Best Hangings Poems
Gasping
rasping
clasping
grasping
condemned man's last gasping, rasping breath,
hands on the noose clasping, grasping- death
(* Tyburn was the site of public hangings in London from the 12th century,
executing everyone from Highwaymen to Clergymen, at what is now Marble Arch)
For contest 'write me a Tyburn', sponsor Kim Rodrigues
24th january 2018
Once our land stretched from coast to coast
and the drums of the people beat proud
we were mighty and we were strong
we were happy . . .
then the white came to our shores
they thought our land was theirs to take
they called it Canada
they brought disease unknown to us
when we fought for what was ours they killed us
and we killed to . . .
we were a savage people true and skilled at death
many of our chiefs were tricked to come in peace
many of our chiefs were hung . . .
they called this justice
the whites stole our land and our way of life
they massacred the buffalo and bear only for their fur
and left their rotting bodies and we wept for them
the ancestors of our people fly with the eagles
drifting and falling on the wind
their cry is our cry . . .
we were herded into reservations like cattle
starved into submission and left a broken people
and they called this justice
but in each of us burns a fire bright that can never die
in each of us is a strength and courage
a tranquility and serenity
we accept the past as the white acknowledge the wrongs
and the Prime Minister of Canada
is trying to say sorry
with tears he apologizes to the people for
the hangings
the killing of our people
the stealing of our land
the 1960 scoop of our children
the residential schools of abuse
the highway of tears that goes on and on
yet, the social injustice to the people is still present today
when they steal the land we have left
for pipelines, and other projects without our agreement
we want to keep our lands pristine for wildlife
we do not want polluted water where the fish die
some of us are living in third world conditions still
with no water, electricity, heat . . . still on reservations
so you tell me where the justice is . . .
I am just a girl of the here and now but
but I hear the drums of my ancestors beating
in my heart . . .
_____________________
April 1, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/They Call This Social Justice
Copyright Protected, ID 18- 1009-383-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Social Justice
sponsor, John Hamilton
First Place
Remembering Mrs. Sully always makes my face break out into smiling mode.
Her face was as craggy as a grave, there was an aluminum tooth on the left.
When she smiled, it gleamed with pure happiness, making her stories even better.
When I first met her, her ferocious stories kept my gentle side terrified, for hours.
I thought she was the Hansel and Gretel witch, because she looked like my vision of her.
There was a unique smell around Mrs. Sully, an earthy, vegetable-type smell.
She was always in her garden, killing snakes, big black ones, with large mouths.
She relished showing us how she whacked them with her hoe, hacking them to pieces.
Although short, stooped over and old, she was a force no snake wanted to encounter.
Her stories were full of spit and vim, anger, and devilishly mean murders and such.
If you decided to share a story, she did not hear it, she did not pause if you wanted to talk.
You had to walk along beside her, acting like wearing two or three house dresses
over each other under a pair of overalls was normal, seeing the bibs and lace stick out like crazy.
Her expertise was incessant talking, not waiting for social cues or societal nonsense like that.
She knew about all the hangings that had ever happened in the county, and relished telling
About them in full-force detail, hoping to keep us on our toes, ripe with worry.
All you have to do is mention the words Mrs. Sully, and the old-timers smile, remembering
Those awful hangings, and what happened after the rope was yanked, because we all knew.
Sometimes I swear I see her in her old black hat, pulled down nearly to her eyes,
Stooped carriage, pushing a rusty brown wheelbarrow full of produce, from one farm to another.
We were lucky, our house was smack in the middle, so we would run out and hear the tale of the day.
She owned two properties, a block and a half from each other, one of them had goats.
If we were really lucky, she would have one of her mean goats on a little leash and we could walk our block with it, as it butted us with its angry head.
Rumors said the goats slept in the house with her. It did not matter to me, she was a character
I will never forget her, sometimes picturing that amazing aluminum tooth, which told excellent
Stories. Stories I do not dare tell my own sweet grandchildren, as they stay up too late already.
She’s coming! Mom said this in a sing-songy way.
She knew that my twin and I were fascinated with Florence,
she was like our new toy. We had been afraid of her for years
due to her wizen face and her propensity to look like an older
version of the witch from The Wizard of Oz.
We ran out there like salivating puppies,
waiting for Florence to regale us with stories of hangings
or killing snakes, stories that gave us nightmares.
We were ten, ten-year-old girls live for nightmares, right?
She was leading Charming, one of her favorite goats,
as she laboriously walked toward us, head down, black hat,
nearly touching her shoulders. Her white gray hair was flying
out on one side. She stopped right before she reached us,
not looking up.
