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Long Murder Poems | Long Murder Poetry

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Long poem by Catie Lindsey | Details |

Judgment, Bloody Judgment

When before the throne the Lamb advocated,
For those countless Souls in arbitration,
He reached for the Book without hesitation,
On the altar the Lamb's blood inundated.
God's chosen Lamb being consecrated,
Present at the Earth's foundation,
Then witnessing her mighty cessation,
This Lamb of God now mediated.
For a moment the time seemed to stall,
As blood from the altar spilled to the floor,
Many there were, in search of a door,
But the serpent, on his belly, crawled.
Each Soul stood complacently consigned,
To Hell's fire or Heaven sublime.

To Hell's fire or Heaven sublime,
Every head bowed, every Soul felt speculation,
Be it Heavenly bliss or eternal damnation?
For by righteousness or sins defined,
What was forgotten was in the book to remind.
As time after time, each Soul fell to temptation,
No stone left unturned in this lengthy investigation.
But for the glory of God this moment was designed.
Minions of Souls, of every nationality,
Pale and cold, as dripping sweat insinuates,
The guilt, the shame, the fear that alienates.
Not jot nor tittle removed from prophesy's biblicality.
Sins of darkness were brought to light,
From Hell's fire the demons took flight.

From Hell's fire the demons took flight,
Swooping down low upon the congregation,
As the fire flamed higher in Hell's orchestration,
While Lucifer's laughter offered no respite.
The smoke and the ash suffocated the light,
The sins of the Soul weighed heavy in condemnation,
Then each Soul experienced the evils of segregation.
Isolated, and shamed with immobilizing fright,
Some Souls did faint, their strength grew frail,
When out of the smoke came the Rose of Sharon,
Bound and tied, bloody, whipped, and beaten.
Countless Souls saw plainly where they gained or failed.
Composure denied, though the Soul struggled diligently,
To loose the bonds of sudden accountability.

To loose the bonds of sudden accountability,
Each Soul, a nail in fleshy augmentation,
Slammed into a beam of bloody fermentation.
Throwing stones at a young woman's assailibility,
Convenient doctrines demanding public proclamation,
Heresies and Pharisees in close association.
Each Soul bore the weight of responsibility.
Loud wailing was heard with gnashing of teeth,
While Lucifer's laughter rang out over all these things,
Then more demons took flight, with great and mighty wings,
As a burning sword was loosed from destruction's sheath.
The Lamb opened the Book of Life, judgment to confer,
He called out the first name written, "Lucifer."

He called out the first name written, "Lucifer."
Then an army of Angels appeared in mighty demonstration,
To witness Old Lucifer's final eternal annihilation;
Around the throne sweet incense was implored,
As Lucifer came forth with his minions to proffer,
"Take these," he began, "some of my closest associations,
Take dishonesty, theft, and the greed of the nations."
Then these sins on the altar were offered,
As Lucifer grinned with sheepish beguilement,
The blood of the Lamb arose in hostility,
Covering those sins with absolute capability.
Each Soul experienced honesty and enlightenment.
With the truth now clear for each Soul to discern,
Old Lucifer grew tempered with anger to burn.

Old Lucifer grew tempered with anger to burn.
Displaying murder, lust, and war's devastation,
The blood on the altar covered these evil manifestations.
But within himself, Old Lucifer's patience churned.
As the cosmic wheels of divine justice slowly turned,
Lucifer became enamored with his own amplified palpitations,
Biting the heel of humility, in his moment of greatest tribulation.
"I AM GREATER THAN THOU!" The Lamb, he spurned.
Then an Angel brought forth keys, as the Lamb was inclined,
To protect the Soul from sinful separation,
Due to Old Lucifer's dishonest inclination.
The Lamb held the keys, and to Hell, Lucifer was confined.
Then the Lamb came forward and smashed the Serpent's head.
Now that Old Culprit, Lucifer, was eternally dead.

