Best Culpable Poems
As Autumn exhibits seasonal changes that abound
Undeniable is the glorious beauty that can be found
Tree foliage is a burnished canopy, gilded by the sun
Upon the land, there is harvesting work to be done
Mother Nature ripens fields, crops of yellow maize
North winds begin to blow, and shortened are days
Autumn paints with colors of rust, crimson and gold
Lovely are hills of maple and birch, visions to behold
Vagabond avian fly south, in need of warmer weather
I am in awe of their formation as they flock together
September stirs my soul with picturesque perfection
Inspiring me for the next month with rapt reflection
October, harbinger of Halloween ghosts and treats
Nights for dancing beneath the stars on city streets
Splendid vistas of Fall are culpable for my heart beats
September 27, 2021
Autumn Acrostic Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
above the mist of
kohl tombstones . . .
moon hides its face
Wind screams through the graveyard,
and leaves on the ground are scattered around old tombstones
where a modern Cherokee man
lies on top of the grave of his dead wife,
wailing with a passion that matches
the aching tone of the wild unbridled breeze.
Months have passed, and
nobody could trace the secret of her demise.
Fog envelops the cold cemetery.
It’s as if the night has been frightened white,
and the trees tremble in late autumn’s frigid air.
Above the grieving silhouette,
a great horned owl peers down
with deep, bright, yellow eyes
from its perch on the gnarled limb
of an ancient oak.
The man, unaware of the owl’s stare,
continues his wailing, pounding the grass
above his beloved’s final resting place.
Suddenly, the great horned owl hoots.
He looks up to see
what seems to be a glare emanating maliciousness
from the owl’s nocturnal iris.
Acquainted with the superstitions of his people,
the Cherokee cannot break his gaze
from that of the owl.
It cannot be, it cannot be, the man cries.
He is captured by an unshakable feeling -
the presence of a spiteful and unforgiving spirit -
that has been with him for many eclipsed moons.
This time, however, it is glaring down at him
with utter loathing. The owl hoots again.
Dread pierces his remorseful
yet culpable heart.
Seized with angst, he claws at the grass beneath him.
His fingernails cake with dirt.
He must see the face of his deceased wife.
A tightness squeezes his chest as his heart gives out~
the owl hoots its third and final requiem.
the abandoned perch
as the fog lifts -
an owl flies skyward
Written for Ink Empress' 'Unwritten Absence' Poetry Contest.
C(ulpa)ble
Your unwritten absence unravelled much
Disrobing piteously your impure intent
Starkly exposing a ravaged soul as such
Cocooned in dark yarns of deceit, I lay spent
In golden gilded cage tarnishing from neglect
Plated with cosmetic veneer for society's consent
Yet, you were oblivious to the storm brewing, most perfect
Bidding the right time to sound its thunderous dissent
NEGLECT, tacitly accepted afore, HENCEFORTH NEVER GOES UNCHECKED!
shower shoes sloshing, soapy, slippery,
and teeming with colossal cleanliness,
toweled,
culpable
"All animals are equal. But some animals are more equal than others."
—George Orwell
A dozen of chickens and a number of horses, a cat and a raven, a few cows and other hoofed ones—all of which are perfectly silent. Poor wolfie. He can't even find a voice to growl. "Your Honor, if I may request for a short recess," I whisper, humiliatingly like a dying dragon. But my timid voice is drowned by a sly-looking pig's pouring of whisky into Dis Honor's gilded cup.
"Have you no respect or have you no eyes?" Squealing, he deafeningly squeals. He reminds me of that scaled wyvern whose head now sits in my living room. It roared deafeningly loud but breathed no fire. "His Honor is having his brief period of refreshment at the moment!"
With eyes too dry to cry and throat too hoarse to howl, the defendant meekly weeps. But only I hear it; the jury listens to only the silence, loud as a baby serpent's inaudible hiss, of two semi-digested pigs in his gut.
Who on earth build houses with flimsy hays or sticks nowadays anyway? And was it my client's fault that the third genius Doctor Porkchop got killed when some stray earthquake crushed his oh-so-unshakable fort built brick by bloody brick? Just whose brilliant proposal is it again to have Napoleon presiding the trial of the so-called Big Bad Wolf? If only he was a dragon—a pig-dragon at least— I would fain put the beauty that is my sword into good use right now.
Countless charges of premeditated murder, culpable animalicide, et cetera. Of course, do sentence us all to another life. I turn to look at the audience right behind me: a mare, a goat, a donkey. A soft motherly neigh followed by an intelligent baa, then by an astute silence.
"Please, Your Honor," Ridiculous. This stupid courtesy reminds me of tiptoeing past a mother Couatl guarding her eggs. "Shall we resume—"
Slams of gavel.
