Best Murderess Poems
I bought a house that nobody else wanted.
I got it dirt cheap because it was haunted.
It was once owned by a murderess and nobody could trust her.
Things got so bad in that house that I called the Ghostbusters.
But those four women came running out of that house as fast as they could.
I thought that hiring those women was a great idea but it didn't do any good.
Everybody who lived in that house ended up in a bad shape.
The last straw came when the ghost cornered me and I was raped.
I burned down that house for the insurance because things were so creepy and odd.
But the insurance company found out and now I've been sentenced to prison for fraud.
Our distant cousin murders the English language every single time she trills.
WOYt is white, and Blah is black, and her long A’s can barely maneuver these hills.
AmbyEance means ambulance, and her R’s are a pure musician’s nemesis.
Uh-oh, here she comes, hiding behind a language couple, and she’s fully dressed.
Has she seen us? This cousin who has no idea that she’s a murderess through and through?
Oh, hi darling. We’d invite you to stay, but there’s only room in this restaurant for me and him, and these other two.
Souls of the unborn, caressed by the meadows’ gentle winds.
Seeking their mothers arms, for they were
blessed, beautiful twins!
She’s vaping Fentanyl in a bar, looking for a new, hot lover?
A murderess, in tight jeans and sweater, her
deadly deed, under cover.
Not alone, she….her sisters from the morning‘s Pro-Choice rally,
Cheering on death of souls to be, in a phantasmagoric.
rat-filled alley.
11/28/2022
LIZZIE BORDEN
Poor miss Lizzie, a murderess acquitted,
By a judgment’s ruling of her peers,
Yet command by histories theatrics.
Astound damsel, to the wealth’s elite,
A matron’s old maid, imprisoned by
An unjust fate.
By the falling axes sharpened blade,
Two lives ended, ensuing the public’s
Scandal and out rage.
Does not the rhyme in time not state,
The accusations inquest to her guilt,
Without evidences accuracy to the accused.
Used to frighten the rich and poor
Children alike to behave or else, did this
So go, Lizzie Borden took an ax,
And gave her mother forty whacks,
When she saw what she had done,
She gave her father forty one.
A bloody odes melody, left to
History's swinging hatchet’s,
Rough unsheathed edge.
Rocking, chopping a ticking
Time bomb, of the pasted.
Her story's haunting mystery,
Still intrigues the Sherlock Homes
Detective, in the common man.
Whom did this dirtiest of deed,
The foul plays miscreant, that
Got away with murders perfect
Crime.
Three ghostly voices scream
For justices revenge, a father,
A step mother and the daughter,
Proclaiming her own innocence.
Lizzie Borden's name, lives on
In Infamies guilty court of the
Unforgiven.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
"Another Man’s Treasure"
Jetsam tumbles
broken doorbells
no one
answers
anymore
ironing boards
pressing to imprint
something of significance
a life, your life
droll and predictable
it all sinks
to the bottom
of a bad dream
with yesterday’s
stale tears
sharp heels
clicking on a parquet floor
like knives ripping words
jagged scratches on old wallpaper
like a warning thrown at a wall
Sundry feelings furry
ageing inevitable
intimate moments blurry
moulding green against a new life
you prophesy diamond clean
their part in your life
half-state now
pill swallowed
like a bad dream
forgotten
and
there you sit and twirl
grinning from ear-to-ear
on your swivelling black leather chair
before a glowing screen
lighthouse revolver ready
evolving
glowing prisms adrift
blue ribbons of seaweed green
tangled in your wide Sargasso Sea
morse code blinking reverie
lost memories pleasantly drowned
like a murderess you pin them down
then, the tight grasp of possibilities
rise to face the horizon
eventually, they are Marco Polo found
and
there you are
midpoint
hovering
poised
waiting
Unconditional
Singular
One man’s trash
Another Man’s Treasure
(LadyLabyrinth/2020)
"Wonders of the Deep" / Chemical Brothers
https://youtu.be/xHEgT--jJLk
The sun slit his wrists
Murderess Moon just watches
I bet she did it
It is the third of June at San Quentin in 1955.
A death row inmate will soon no longer be alive.
She has been dubbed “Bloody Babs” by the local press.
Barbara Graham is a convicted murderess.
For killing widow Mabel Monohan, she will pay.
Barbara is sentenced to die in the gas chamber today.
Barbara’s young life experienced many a convolution.
She had been in and out of jails for petty crimes and prostitution.
Never experiencing a proper upbringing in a peaceable home;
between California and Nevada, Barbara would aimlessly roam.