Now that Old Culprit, Lucifer, was eternally dead,
Received in the end, the Lamb's final summation,
As the Soul was washed clean of sin's sedimentation.
Each sin covered on the altar where the Lamb bled.
Never again would a Soul know sin or experience death,
The Soul felt it's worth as the beloved creation,
Brothers of Christ, in eternal salvation.
Filled with brotherly love, the Soul, felt blessed.
A new Heaven and a new Earth appeared,
Where Eden was restored to it's celestial estate,
Of the Tree of Life each Soul was free to partake,
But having knowledge the law was revered,
Eat not of the Tree in the midst, mandated.
When before the throne the Lamb advocated.


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

TURNING WENDIGO

                        CEO of the Schizophrenia Society of Canada: 
                                    If you ever got out of the Selkirk Mental Health Centre, 
                                     what would you do?
 
                        Li: I hope to leave one day, but I have to make sure it wouldn’t 
                             happen again. That there would be no voices. 

                             I would change my name to be anonymous

________________________________


There is a darkness that we can not see for it lies behind the eyes,
as stark as bone under a harvest moon, masquerading an appetite.

We sit side by side with darkness, oblivious to its plans, its hunger,
and on a July night in o eight, a monster took a long bus ride

across the Trans-Canada Highway. It walked up a tight aisle, then
it sat beside Tim McLean, a young man on his way home, a carnie

with many friends. His mother was waiting for him, eager to see
his eyes, that bright smile. Vince Weiguang Li had bought a ticket

for Thunder Bay. He was once a computer software engineer in 
Beijing, well rewarded, but immigration punished. As an Edmonton

resident the educated man delivered newspapers, served french-fries.
There is an article in the paper he delivered, a story about the legend

of the Wendigo ... and I wonder if the journalist is haunted, I wonder 
if that writer wakes at night in terror, thinking of Li turning pages,

reading of evil, its want of flesh, the taste of blood. Li sat beside Tim,
not one word was spoken, the witnesses reported. Li is big, strong, and

young Tim was listening to his ipod, texting that he’d soon be home. 
He did not see the butcher knife that Vince concealed. The rampage 

was unexpected. Li stabbed the youth over and over; the Greyhound bus
stopped, people ran for the door as arterial spray splattered the old vinyl. 

Li came undone and beheaded his victim; the legend was reborn for
he consumed Tim’s eyes, swallowed the good soul he saw there, and then

he opened that bloody chest, gnawed a heart full of exuberance. He hacked 
off a nose and fingers, placed them into bags to savor later, he became the

Wendigo ,no, no, he’ll forevermore be Nian. Eventually, the police tazered
him. Not Criminally responsible, was the final verdict, due to mental illness,

hospitalization, not prison, and a mother’s tears savage an unjust stillness. 
Li was granted supervised day passes and walks the streets of Selkirk.

Four years, only four years, for devouring a life without provocation,
and a family struggles to pass Tim’s Law in a system that has gone mad...

There is a darkness that we can not see for it lies behind the eyes,
as stark as bone under a harvest moon, masquerading an appetite.






*Wendigo is an aboriginal evil spirit that is said to possess humans and turn them into cannibals... there have been communities in northern Alberta which have reported that people believed they were "turning wendigo." 

* The Nian is a Chinese mythological demon that hunts people and a part of the Chinese New Year tradition. 

*Tim's Law would ensure that people with mental illness who kill are kept institutionalized for life, without exception.

**The quote on top was taken from an interview with Li this year.

This is a true story. The Greyhound murder/cannabilism took place in July 2008.
May 2012 he was granted daypasses. The clock is ticking... it is only a matter of time before he is fully released... unless Tim's Law is passed.

May reason prevail.