"Objection! Objection! Objection!" Dis Honor oinks vehemently, his mouth reeking of poorly brewed whisky—and I thought Tiamat's droppings were bad. The way he repeats the slamming of his gavel with every disgustingly pronounced objection gives me a headache as if it was my head he keeps hammering on. For the first time, being hit by the Basilisk's tail doesn't sound so bad at all. "Here you call me 'Your Honor Napoleon' in full," Oh, believe me, the honor is fully mine.
Oh bloody and evil Catherine de Medici.
The queen has acted impetuously.
Thousands have died because of her demands.
Witness her red bloodstained hands.
A wedding is a time of joy and jubilation.
Instead, there is death and devastation.
She thought the Huguenots would seek retaliation.
It started with an attempted assassination.
An attempt was made on Admiral Gaspard de Coligny.
He led the Huguenot protestant party.
Catherine took some Machiavellian action.
She wanted to eradicate this rebellious faction.
There had been widespread death throughout the land before.
Peace brought an end to civil war.
Margaret de Valois had married Henry of Navarre.
Once again, hostility permeated the air.
Killing spread from Paris to the countryside.
In just a few months, thousands had died.
No bloodier episode had ever been seen.
The culpable party was the evil queen.
I thank Wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.
Horn Haiku.
To be culpable,
You do not need to complete,
Any obstruction.
Trump is never nice;
With his vice he does entice,
And sins shall suffice.,
Truly a lost cause;
Qualities not redeeming;
Sets poor example.
Trump lied while we cried;
He had killed figure of speech,
Being blasphemous.
Trump has been lazy;
Always sitting on keister;
Never getting off.
Sri Lanka so sad;
Once was country of Ceylon,
And now death does part.
He fought off our foes;
We know that Jesus arose,
After death He chose.
You should think about,
All of the things that I wrote,
Then read them again.
Jim Horn
Dipped in frenzied simpatico
as easily as tango's release
the lyrics changed course
toppling over stances
notes were stacked
against the flight
stomping on horizontal
chaotic dancers,
music beating shrillingly
off key serenades
wafting midst dark leather & feathers
tripping edges' rapturous chants
of deep bass in the chest,
giving off sultry chills
covered in heavy cloaks of jazz & finesse,
strutted neath the pallor
of indigo moonlight
teetering on ledges of flimsy
tightrope convictions
holding no culpable meaning,
floated til whorling muses stumbled
to inevitably crash & burn,
whilst same tunes bellowed deafening
guttural melodies injected
into symphonic lures,
played like a fiddle at
chords of quarter tone sharp,
complicated steps spun 'round & bout
faltering over harmony's concerto,
cacophonous symposium brought music
to a screeching halt,
all that remained was silent applause
Dismal spirits find me jovial to their relief, searching for ways to cut their ties to death,
in spite of their search for an end.
Lights go dim, flash, and then die for only two reasons I'm told.
Winds burn hot, and clouds dance to music with a nimble two step.
I find cumbersome curiosity culpable,
and random happenings within reason when my heart is just too fussy to care.
Immixing dreams just before gloaming makes them more vivid,
I harbor monsters in mine..… Grotesque figures paint abhorrent feelings I've since embraced and found solace in.
I'm alone amid the serein, cultivating frisson at a junction,
no hateful send off for me today.
In the end, my eight sided coin still has but one outcome in her life,
and solid weight which stands immovable is not heavy unless we imagine it.
Calling into question how you think and what my heart feels when they're harmonious,
while chasing sophistication without merit.....this can be dangerous with little practice.
Well there's no dying for me. When I launch myself erratically off the rock cliff,
it's my jump to nowhere special...and I must survive!
Lately Time has granted me a couple of seconds here and there to make good on.
His gesture of good will to compensate for the countless hours lost
to noble matters of little worth.
I've learned magic has no mystery in this game.
All pens can birth children who can be immortal;
and grand legacies can fall dead inside of mere seconds after being whispered.
Imagine if all life could wonder, maybe off into the future someday,
no one will think to care......
Written on 29 OCT 2015 at NTC, Fort Irwin, CA
My gentle soul,
my shepherd in my solitary days.
Speaks to me each day.
Concerning my deeds committed.
I hold you culpable for all affliction.
But I give you your due:
You are:
R - Rationale for my craving.
E - Encyclopedia of my mind.
A - Author of my life.
S - Specter that shows the way.
O - Ode to my experiences.
N - Never-ending story.
F - Force that strengthens me.
O - Opulence of my character.
R - Rudder of my ship.
L - Love that I never found.
I - Infatuation of my heart.
V - Vision that haunts me.
I - Introvert within me.
N - Never-ending story.
G - Guest of my faculty.
You commit treason against human kind.
You are not visible to the naked eye.
You delve deep within myself.
You are the custodian of my life.