“Hey, Florence!” my twin and I both said at the
exact same time. I could tell she was smiling.
“Came to see Charming, huh?” she asked.
Then she giggled, but it was more like a cackle.
A cackle that used to terrorize us, but now it delighted us.
She was our new toy, she and Charming.
When the mind's disease is hate
it flows through the veins unchecked
I'm just a voice of reason in the midst of darkness
striking a match
a light for minds seeking refuge from a storm
and lift a crying child above hate's swollen river
that may sweep us away
People are angry, their Earth shakes
lighting flashes, children cry, crowds move as rivers
their mummers becoming louder
confusion fills their mind, fear fills their lungs
they are tossed between rage and reason
Demons rise to shackle their fragile souls
to a long history of claiming purity
frightened hearts beat louder
echoing through the valley of self-righteousness
as they march in step with unfurled flags
demanding all follow their worn graveled path
of self-illusion
the scythe they wield sweeps through the marrow
of anyone who questions
why they confiscate freedom in freedoms name
Who dare stands to lift the crying child
from the grasp of the angry crowd
giving hope, where there is madness
as the young stalk of democracy burns brown
withering away from a drought of common sense
urged on by those seeking power
using lies to move the mob, like pawns
because they see the world changing around them
and wear the heavy coat of brutality from their own history
fearful of their own sins of reservations and hangings
this is the same demon led crowd that yelled '' Give us Barabbas ''
8/21/21
Great country rich, land of my birth, that cradled my childhood and taught me of
Worth.'
Land of struggles, and dreamtime lore.'
A country of invention, and of weathers raw.'
Do we have an easy history.? I must answer no.' I owe us; that much at the
least.'
In my mix of emotions, i shall try to so'
Well, to put a relief of our history in this
I'll tell.'
Of a crowns avairice, of some humans in
Chains, others free agents who came to
Make gain'
They came to Australia..with expectations
And dreams, some of great horror' they did
Create scenes.'
Then there were the existing, the Aboriginal
Mobs, living for millenia with their corroberee councils..
Hunters and trackers, survivalists and they paid their costs, leaving newborn infants, in
The open to die.' If the extra life would be too much? This was a part of their bush lives; to oft..
Then there were the guvenors, and officers of the crown, instructed to tame the country.'
With their own views.' As they built the settlements, and kept their convicts
Down.'
There were lashings and hangings, And genocide too.' All tasmanian Native
Peoples wiped out..Its quite true.'the decades advanced..
( The boomerang factor )
From the past collision of cultures, a new country was emerging..Herb Elliot was to become a champion, Lionel Rose Evonne Goolagong,
Shane Gould..We were really flying.'
In the 1960s and 1970s there was an atmosphere of change and hope.' A wish
To be more unified, and a regret.' I tell
No jokes.. I ask all Aussies can we
Go back.? And fix the wrongs we did not
Do.'
Or do we move forward on Australia day.'
And all the days that follow too.? Can we
Be free of trauma.? Yet refer to lessons past.? I advise resume in the ' true blue spirit ' and give the world a blast.' Avoid the
Forigen influencers who want to rake dead
Coals..' Only to enslave us all..!!! Now
get up' be your best; be really bold.!!!
I noticed the uniform, and the heavy soled shinny black boots
Not the man within it, I apologized.
I remember the clean fresh smell of maleness, as they stormed into the house,
Broken glass, ripped down hangings, a slashed sofa, a pulled curtain,
A sudden maneuver to throw my brother’s bear across the yard,
Such military worries, hidden bombs in a child’s best friend.
Your broken cross I buried in our garden after they left.God, come back to my house, I am
waiting.
All I saw were figures painted the colour of grass and bark,
with gilded edges traced by some crazed church painter's brush,
faceless with pockets full of bullets and chords,
Their arms intertwined with red eyes and swollen hands of my teachers,
Stiff figures against the soft jeans, sweaters, and knitted hats below.
Standing witness in the yard above watching, I waited for her to die.
Shinny black like the dirt dug from the mass grave,
Full of crumbled human bits, decaying coloured cloth,
while the sun scorched the group sorting the cellular samples
I saw the black boots etched into the bone fragments.
Lost bones of lost loved ones from empty families,
Standing in the desert, I wait for a name.
No, I do not see you the man, just the uniform.
I see the butt of the gun, the dent of the boot, the slickness in the air,
the cruel power of the swirl jungle green print with gold trim.
As a witness God left me, and I was waiting.
Change, let me meet the man,
maybe the waiting is over.