FOR ARTICLES ABOUT THIS STORY

http://www.cbc.ca/fifth/2009-2010/bus_1170/timeline.html


http://www.vancouverobserver.com/city/crime/2008/08/15/tim-mclean%E2%80%99s-terrible-murder-and-its-strange-aftermath

http://cnews.canoe.ca/CNEWS/Features/2008/08/11/6413481-sun.html

http://news.nationalpost.com/2012/05/22/greyhound-bus-beheader-vince-li-i-dont-hear-voices/



Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

THE SHINING, STEPHEN KING PLEASE ACCEPT MY SINCERE APOLOGIES

The old Overlook Hotel has a tradition of sin and devilment,
souvenirs of the rich. Lovely, yes, but its vista is farseeing,
its death grip far-reaching, and certain rooms stay secretive.
A caretaker axed his pretty daughters, now two changelings 
prowl the opulent halls, somberly stare. Stale air is redolent
with slaughter. Something malevolent welcomes strangers.

Jack Torance, writer, is hired to loosen winter’s stranglehold 
on the isolated, closed resort. Jack’s gifted son, Danny, reviles
his disturbing visions and he quakes at bloodbath predictions.
Wendy, Jack’s loyal wife, fights for family, for their welfare
Jack hurt Danny but is now sober. Promises were exchanged.
Kind Mr. Halloran, the chef, sits with the boy and secretly

tells him of the shining, how some detect the sorrow-secretions
of those departed, how the dead replay roles in the strangest
ways. Avoid room 237, he warns, what is there won’t change.
Danny pedals his big wheels fast down the halls of the devil
as his father somehow disappears, going faster and farther 
than the river of blood only the boy sees, a flood of deep red.

Jack is cruel, unstable, and he frightens Wendy. With dread,
she reads his meaty manuscript, horrified by a revealed secret,
knowing they are miles from help, Oh, dear God, they are so far
from civilization and Jack has retyped duplicate words, strangely,
page after unhinged page. Jack returns, says things that are so evil
that she strikes him with a bat, shocked by this psychotic change.

Wendy drags him into the pantry, locks it, praying he’ll change
back. She rests, but Danny screams and he has scrawled REDRUM 
on the door. The mirror deciphers the word, MURDER, as evil
arrives withan ax. What awful things the heart can keep secret,
He has sabotaged the Snowcat; they are powerless and stranded.
Wendy helps Danny escape through a small window, run far,

she weeps as Jack makes kindling of brittle wood, a plot farfetched 
yet one she must face. The mouse she has been for years changes
and she stabs his hand. Heaven knows, the soul is omnifarious,
Halloran comes, Jack leaves to plant the ax, a hero’s chest blooms red.
Danny watches what is left of his father die, cries out from his secret
hiding place, a chase ensues in a frozen maze; good outlives evil.


        So beware all wayfarers, avoid that next interchange
        for secrets fly in the dead of night, traveling the red-eye
        and evil can call home the lost, the touched and the very strange. 







*This is the a very contemporary sestina. It follows a free verse format with plenty of enjambment. The six end words are manipulated to such a point that the 'core' word is  often barely recognizable. 

I decided to challenge myself, show a sweet poet here that a sestina is only as dull as a scribe ALLOWS it to be, that we can stretch the limits of a form, retain most of its nerve system, but give it as much muscle as we wish! Another lovely poet here said to me recently, we write outside the box because there is NO box! 

I like to keep the box. The box is useful. It's a base. I cut windows in it. I paint the box and add a door. I put things I like in the box. I can happily sit in the box and dream or leave the box whenever I choose because it is MY box. The box is not a bad thing, but it IS only a thing...

I will be posting a blog about contemporary sestinas and the development of this one.

So, this is not the best poem I've ever written. LOL. It is actually a B MOVIE. But, I do think that I at least have written a sestina that is not boring and overly-repetitive! 

Hugs to you, Andrea... so, you likey? Or not so likey?