With two other men, into Mrs. Monohan’s house she would go.
Reportedly, the victim’s skull was cracked as she was smothered with a pillow.
Graham was executed after a second stay.
“Good people are always so sure they’re right” was the last thing she would say.
Inspired by the 1958 film “I Want to Live”
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.
Pulp fiction had nothing on him. He was a man’s man. A protagonist
of his own making, self-reliant, and self-assured. Marlow kept his wisecracks
to the bare minimum when meeting a new client. Dames were not as compliant as they used to be, and they carried their own derringers now.
More dangerous than ten years ago. He leaned back in his chair, enjoying a swallow of nicotine from his favorite cigarette. He had heard this woman was stacked. Mrs. What? He reached for his paper. Mrs. Stanton. She sounded stacked, a real femme fatale. A harsh knock came on his outside door.
not a woman’s knock, and yet, there she was.
“she’s a murderess
This mattered not to him now
Private eye smitten”
Written 4-29-2019
Contest: Pick a title, volume 4 – Haibun
Prompt #2: The private eye and the femme fatale
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
I'm angry and I'm in a great deal of distress.
I have learned that my wife is a murderess.
We've had four babies, two sons and two daughters.
By the time she was through, all four were slaughtered.
I didn't know she was killing them, I thought they died of SIDS.
I am both shocked and horrified because of what my wife did.
I knew that it was murder when we lost baby number four.
I couldn't stay with that woman so I walked out the door.
It was so hard for me to accept the truth.
I would go to the cops but I have no proof.
What really angers me is that she shows no remorse.
I'm free of her, I'm in the process of getting a divorce.
She needs to get help but sadly, she will not.
If she remarries and kills another baby, I hope that she gets caught.
(This is a fictional poem.)
(Now we hear from the murderess. She explains
that she killed Calmette because he published
love letters which she had written to her husband,
a minister in the government. It is true that she
made her own way to the police station, having
given her word that she would answer charges.
"Le Gratin" is the "upper crust" of French society.)
4. Henriette Caillaux
He got his just come-uppance. Ça suffit.
What else is there to make an issue of?
Oh, very well: you wish to know my plea.
My plea is, I'm a woman, and in love.
I didn't leave the scene. I waited there.
I am a lady, I'd done nothing wrong.
My attitude, you think, is debonaire?
I said I'd keep my word. I came along.
What kind of scoundrel publishes the letters
that pass between two lovers? Tell me that!
He sinned against our love, against his betters:
The cur deserved to die, I'll tell you flat!
The jurors? Do they tipple, make love? Dance?
They are red-blooded Frenchmen? You will see.
Le Gratin, c'est Le Gratin. France is France.
No jury will convict. Take it from me.
When someone's out to damage and disparage,
When all the chips are down, this is a marriage.
The White Charger
White is the steed that gallops, sparks fly from his mane
The rider reaches out to my heart, passion burning as a flame
Entwined in hope, flames burn high, passion ever ascending
The white charger gallops by now, passion assuaged and descending.
My Mind Is Blank
My mind is blank a sheet of nothing white as virgin snow
Where is it now I am searching lost not knowing where to go?
White and blank no thought at all what am I to do
I know I’ll get my pencil out and draw a picture of you…
White Wedding
Pure white the ghostly figure, as it floats around the room
It stops and smiles sardonically, at the soon to be groom.
I see you are taking a wife; she once was to have been mine
Well my friend be careful, you soon may have to pay life’s fine...
The ghostly shape now pressed close, to the sweating groom
“I don’t know what you are talking about- please leave my room.”
Oh you will find out soon enough, after the vows are said...
Then the black widow bride, will find a reason for you to be dead
Her only wish is a wedding, a wedding all in white
A husband she does not desire, you will find that out tonight
Don’t drink the wine or take your fill, from the wedding glass
Believe you me it’s not worth the risk, this is what has come to pass.
The whiteness of her veil hides the stone heart of a killer
The black hearted murderess, to her this is the thriller...
To take a groom so young and strong, his heart he wants to give
She will take it out of you, so be warned now - run to live.
Well that’s his story and he was sticking to it as he left the church at great speed…
© 3/10/2102
3 Different poems For the Whiteness Contest.
Was it that hard
to forget my face,
am I that easily forgotten
like a star without a name?
Did you not fall
when I stumbled for you,
are you really that grounded
like a statue in the rain?
Did I scare you away
with my transparent poetry,
am I really that bloody
like a murderess eating hearts?
Did you escape
when I turned around,
are you really that mysterious
like a magician's slight of hand?
