they dared not imagine,
To point them out to the daylit world,
That world that would turn its eyes
Away from the sight of what their leprous spirits had wrought
And send them away
To fester out their lives
Snarling in cages with others of their kind
In some barren fortress of stone and steel.
The thought arose that there might after all be some God,
That perhaps, just perhaps, there might be a chance
That the hands of Justice,
However stiffened by the cold of the distancing world,
Had not yet retired, worn and crippled.
These things they considered in their primitive way,
So they chose what seemed the sensible course,
And killed her.
As she lay a still form in the black roadside grit
One of them thought of the tire iron.
He took it up, heavy in hand, and poised it
High above her like some frozen snake,
Then brought it down with a slicing whoosh
That bit through the clear air
Seeking to crush out the life in her soft yielding flesh
As it lay quivering below the star-jewelled Winter blackness.
Deep inside there went on the splintering of bone
Blood spattered the roadside and ran pink into dew
Pain bloomed riot in outraged nerves
As it ran in soaring, tidal flows
Through the infinite pathways towards her staggered brain
Blaring a symphony of misery,
Raising flaring monuments to agony.
The small sounds she made and lost in the mist
Soon settled to silence,
As the last threads of her life came undone
And the waves of pain ebbed away,
More and more distant.
She glimpsed that other far shore and, shipwrecked soul she was,
Struck out for it -
Passing beyond the last borders of our little thoughts
Leaving the tragedy of her ending far behind
Free at last, into whatever light there may be.
Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Cmack Estevez | Details |
November 2, 2015 11:42 am
The eyes of Stanley Tookie Williams
What I visualized is a man
A man that committed crimes
Stanley Tookie Williams was the name
His tragic game in the fallen streets was being a gang banger a Crip leader when he is the one that was responsible and the creator of the Crips. Stanley’s life became a deep dark sadness struggle his father was murder and his mama couldn’t take care of him anymore. Stanley witness everything negative in the poverty of the streets. Stanley created an organization called the Crips to protect the fallen streets everything went so wrong. His life was on the line , Stanley became a heartless killer he killed lots of innocent victims and got caught with the case of murder. When Stanley was put on death row his heart realized that he made lots of mistakes when he was in prison . Stanley seek redemption by reading a lot and writing a lot in his cell and making peace with other gangs. He knew that when he was caught for murder his life was completely over so he called on the gang bangers in the ghetto and sent a message to them by saying that he’s responsible and what he wanted for them is to stop killing each other ,because it’s not worth it at all. Killing somebody isn’t the way as a man you always have to think and know logically when you do those things. Increasing the peace is always the answer , decreasing the peace isn’t the way , but just plain ignorant not only he called upon the gangs , but he spoke to the kids by saying in prison about don’t be involved with the gang lifestyle , because it won’t help your future , but prison or death. Education is always the key of success and passion. The gang lifestyle is a dark journey of lost touch of good reality and happiness. So promise me that you will always be positive and be above the gang lifestyle. Stanley was a change man when he was in prison, but did he make mistakes indeed he did. Stanley wanted to redeem his flaws mistakes when he was in prison. He didn’t want to die as a monster of a Crip leader. He didn’t want to be remembered as that. Stanley wanted to die as a turned peaceful former gangbanger person by writing a children’s book as his legacy and ending the Bloods and Crips killing spree. Stanley wasn’t just a killer, Stanley was a kindhearted man deep down inside.
Stanley was a zero in the beginning
Stanley was a hero in the end
Stanley was strong
Stanley did wrong
Stanley ended the Crips and Bloods madness
He was scared
He did cared
He did cold blooded things
He became bold
He was peaceful in the end
He felt sorrow
Stanley never saw tomorrow again when he died.
It’s never too late to change your lost broken heart. We always have a choice in the world to turn it around into positivity always increase the peace of yourself and most of all your mind.
Christopher Carson Burton aka Cmack Estevez
Copyright © Cmack Estevez | Year Posted 2016