Best Executioner Poems
Pushed off a cliff,
Down a flight of stairs,
Lying shattered,choking,
In a pool of my own blood.
Defiled and degraded,
Knowing nothing of myself,
Other than my name.
I lay on the cold marble floor.
Absurdly,I thought that I,
Had achieved a state of grace.
Though trampled and gasping,
For I had obeyed my vows.
I castrated myself for my other.
Even sending him other women,
When my maturing femaleness,
Was not ripe enough for his seed.
A quarter of my life was spent,
Not in a blessed union,
But in self imposed imprisonment.
This man was my warden.
Kept confined by his passions,
Illusions,and masterful cruelty.
I had turned the key in the padlock,
And would never use it to flee.
My fate was sealed.
First by my wounds,
Then by the executioner.
Who would be called me.
THE EXECUTIONER --Death Of Marie Antoinette
The raving of the night is everywhere,
you lie in candle-light; you brush your hair,
while Paris lulls to sleep, the storm goes on
more promises to keep, before the dawn.
More lightning gloats your room, you shake your head
and thunderous, the gloom would raise the dead;
in shadows from the sound, where devils wait,
you feel them all around, but it is late;
and so you put aside those things you think fear,
the feeling someone's died, and very near.
he sees you in the glow and flashing light,
from where you do not know he waits tonight,
behind the closet door, it creaks ajar,
he waits to see some more of who you are;
so beautiful in dreams, he's always known
your look is what it seems, and his alone.
He's put it in his head, his mortal sin,
your love is just as dead as he has been
all of his life and time, eternally,
and love can't be a crime, if meant to be.
Outcast from all of life, he's died before,
and waits there on this night, to die some more,
not caring it's your fate; the guillotine;
his love will come too late, to save his queen.
You'll die tonight again, it's all been planned,
from time, you don't know when, nor understand,
he's every man you've seen, but never known,
and everything between, love and alone;
from lonliness, and hate of every man,
you've ever met too late, since love began,
from loving one who lied, and cut you deep,
not caring how you cried yourself to sleep;
the cyclone rages on, the storm is great,
your beautiful has gone to be your fate,
and you, the only queen he'll recognize,
are all his love has seen with his own eyes;
if only he would kill, and get it on,
perhaps you'd sleep until your sleep is gone,
but shadows hide your death there on the wall
until your final breath, to sleep you fall,
and that is when you feel what no-one knows,
there in your mind, but real, the wind that blows
to end the shadowed night, before you sleep,
and snuffs the candle light, you try to keep.
Your guilliotine awaits, there is no cake,
to share with anyone, your big mistake,
and so his glove is steady on the bar,
delivering his shiny blade to who you are.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Wouldn’t it be odd if she didn’t believe,
And ignored the truth that occurred,
Denied all the proof of what other folks saw,
Denied what other folks heard,
Ignoring the transcripts, not wanting to know,
Not asking the folks who were there,
Not digging a bit deeper and doing her job,
Choosing, instead, his despair,
Well, it seems odd to me, these odd looking days,
The witch hunt believes dubious lies,
This uninformed witch chasing disproven stories,
With her phone and her suit and her tie,
Leaving behind her a wasteland of barren,
Destroying a man’s life of build,
Destroying, for no reason, the years of good done,
This innocent man who she killed.
a just judge thats' fair in the unjust judge's case never lost any * - * innocent that's fine twelve of your own guilty peers why would you want them - * executioner the swift hand a quick death rate a sadistic one
A verbal warning this day
of redundancy, an end to
Twenty-four years of hard graft,
releases doleful innuendoes
from those safe, left on the staff.
Each dawn! That initiates, now
leaves the sound of silence
ringing, in one’s dependable mind,
each journey down “Everglade”
strange, empty and wry, now the
dignity of retirement, fade from
an unveiling sky.
Yet! Upon this February day, the
puppeteer of Vevey reaches out
to the land of the “Long White Cloud”
Weaving his website of hideous agenda,
strategically infiltrating the very soul
of simplicity, when lifting of the
corporate shroud, upon an
ethical unswerving crowd.
His disciples cynically well versed,
a subtle way his empire constructed,
the turning of the Sabre
of injustice within the wound.
His greed insatiable. Shop floor
loyalty marooned!