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Goree Island
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: February/2014
I see the blood
of my ancestors
that swell
in the Atlantic ocean
on
Goree Island -
The unmerciful ill winds
that fell
over my people,
in Senegal,
on that
horrific night,
brought the European's,
across the Atlantic,
to our Village -
Everything
in the world
changed forever,
and
will never be forgotten,
when the "unthinkable"
cruel acts
of slavery,
cloaked my people
like
darkness in the night -
White men
dressed in British
formal attire,
brought with them,
bullwhip's, chains, machetes,
and rifles,
to capture us.....
to ENSLAVE us!
We were brutally beaten,
and
taken to
the House of Slaves,
on Goree Island -
The malice intent
of
the British,
intensified our
suffering
at the slave house,
as they
cuffed us to
the walls,
in neck, waist,
and
ankle chains -
Days would pass,
some of us died
from
diseases,
and
starvation,
while waiting
for
the slave ship
to come
from the Americas -
The hideous inhumane
acts
by the British,
sold us
as property,
as we were
auctioned off as
commodity,
to the Americas,
during
the Atlantic Slave Trade
The mournful ness
in our helpless eyes,
spoke of horrendous fear,
as a feeling of distraught,
distress,
and despair,
clothed us
like
death -
We are innocent people
that will never
see our families again
Our homeland again -
It's unfathomable,
to see black souls in chains,
taking those final usurious
steps towards the "Door Of No
Return,"
in the House Of Slaves,
which left its ugly mark,
on the whole global earth -
Once through
the Door Of No Return,
we were sold to the Americas,
and
faced a future of
severe beatings, burnings,
hangings, lynchings,
and
rape -
To this day,
ancient spirits
of
black people,
still scream in rage
on
Goree Island,
where an untold number
of us were
slaughtered,
and
branded
before walking
through the slave door,
of
an uncertain future -
The ominous clouds
of slavery,
will
forever cast
a dark shadow,
over the
House Of Slaves,
the Door Of No Return,
and the world -
Goree Island,
in the Atlantic Ocean,
will forever
cry tears of blood,
from the souls of
black people -
By Robert J (Bob) Moore © 2016
Making quilts is difficult, you might think you’re clever too
but there’s all the thought and preparation, that you have to do,
choose the colours and choose the thread, will that one go with this
patterns which you think they’d like, and scenes all filled with bliss
Then add them all, and study it, till you think it looks just right
you cut and stitch and ponder, well into the night
paper pieces, bits of cloth, and sewing things together
flowers here, and there a bird, and stitch, light as a feather
As well as Quilt’s, there’s Cushions, and runners for the table too
wall hangings, cross stitch samplers, to mention just a few
to cut and stitch and applique, the pattern she will choose
to make exactly what she sees, her talent she will use
But more than colour, more than thread, there’s part of you in there
with every stitch and every thought, filled with love and care
for quilts are made for family, and friends that you hold dear
so they can keep, and cherish them, year after year after year
THE SIX DAYS WAR
--------------------------------
The sweet smell of orange blossom
wafted along the sandy paths
hovered over the concrete sidewalks
and entered the open windows
shaded with green blinds
Pure sunlight seemed to engulf us
students of biblical studies.
the heat haze played gently from the sea
and a sense of history
settled on our shoulders.
City gents passed by
at a fast, inflationary pace.
We did not mind them
as we made our way to the Arab bazaar
down the side streets.
How we remembered the bazaar,
there were rubbishy carvings and metalwork,
and orange blossom was lost in the spices
and the black coffee.
how they wooed us.
Such charm these people of the bazaar
but above all I remember the colour,
there were hangings for the house
silks for the dresses
scarves against the dust.
Then, as we walked along the timeless streets,
bathed in the sunshine and the orange blossom
came the boom of gunfire.
Canons raided the tranquillity
with rocketing noise.
Here was the land of the Prince of Peace
shaken in the April light
shaken at the Passover,
not escaping from Egypt
but conquering the West Bank.
