Best Nooses Poems
The endgame
And the cemetery was
nowhere to be found
yet was so present
in the shallow depth
the graveyard of the mind
No tombstone unturned
fragmented torn and twisted
sorrow flowing down
encrypted alleyways
and Thanatos’ call
Searching to imprint
coffin’s nails on seams
of muddy icy prison
hammered chiselled avenues
creeping through and in
Dead alive and collocated
hell firing place and time
scorching cementing
looming crossing overs
to where and when to how
No monument just
monumental nothing
void oppression
endless loop’s demise
thoughts emotions dragging
Torrential thunders
roping in electrocuted lightning
nooses from the tree of
living emptied darkness
flowing rapids standing still
The cemetery awaiting
ashes urns and vultures
presiding over Ganges Styx
Caron caring like a
lifeless Buddha saddened
Giving taking suffering
unthreading tapestry graffiti
splashing on the canvass
sombre art in progress
oscillating back and forth
The reaper harvests harshly
the mindless soul and body
crumbling bones infested
carbons desiccation apathy
hedonistic pleasures dull extinct
Gravitation nudges wild
and gently roaring
culling sculls foreclosing scooping
offerings burthens memories
premature un-furbished epitaphs
Silent roaring rampant syncopal
admonished synergetic resolution
teasing fool and morbid jester
luring loosening resolve
apprehending lithographic scribes
And the cemetery blinding
obvious and for the taking
present not yet for embrace
remains a silhouette on the horizon
and life for now is stronger
May 18th 2016
Contest entered:
And the cemetery was... Broken Wings
Lord what I'd give to go back in time.
Meet historical legends Wyatt Earp,
Or Jessie James, let them leap off
The written page, and live again.
Rough riders, shooting the colt 45,
Learning swiftness by the draw.
Badges brethren, gather up,
The madman’s posse,
Gun powders equalizers,
In there bloody hands.
Wanted men, flee to,
Parts unknown,
Horse thieves, and
Cattle rustlers,
Trying to evade the long,
Arm of the law.
Fate decides whom lives,
And dies.
It makes no difference,
Innocent or guilty.
After all it is life’s truest rule,
An eye for an eye, blood shed,
To give the devil his vengeance,
Behold survival of fittest,
Heavens gates, are made from,
Twisted metal.
The hangman's tree stands ready,
Hollow nooses swing in,
Destiny’s winds,
To bid found ado unto evil men.
Strong limbs bare heavy weight,
A scaled balance of ropes,
Tenuous strength.
Blind lady liberty turns,
Her gaze away.
At histories hesitation towards,
Real justice's justification.
Hard men ride ahead,
Leaving behind
Legends tin stars,
Amongst trail dust,
Remnants.
Behold the old west breath's,
Again,
Between books binding,
And words harsh black ink.
Hardened steel vs. freedoms,
Expansion.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
“WE AIN’T FORGOTTEN…”
You cried a smile
shadowing anger
beneath a canopy
of love
Your necks filled nooses
tied with Christian knots
that never failed
Your wombs challenged
the holding holes
of sanctified graveyards
You kneaded gospels
from the dough of pain
and fed starving souls:
You moaned songs
with groans echoing
echoes from the depths
of suffering spirits—
Suffering spirits
whose fortified bent backs
gave rise to a flourishing nation
The fruits of your labors
have now ripened:
dropping pregnant seeds
germinating liberty
upon justice…?
