The Grahamburglar Poet Quatrain

Once a Poplar

Passive and watching, 
caught up in the crowd,
with chanting and torches,
all screaming so loud.

The wailing of women,
a pouting young child,
a rope o’er my shoulder,
eyes murderous and wild.

Hooded the ghouls,
in pristine white cloth.
Battered the young man,
in bloody red froth.

All this commotion
is horror and fright
The rope on my shoulder...
they’re drawing it tight.

Gasping and choking
and kicking of feet,
hollers and cheering,
the act is complete.

Oh, how did this happen?
It wasn’t to be.
I once was a poplar;
now the lynching tree.

06/13/15

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Constance La France June 13, 2015 at 9:09 PM Preston, this is outstanding, so visual and sadly vivid and reality, 7 and thanks for visiting my poem, my cloud, that poem was so much fun to write The Grahamburglar June 14, 2015 at 5:32 PM Thank you so much for stopping by and reading. I think I've read your cloud poem like 5 or 6 times. It's really a remarkable and outstanding piece.