Will I wallow in vain
in the wondering essence of you,
am I really that senseless
like a woman gone insane?
Are my eyes forever stung
with the one who slipped away,
are you really that admirable
like a hero in his grave?
Alexander Pearce, you won’t know the name
And you’ll gag when you find out his claim to fame
He was sent to Australia for steeling some shoes
According to Ireland’s 1819 crime news
Ended up in Port Author but got out on bail
Drunk and disorderly so it’s back into jail
Recalcitrant convicts were sent then to an isle
Just west of Tasmania in lieu of a trial
Escape from Tasmanian prison he did
Eight escapees in the wilderness hid
They fought to survive with no water or food
Leaving eight ruthless guys in a murderess mood
So they made a pact, these desperate guys
To use as a meal, the next guy that dies
And wouldn’t you know it, when it got down to two
Alexander Pearce knew just what he had to do
In a battle of wits and an axe in his hand
Alexander Pearce was the last standing man
He ate what he could and appeared healthy, well fed
When he was captured and to Port Author led
Although he confessed and told them the truth
He went right back to prison, they needed some proof
Ninety days later, he escaped once again
With a guy named Cox who he found couldn’t swim
So there by the river Cox met his fate
And Alex, poor guy, had some more on his plate
So when he was caught (this is where you might gag)
They found human flesh in his shoulder pack bag
He said hang me now for I can’t resist
The taste of man’s flesh from ankle to wrist
So they granted his wish and they hung the young lad
The story is true, the story is sad
He was young, he was poor, and he paid his dues
All of this from a poor kid needing shoes
DEATH OF A PARISIENNE HOUSEMATE--Monsieur L'Vampyre
The death of me lay waiting in the dark
down candle lighted steps, before mine eyes
as my love held the blade, to leave the mark
upon my neck before I'd realize
yes I knew she was there, and filled with hate
a murderess if I'd do as she thought
but I had other plans, to change her fate,
and lay her deep with all the pain she'd wrought;
my derringer was cocked and firm in hand
and chambered were both silver tips for her
whilst I had in my mind, and had it planned
in self defense I'd fire, be as it were.
just as her wolf man died the night before
from mine own hand behind her bedroom door!
(less of ****** he was humping for.)
And how she cried as he drew his last breath
I nearly had compassion for her spell,
forgetting how they'd made my life a death
and that his soul was borned straight out from hell
but grabbed she then my pearly handled knife
my very favorite blade of cutlery
I used in gutting pigs, or end the life
of anyone who'd do a wrong to me;
So down theses cellar steps she's led the chase
welll knowing I would have to end her days,
lest she could beat my play, and save her face
and then convince the gendarmes of my ways!
I heard her breathing Paris, her sweet sound,
but couldn't place the point where she'd be found
for silver tips to put her in the ground.
The creaking of each wooden step gave sway
as I tried to step lightly down the stair
until the last was stone, and had no play
she held her breath, and silence filled the air!
The shadows from the candle's dancing flame
there on the wall made nothing for a clue
so stepped I through the dim, to stalk my game
and then I felt the swish my blade can do!
She missed her mark, but cut my sweated skin
enough to give more credence to my tale
and fired I silver tips, through satin thin
and to her heart--you should have heard her wail!
She died as she had lived, a fool for me--
and looked too sweet for gentlemen to see,
And so I beat her one more time for free!
The doomsday rush is on; there's a special going now,
as we linger dangerously toward the Bible’s vow,
for in the prophecies of Israel thousands of years ago,
the prophets who address us now have the evidence to show,
our end may be coming closer; we may join the Dinosaur.
This world can live without us because it did once before.
Could it be war that will destroy us with weapons of destruction?
Will hordes sweep across the Continents in a murderess influx eon?
But there's been wars since man was born; nothing stops war raging on.
Still the populace explodes so war the culprit must be wrong.
Maybe a virus! Something new not understood to quickly lay the healthy down,
and sweep into the cultured world where no cure can be found.
Maybe it's AIDS; but like other viles, with no cure years ago,
were overcome by sheer numbers and populations stood to grow.
Have we reached the stage where we're a plague the world cannot sustain.
Destroying ecology, biology, hybridizing, so seed cannot produce the same.
We can't drink our water; our air is poisoned through sheer greed.
Even this is not enough to kill us off, but we're starting to bleed.
The answer may be simple. Our watch; microwave, smoke detector or T.V.
Right to our re-assuring leaders who claim all’s well so arrogantly.
Mass killing may be accidental; we won't see what put our lives at stake!
We meekly walk behind to share the profit with our slice of yellowcake.