Stand I here upon the Precipice of Time
between madness and derangement-
In a grief so profound
ambiance of rage,
with darkening clouds abound
marring my every breath
Declaration to your joy unsound.
Yet- from this stance
I envision you, my perfect
seraphim of light-
aching for you
Ceaselessly grasping for that which
I have no chance.
Grasping – bent in half
weeping-
My corrupt nature defies
All I hold sacred and true-
You need know
My soul rages in disparity-
Immortally, hourly, minutely, secondly…
ETERNALLY-
I cry.
The Dragon’s shadow awaits me.
Shapes, wraithlike and laughing-
clawing… dragging…shadows
eerily baffling.
Veiled obscurity- most refuse to see
This sickening reality
Tis only righteous- to set you free…
Paled I am by another’s word-
his creed, I allowed this blasphemy
Unable, enable, culpable-
Guilty, frailty, unreality, liable.
Covet, yearn, anticipation- keen ambition
overshadows any austere regulation-
We two do stand upon this Precipice of time
My love stands as most depraved of crimes-
Stolen and deceived- Options extinct
Surrender is an unnatural ailment for me.
- dedicated to my Seraphim
Two men were murdered in the Massachusetts town of Braintree.
They were Frederick Parmenter and Alessandro Berardelli.
Both were employees of the Slater-Morrill Shoe Factory.
The culpable individuals absconded with payroll money.
Two followers of the infamous anarchist Luigi Galleani
were immigrants Nicola Sacco and Bartolommeo Vanzetti.
Neither had police records, but espoused militant anarchy.
Both were connected to the Braintree murders circumstantially.
The two arrested men became world centers of controversy.
The first trial was filled with questionable testimony.
There were numerous requests from all over for clemency.
After two trials, the defendants were found guilty.
The twenty-second of August in 1927 was their last day.
Controversy about their involvements persists up to today.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.
They met a demise so inglorious.
The culpable agent was the Varicella virus.
We were the vectors. It was none other than us.
Chalk up another deed of man that will be infamous.
The virus spread like wisps on the breeze.
It obliterated a civilization that lasted for centuries.
Any graduate from the college of hard knocks
can see these creatures died from chicken pox.
This once great city is now a ghost town.
First contact with humans is what brought them down.
So will you conquerors strut around haughtily with disdain?
I will see that these Martians did not die in vain.
Based on the set of short stories titled “The Martian Chronicles” by the late Ray Bradbury.
Mido Macia 1986 - 2013
Mido Macia was a 27 year old Mozambican man, working in Daveyton near Johannesburg as a taxi-driver, who was found dead in a police cell, after police savagely dragged Mr. Macia whom they had tied to their police van.
The brutal incident of Mr. Macia being dragged was caught on camera and has shocked South Africa.
The 8 police officers involved are facing charges of murder, and have been suspended from the South African Police Service (SAPS).
This poem is an angry poem that I felt had to be written, because as a society, we need to ask ourselves and each other the hardest questions about xenophobia and intolerance and violence.
Mido Macia 1986 - 2013
Death came to Mido Macia,
a savage, brutal, hellish death came to Mido Macia.
Death came to Mido Macia,
death dressed-up in the colours of authority,
as callous, vile, sadistic policemen murdered Mido Macia.
The video-footage is blood-curdling,
Mido Macia being dragged,
his hands tied behind him,
to a police van.
But death came later to Mido Macia,
death cheered, clapped, and tore into Mido Macia.
Death came to Mido Macia,
in the cells where they murdered Mido Macia.
Death came to Mido Macia,
a fuelled, cheered-on, instigated death came to Mido Macia.
We are all culpable,
every one of us is culpable,
from racist 'jokes' emailed and texted,
to self-righteous comments about the 'foreigners',
from casual dinner-table conversations,
'they take our jobs',
'they are crooks'
the 'they marry our women' kind of lunch-time chats,
racist, xenophobic, hate-filled talk,
to beating a human-being to death in a police cell,
or on the streets of Cape Town, Johannesburg ,
and in Daveyton,
where death came to Mido Macia.
Mido Macia 1986 - 2013
Form:
UNSUPPORTED CODE
September 11, 2001
America Under Attack
Written: by Tom Wright
9/15/01
Lord,
look beneath our tears,
And broken hearts;
As we weigh our country's fate.
And through our tears and anger,
Help us dismantle
Our engine's of hate.
Grant us wisdom
Within each new day,
To be tolerant toward those we meet.
Defiling not innocence
As we right this wrong,
Placing responsibility at culpable feet;
For Lord,
lives will be infinitely changed,
Grand eulogies only tranquilize our pain.
We look once again,
In prayer, to You,
That our losses, we pray, be Heavens gain.
Let not us panic,
Nor become as critiques,
Of America and her resolve to defend;
But make common
Our passion for Jesus,
For on none other does it depend.