:D 



Long poem by David William Breidenthal | Details |

Starlit Fantasy - Spell-BOUND

I look up at the ebony, starlit sky…I’m gravity-bound…I’m awestruck 
& I don’t know why I feel stuck in place…I’m searching all over the place…the 
only thing I seek and prize is your striking face…but, my young heart is slowly 
breaking apart at the seams…I hear your echoing empathy…
While you’re soaring with your other bird buddies…you embraced vast grace 
and you stole my wings, but I got to get up and try, despite envying the fact 
that you’re “free in space”…I feel that there’s no space for me in your heart – 
mend my shattered dreams & have some sympathy…

There are countless stars in the ebony-indulged sky You ain’t foolin’ anyone with your sugar-coated lie I’m wishing your twinkling spirits won’t pass me by I wish upon countless stars To see you again – I am never waving goodbye – don’t add to my collection of scars You’re my starlit fantasy – so sweet, so neat…it’s such a treat
I look up at the nightfall-captivated, starlit sky…I’m spellbound & I don’t know why…
You’re a beautiful nightmare – you’re making me feel high You’re my beloved drug – we’re flying too high in the once aqua-blue sky I wish I can catch a glimpse at the stars as they serenely fly… I want to see you flourish like a fervor-blooming flower in the springtime It’s almost time to take off! It’s time to take flight – we’re running out of time You’re my starlit fantasy – so sweet, so neat…it’s such a treat
I look up at the nightfall-captivated, starlit sky…I’m mesmerized & I don’t know why…
I’m not falling victim or being brainwashed by your plastic, impious lullaby So, don’t even try to murder me with your callous words & crooked-sounding tune...my oh my… How time flies…I gottah go catch up with my sleep…don’t cry for my departure…don’t cry! Everything will be awright with or without me by your side – you are as sweet and luscious like fresh, homemade apple pie Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Since we’re happy-go-lucky, We should go on a train and go somewhere far, far away – who’s with me?
I look up at the nightfall-captivated, starlit sky…I’m spellbound and I don’t know why we’re ascending… Why are we flying extremely high? I can’t meet up to your standards…oh, I give up – I’m descending… Alright, look at me straight in the eyes – don’t you dare whisper your insidious lies in my ears… You make my cup overflow with cheers…don’t laugh at me…don’t jeer at me… don’t judge me…don’t reject me…don’t abandon me out of the blue or I’ll be sucking up abominable fears…my high spirit sears Look inside of me…reflect on me…deep down inside, though I don’t wanna admit it, you were my starlit fantasy…I know, I might sound crazy…twinkle with me like countless stars in the ebony sky, for you’re my beloved lullaby – believe in me…put your confidence in me…motivate me…relieve me from distress that I’ve sponged in for countless years…I was doused in dread Don’t hate on me…don’t spit on me or put me down for who I am deep down inside…don’t envy my potentials and talents…don’t smash me into smithereens…don’t invite the commotion and chaos – wipe away my bittersweet tears…I’m afraid of what lies ahead


Long poem by Scott Bronner | Details |

Creation, Curse and Promise

Since eternity past God the Father Son & Holy Spirit dwelled in unity and sweet fellowship.
Then Three-In-One decided to make a marvelous universe with an earth for life to dwell.
Creating an amazing array of creatures was the easy part – the risk was on the last made.
For unlike other creatures, man & woman were made in God's likeness with a Spirit.

That Spirit communicated with God, and harmony reigned as earth was well cared for.
Freedom to do was great – limited by but one tree that the humans were not to ear from.
At that tree, Satan disguised himself as an innocent snake and asked the woman questions.
Did God really say don't eat from this tree?  Well, that's to keep you from becoming like Him.

Look its fruit is beautiful and one bite and you'll know what God does and be Jehovah's equal.
Eve was confused, for this didn't sound like what Adam said God told her, but wouldn't it be grand.
If God is so good, why would he keep this secret from us of being able to be like Him – is He jealous?
The firm, juicy fruit was indeed delicious, and she quickly called Adam to taste, which soon he did.

A small act? Every war, family problem, anger, hatred, lie, killing, stealing, rape, abuse came herefrom.
The beauty of God's creation was now marred with sin that affected every part with death and decay.
God graciously gave Adam & Eve animal skins for no longer would they live in Eden's perfect climate.
From now on there would be sweat for the food they ate and exceedingly great pain during childbirth.
Even their firstborn would murder their second, starting the cycle of revenge and killing that's ongoing.