Oh! Nested bird, pretender of
family values, branded power
taken from long ago sincere ways,
who’s personified voice, continually
heard on mountain peaks,
within the valley, around the bays.
Yet! This minute, many lives,
especially those belonging
to us “The Clown”
Have seen in lieu, better days.
Alas! Time does surrender
each day the scaffold unfold,
hour upon hour, one assumes
a condemned man’s threshold.
As the final moment approaches,
the noose of disparage
set, posthaste!
The “Vevey Executioner”
gets rid of his
industrial waste!!!
© Harry J Horsman 1999
within the under belly of
this hob bull ling Leviathan beast
induced roaring hungry soundcloud issued
within abdominal folds
finding they in creased
never diminishing, matter
whether I turn north, south, west or east
this adult desired,
soon after he envisioned
buttered crispy dish eyed fancily feast
culinary cut throat Michelin meisters
(pit a less lee) pitted
against Pillsbury doughboy greased
imaginatively gobbling hectare
thousand island inlaid
juiced kickstarting least
unable to pay thee Monsieur's consigliere –
damn, hard cold cash just shy by a nickle
aye first taken got taken hostage
as a wreck loose poet,
the anti write cadre
strip searched
every stitch of clothes I wore,
then subjected me to an aye tip pickle
pun hush ment,
where this deplorable basket case
stood aghast as hounds from hell
got loosed by thee Don Rickle
lathered canine chops
slapped by foamy salivating tongues
poised to ham er and
make mince meat out this pop sickle
but...lo and behold, as vicious
snooping doggy dogs
approached within a hair breadth
minecrafted fingers fluttered
in the air asper ready to tickle
whereat the snarling killers (bon jove)
rolled with faux pas in the air
kicking, laughing (or a similar
fox simile thereof),
inciting Major Domo tuff flair
his nostrils (like...well
an amazing dragon)
with blood red eyes didst glare
while fur sprouted over his bare skin
honor ably dispelling every last hair
which bizarre circumstance, an opportunity
to escape from this thieving Magpie lair
approved by the ghost of Rossini,
who suddenly prestidigitatiously
magically brought to my defense William Tell
(in the guise oven
instant activating App) pull lick caisson
thus juiced by a whisker avoiding a scare.
Perhaps the realm where dormant ideas germinate
will coalesce into sturdy tomes even if posthumously late
recognition gets affianced with a memorialized slate
where no body will lie,
cuz this mortal will get his ashes sprinkled
intermixed with wildlife,
who will unknowingly consecrate and sanctify
rack and pinion traction,
where dost dust will fertile lies
to become reincarnated
via blessings sans creatures who defecate or urinate.
A tinge of guilt or a twinge of sin
Ghostly pallor on his calloused skin
Taking a man's life away again
Might the hangman's conscience be in pain?
Society's dregs must pay their due
And to him it's just a job to do
Innocent, guilty, it matters not
He must obey those who call the shot.
Tonight he'll have sumptuous dinner
Grateful folks treat him like a winner
Like royalty, not a commoner
A toast to the executioner!
.
The Executioner
-Walter Rossman
Wield I do, this executioner's blade
one could even hear the faint stirs of a violin played
with sadistic elan, and sense fear on this man's face, concealed,
this executioner's blade, I do wield.
When I bring it down, many a head fall
yet today, I'm frightened, unlike protocol,
through the veil,in his eyes I see a plea for mercy, i feel my conscience frown
many a head fall when I bring it down.
And I am sweating, this man's eyes tear me apart,
almost asking, "For the innocent man I am, have you no heart?",
it continues, "for these people, weakly cheering, I've been fighting"
This man's eyes tear me apart, and I am sweating.
The blade refuses to budge, I am defeated
I ask myself, how can I replace God Himself, and am disquieted
and this angel of a man, in him I see no grudge
I am defeated, the blade refuses to budge.
A peaceful smile appears, as the soldiers make their way
his face wrought with victory, him I wish to embrace
he knows he will die today, but he has no fears
as the soldiers make their way, a peaceful smile appears.
If I was an executioner
I would be a failure pure and simple.
I would believe them.
And I would free them.
If I was the executioner.
They would all ask for me.
Knowing how easy I can be.
No one would cry.
And no one would die.
If I was the executioner.
So you are all voting for me!
What lovely townspeople you are!
Sure I will set you all free.
I am an executioner star!