On April the 7th
friction between neighbours
became terrible war 40 years long
and the colourful bazaars
collapsed in hostility and dust.
haiku
the sea in the sky
plummeting through colander…..
hangings of waters;
© Ramakrishna Chowdary Jasti
19Aug2014
World wide they're wranglin' up my folks,
So I stay woke 'cause it's no joke,
We came from slavery & hangings by rope,
To wantin' dollars in bulk,
Tryin' to make the money last be 1 of my main concerns,
See many yearn & learn
to play the game
Just to fail & get burned,
See in the streets you get 1 turn,
And everyday we die slowly,
We're all sinners needin' a spirit that's holy,
And in this game of deception
I lost a lot of my homies,
Some gone from their crooked expeditions,
On missions to glisten,
But a better way for paydays have risen,
We now use education, music & sports
on our path to find our gold mines,
I learned from my elders from the old times,
It's best to make your soul shine,
Stay focussed & dont close your peepers,
'Cause sleepers go blind
and can't see the street sweepers,
Poor vision will take you under,
From the elders to the younger,
They suffer from hunger,
And soakin' wet from the 'Poverty Thunder',
Sometime it feels like it's no sunshine or fun time,
It's only the one time[the police]
and their trigger happy gun times,
We're fallin' like flies on the frontline,
So I lay low,
I travel in the slow lane hopin' my day go
on the positive side
while I'm retrievin' my legal pesos,
Stuff is suspiciously silent
Spider Solitaire
Like when all the wrong cards
Line up for failure with a grand slam
The blockade of advantages
The stuff space is made of.
The smokey fixtures
The dusty stinking velvet
A dirty green of a dream
The stuff rubble is made of
The channeling of a losing emotion
The Spider Solitaire
Silenced to suspicion.
Po po six in black and the outcome
Of a defeating trio of tens
The position of which never mattered
All the maneuvers of this rubbish
The lows and the highs
And the tens of thousands
Who played Spider Solitaire.
Stuff is suspiciously silent
And then loses the game
What is it about 'what'
That makes this thing happen?
The silencing and it's thick hangings
The solitude of the Spider
Called upon to Solitaire.
/me file save-life saved
On the way up the escalator down once more
Up to that room where Solitaire is played
And dreams are made of
Stuff, an escort to the highs and lows
Makes it unbearable the hunger
For more of the same.
Let her cache or restart the game
Or in preference conquer again
Let Tally trick the deck over either
Solitaire is unfailing to gain
Stuff happens
It crawls upon time happening
On the web between the drappings.
A mused contemplation
Stuff in a room by her lonesome
Occasions the fabric raiser
The pass time of card playing
Interrupted by here and theres
And so the hobby goes
The Spider Solitaire is written.
"Nicholas Street Jail is a real place"
The building is imposing, massive and fearful,
built in 1862 as a jail and gallows for criminals;
the conditions were inhumane and appalling,
on the top floor was death row with only one way out.
It closed in 1972 (hangings had not been done in years,)
renovating was done but the creepiness remained;
one hundred and fifty unmarked graves were found,
deemed a heritage building it was turned into a hostel.
It is said to be haunted by the men executed there,
the dark cells can be rented on that top death floor;
small cells with tiny barred windows the only light,
some have seen ghosts standing at the end of their cots.
There are creaking cell gates and heavy footsteps heard,
wailing and weeping and praying all the night long;
on a dare- I rented a top floor cell with bars,
and was told the gallows still remained down the hall.
I went to my bunk not really believing the stories,
but in the night hands were reaching, pulling me;
I screamed but no one was there,
restless, I started walking a dark narrow hall.
There was a man walking also and I wanted to talk,
hello, sir, I called but he did not stop as I followed;
he opened a door and went through, I hesitated a moment,
then, I opened the door, it was the gallows . . .
His was hanging, his neck broken, his eyes staring,
I tried to scream but no sound came as hands pulled me;
decomposed dead were reaching and all had broken necks,
I was screaming when my body dropped into an empty void.
Found in the morning, crumpled and weeping,
talking hysterically about being hanged by decomposed men;
muttering about being dead, dead, dead,
and from the dark side of my mind I cannot escape . . . ever
The mental hospital where I reside is like a jail cell,
where ghosts hang me each night in the gallows,
where I fall into that empty vast void,
screaming, screaming, screaming . . . in the silence.
______________________________
September 25, 2022 (edit from September 19, 2016)
Poetry/Verse/One From the Dark Side of My Poetry
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1490-294-25
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Submitted into the contest, From The Dark Side
sponsor, John Lawless, Judged 10/04/2022
Ninth Place
Osteoporosis?
Or just because he's forever bending over
picking up stuff
stuff to stuff in the bag slung over one shoulder
He has a slight limp
perhaps from the weight of the bag
the bag always slung over the same shoulder
For sure it doesn't slow him down
doesn't slow that steady gait
always moving downtown
No he's moving moving moving
Merchants don't want him around
"Bad for business" they say
I wonder where the hang stops hanging
where the hanging hangs around
wonder if he has a tree with hangings?
Here he comes
as usual hung over the pavement
like an ornament on the hood of a car
And as usual
he's moving moving moving
I wonder if the merchants know it's Christmas?