Yet God also made a promise that one would come who would crush Satan's head while being bruised.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God" clues us in to who.
For God's Son Himself would come to teach, heal and offer His life on a Cross to destroy our death curse.
Our sins He would bear and in rising He's seal the promise of eternal life, so great we Jesus' love for us.

For Jesus the cost was unbelievably high, and for us the reward is incredibly great – if we but accept.
Accept that I am a sinner, I've done wrong and need God's forgiveness to live with His perfection.
Accept that Jesus can do what I cannot – change my heart, make my Spirit alive to forever live with God.
This being GOD, the promise of heaven and new earth is sure, though pain lies in between.  Choose now.

For GOD and all creation cry out – this is what life is meant for – to know and love One's Maker.
As humans we live eternally with or apart from God, and His great desire is that we choose with.
But just as an earthly Father cannot force true love, nor does our Heavenly Father – He waits.
Though He made all and knows beginning from end, he waits and yearns that we receive His love.

Then love and be loved by Jesus in life's harshness & delight, sharing that love with other lost children
To work in harmony with the One who made us, makes life new again as our spirit is filled with new life.
There can be dry days when we don't feel His presence, and others so full that we want to shout for joy.
The fact is Our Father GOD, our Savior Jesus, the Holy Spirit, are always with us and never will leave us. Amen.


Long poem by Jennifer Cahill | Details |

Prose

Shane walked to the back of the bar and found the door opened to an alley littered with the garbage of the bar and the restaurant beside it, the one whose neon sign had two lights blown out.


“Sally, we should leave through this door if the man I told you about comes in.”


“We can’t”.

“Why?” He seemed agitated, and unused to disagreement.


“The alley has no exit, except for a locked chained linked fence, and besides, we have nothing to be afraid of.” She says, rubbing his shoulders soothingly.
The bar was crowded, and despite smokers hanging outside, the air seemed thick, or viscous, with something that felt like dewdrops suspended: they almost could not breathe. Yet they felt warm within the crowd, and the frigid air outside was an incentive to stay put, at least for awhile.


Sally and Shane ordered two beers, and nursed them for twenty minutes before they started to discuss the real reason they were meeting tonight, on such a cold night in a seedy part of town.


“The money is with my cousin, actually distant cousin; he will bring it to my apartment tomorrow night, just as the sun sets.” Shane wiped the moisture that had left a mark on the counter. Sally swallowed the last drops of her beer. She ordered another; Shane was still taking shallow sips of his.


“Okay, then. Put the money in a laundry sack surrounded by linen and bring it to the laundry mat across the street from my apartment. I will meet you there at nine. It will still be quiet at that hour. We won’t be seen.”


“Okay.”
“

I will pay the woman who has helped others with this money, and the problems we have been having will go away. She never speaks of such matters to others, and her word is good.” Sally was finished with her second beer, and tying her scarf tightly around her pale neck and tucking the woolen red and blue scarf into her brown jacket. She took a deep breath and declared the matter settled. She did not see the man with the knit black cap, pulled so low over his face one could not see his eyes, a scarf wrapped around his mouth, come in and approach the bar.


“One vodka and tonic, please”.


Shane immediately recognized the voice and became afraid. He whispered to Sally about this man, and she frowned deeply, only to smile abruptly when she saw Shane’s fear.


“The woman who we are paying knows of him. He cannot harm us.”
Shane walked quickly to the exit, Sally behind him, noticing the streetlights outside flickering as he stepped outside, and, pulling his dark coat tightly around him, bid goodnight and walked quickly down the street, his footsteps echoing like the voices of long lost friends. Sally waited for her ride, and as the car pulled up, Shane turned and saw the driver was his wife and the passenger his brother. Shocked, he almost ran to the car, now leaving the curbside, and called out “Sharon! Bill!”


A blackness enveloped his senses after unbearable pain and he was unaware of falling.
The next morning, at a corner newsstand near where Shane used to commute by train to work, the newspapers sold had as a bottom headline, in small bold printing, the news of the murder of a man: the commuters ruffled through the articles, and then set the papers aside after reading of such events in a small brightly lit city.


Long poem by William Masonis | Details |

Two Murders - Part I

                                                                  1.


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.


Long poem by Jesse James Forster | Details |

Combat

I remember that day and never looking back
I said goodbye to my family and grabbed my duffel bag
Im off to be a hero just like my grandfather and my dad
Im going to fight for America Im going to become a man 
I will make you all proud by protecting all your dreams
Generations of battles war nerve pumping throughout my veins
Familiar echoing war drum beating inside from my angry heart
No sooner than I am deployed the blood shed and death will start
Nothing could prepare me for the violence I would see
I met death with my first kill, and made a deal with inhumanity
My first experience of occupation I fired at every moving car
The rules of engagement were simple kill everything both near and far
Giving candy to little kids all named Michel Jackson, but not to win hearts
But to use them as human shields against  the enemy insurgent charge
Women and child seperated from their husbands and father
We were lethal shepherds in armor hurding the lambs into the slaughter
Still to this day when I close my eyes their screams become my ghost
Eight months inside the hole, I lost myself, I lost all of my hope
My dreams become a horror for my nightmares have now over filled
And from my cup and my eyes their blood will be poured and spilled
I look at a tattered picture of my own family back at home
But can not smile or remember or I too will come undone
Numb by design, programmed in fear, and not to feel
Compassion has left me alone, I am cold organic steel
Casualties of war are corpses I ran over in the valleys and the fields
Im a killing machine a 1014 an M16 are the swords that I weild
A modern day holocaust ordered to kill anything posing a threat
But when getting fired upon from a crowd its hard to identify a target
Lock and load Little Elvis once again it's time to kill
Weapons forged against us lay in the terrain and hides in the hills
RPG fires into defending walls as bullets fire screaming past my head
Machine gunners leveled that f@@#ing building while my comrades are laying dead
Adrenalin pumping fuels the plans for my next attack
Hot flashes of steel pierces my skin as shrapnel shreds through my flak 
People who were in prayer were no safer from their deaths
Bodies still burning, in pieces, or taking their final breath
Children run through my site with tears inside their innocent stripped eyes
She was no older than ten as she watched her little brother die
Deafened ears fall upon me, blood now is my fate 
Hell is abroad in this desolate God forsaken place 
Soldiers took trophy pictures of their faces with the dead
Who is the enemy I wonder, this doesn't make any sense
The boy who left home to become a man he never did come back
His soul still wanders the Tigris River lost forever to Combat

For all of my fallen friends, heroes, and families. You are always with me and will see you soon


Long poem by Donna McKendree | Details |

The War Within

the war within

spinning...uncontrolably
friends betrayals
I give give give...
they take take take...
fear...aching fear inside
money...****ing money
IRS...college...utilities...everybody
stomach is sour...queezy
children abused...even killed
adults like gangsters...evil
when will it end?
how can we stop it?
troops must live like animals
surviving off the government
government...what a joke
people die on roof tops
families shattered...lost
hurricanes...earthquakes
God humbles our spoiled nation
It CAN happen to us
no immunity for the powerful
people die...so many gone
education...just an obstical
blocking the road to wisdom
Mans laws...the Constitution
Gods laws...the Bible
Evolution...they teach it
we know the real story
In the beginning...
yada yada yada
Mans law...we can have guns <----they teach it
Gods law...we can't steal or kill <----they don't
robbery...murder
guns a tool for both
Mans laws...shouted
Gods laws...forbidden
I say peace = innocence = POWER
remember the world as a kid
see it now thru kids eyes
let the kids rule the nation
simple minds = simple life
you have a checkbook
so you DO have money mom
oops there it goes again
switching channels in my mind
what college...which path
how can I help...she's on her way
years yet to come...so different
will I make it thru...will she?
changes in attitude
with age comes change...abruptly
this house...I want to lay down
but this house...
laundry...burn it
dishes...break it
carpet...piss on it
dust...blow it
housework...**** it
no friends anyhow
25 shoes laying around
but not one pair?
and panties...
they NEVER have panties
who hides the hairbrushes
did I really buy nail clippers
every thing has it's place
here...every place has it's thing
who leaked the CIA info...
who ****ing cares
do I dodge the birds?
germs everywhere...waiting
mother...well won't go there
PJ...not worthy of my thoughts
JT...so not going there either
Thomas...best friends always...He's #1
Josh & Hannah...well ... gotta hate em
Angels...I feel them at times
David...my angel on earth
news...media...unrated
kids truly believe in friendship
they live...they learn
grandmother...I need to visit
I ache...meds become cash
cash for what?
gambling...food...gas
checks...those damn checks
they haunt me
the telephone is my enemy
surgery?...no surgery
what about 10 years from now
dentist...I'd rather die
my dad...a pain that will never heal
the spinning slows down for now
10 minutes inside my head
so very exhausting...thinking
a short break...then once again
the spinning takes control
Dave the only one understanding
i worry...I know I exhaust him
I exhaust me
I feel better now
cleared some of my mind
the thoughts escaped
the real question is....
will any of this *****matter tomorrow?
ok...here I go again
break is over...
another whirlwind begins


Long poem by POETESS DARKLY | Details |

Crime of UN-passion

I claim no responsibility for my acts,
your honor lets look at the facts.
it was a crime of UN-passion,
in a glorious poetic fashion.

He was annoying when he'd snore,
so loud at night it made my ears sore.
and oh yeah when he ate,
His clicking jaw would grate.

chewing with his mouth open wide,
losing my appetite seeing his chewed food inside.
when he was done, belching so loud,
rating it a ten cause he was so damned proud.

I'd stare, waiting for his "excuse me" in a polite way,
He'd quote better out than in, I always say.
Gee let's not forget the loads and loads of nasty gas,
the quiet and deadly ones where the stench would last and last.

thinking it funny to pull the covers over my head,
that alone would be attempted murder trying to stink me dead
Scratching and digging examining his balls,
me just shivering thinking, it just might be a bug that crawls

But no, for some reason he thought it was an acceptable way,
to play pocket-pool in spite of what I  might think or say.
so yes I plead temporary insanity, I know that excuse is over used,
but I was feeling a little more then put upon and abused.

I am not done your honor I could go on and on,
I could write a book regarding this nasty spawn.
The sex gee if you could call it that,
lasting all of two seconds him contented, I got my ass pat. 

and of course scratching and digging his balls,
he got more enjoyment from that, it drove me up walls.
throwing his dirty socks at my face,
complaining that I never clean up this place.

missing the toilet never put up the toilet seat,
sitting on the wet made my life so complete.
and yeah gee I forgot to mention,
the television got more then its share of attention.

He had to have the remote at all times,
According to him chick flicks weren't worth two dimes.
Night after night he'd watch his sports,
cursing and savoring his disdaining snorts.

oh and a cold beer sat in his other hand,
so smugly superior thinking I'm to jump at his command.
calling, woman! where's my supper, I want it now,
then eating complaining as he scarfed like a sow.

"The food wasn't hot enough, we're having that again?"
I would close my eyes and count to ten.
so I slipped some arsenic in his food one night,
the beer he drank killed the licorice bite.

no your honor, I take no responsibility for me actions,
he had to pay for his major infractions.
this was a mercy killing I have to say,
it was for my sanity that I had to send him away.

divorce wouldn't do, I thought of some poor other sod,
getting stuck with this Neanderthal bi-pod.
so I throw myself on the mercy of the court,
and ask for your pardon and a little support.

An injustice has been committed I must confess.
May he give the devil no rest.
Thank you your honor for vendicating me,
I sincerely appreciate your verdict of not guilty.


Long Poems