today
the rain fell
steadily;
her tears
reminiscent
of waters
drowning justice
struggling
to survive
tidal waves
of deception—
seeking to douse
the flame of hope
held high
in hand—
an elusive lady
struggling
to stand
her anchored
mooring
“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,
It lies behind stars and under hills,
And empty holes it fills,
It comes first and follows after,
Ends life, kills laughter.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien
_____________________________
Place of Redemption is Darkness
unpetalling - - solace space unfolding
I sail drowsy dim seas without boat
or oars, conversing with walrus, whales
treading liquid tar silent, unseen
in distance a dog barks as I empty
bladder into ocean
underwater cables run fire
Darkness, Cloak of Protection
alchemy distilling gross, grime, goo
a thousand fingers unfelt sew broken
pieces of Life, loosen hooks, nooses
Angels of Death appear, wings
midnight blue, gathering loose threads
snapped nerves, false cues
I hear a night ‘plane flying passion
Here Crow visits sea darkly shining
untouching cast charming spells with
silent cymbals, unscathed holds sound
I covet cup of cold black coffee, unsmelt
swarthy, spilling on night waters —
hiding eels, oysters find their feeds
blankets have no feel, weave
unraveling, I perceive spindles
Coelacanth swim inquisitive incognito
individuated spirits shine poking
examine my tired flesh, as velvet
phantoms we attune to F o r e v e r
black cat runs sky, corrugated quarks
shatter moon smiles, its rock tumbling
rays on rippling nipples, navel upturned
circles spiral gene keys like piano notes
Place of Attunement is Darkness
no stagnation or pothole sidles, earthling placards, test tubes or empathy labels
shimmering umbra behind stars fall
dust upon midnight water smooth
gloom to-fro about unpaid karma
prison cell was scribbled with charcoal
I shout my name, nobody hears or cares
Humming, droning, buzzing black
holes beckon like blackboards with
light language — I recognise Cosmic
sound activating Heart, fall deeper into
b l a c k o u t __>>>
alpha kisses omega as breath leaves
returning in baby gurgles upon a
Bermuda Triangle ~ dog sniffs backyard
Darkness ignites laughter untasted
observing I pay Tolkien tribute, tinkling
___________________________________
GOLD Placement Poem : Allpoetry
May 26 : Prompt :
What may you find in Darkness |
Confirm no AI
Third Placement: Premier
Sponsor : Seth Pina : May : Your Favourite
I am black and I say to kindred flames...
Never assert nor cry "things are the same".
It is the height of dishonor to our fathers,
Our hidden figures of the past, and our martyrs.
We no longer must hide. No need for underground trains.
Do not keep blaming injustice. It's a crooked cane.
Wait for the hand of the oppressor? That is madness!
Why would the oppressed ask the slave owner for access?
Let's take it upon our lettered selves to advance.
So, do not say "things are the same". Now is our chance!
If one hidden figure can succeed, there are no excuses.
If one hidden figure has engineered, where are the nooses?
It is a disgrace to our history to assert "things are the same".
It is a dishonor to our hidden figures...a noose and a chain.
Rationality exorcised,
Culturally terrorized,
Freedom lost in the blink of an eye,
Federal coercion,
Statewide indignation,
Selling flag nooses for resuscitation,
Christianity stifling,
ISIS plea-bargaining,
Embracing flawed ideology without even reading,
"Societal oppression",
Active aggression,
Against the bystanding citizen and the egalitarian opposition,
Educational revisionism,
Internal terrorism,
All in the name of matriarchal Marxism,
Gender criminalized,
Youth institutionalized,
Submitting future generations to intellectual genocide,
With a porcelain mask of pseudo-benevolence,
You spew lies and propaganda demanding executive orders of masculinity's temperance,
So with societal lynchings,
Your dogma is breaching,
The foundations of animosity,
Into the world of pure insanity.
The Emancipation Proclamation was put
into effect in 1863,
That meant freedom for slaves,
the ones who looked like me,
blood, sweat, and bullets were shed along
with tears,
innocent civilians put through years of hell
and fed with fears,
nooses invaded necks,
in the home of the brave,
in the home of the slaves,
blood flowing as they gaze,
lynchings were congregational,
often invitational,
white kids kids were taught to look at
them as merely educational,
he is just another tally in the stat book,
slaves screaming until exhaustion as they
were made to look,
saliva often found homes on the pits of
our face,
jeopardizing our case,
exasperating our race,
if you had children they often vanished
without a trace,
we were taught not to embrace,
each other in any way,
I know the only way we made it out is the
good Lord's grace..
I’ve wrestled with devil in blue grass.
That college that picks pockets
and helps itself to damsels’ purses
fixed nooses just off seventy-five south,
over Clay-way Bailey.
The viaduct that divides two states
divides thieves from Potter Stewart’s Court House.
I refused to march the underground rail road;
a black man rules the white house.
The dean,
like Mathilda’s Trunchbull,
is as mean as salt on back of barn toad;
she lifted con from condescending.
I relished reflection of her
standing stiff like light pole,
frozen by the return from her calling the school “the company”
They were to give me what I pay for,
but madam flying high on stilettos
was too uppity to climb down and meet me.
Requests made were called controversies,
but to me it was freedom,
and I (pusher of this pen) was on battlefield
with Jamaican fire.
A competent crook cover ass with alibis,
and you should never be seen as obstacles …
If you are ***** and alone walk with caution,
but not so with me;
I should live Luther’s dream,
‘cause I own college road.
It was my journey.
I stood stout,
like Michael,
to cast the devil out.
With Obama fueling *******,
I wonder why Sam is blind
to the now white-collar crime?
I sure hope there are copycats up college road.
Like a living statue, the age-old tree
stoically stood there—anchored
and silently growing in majestic being.
At the tree trunk’s ground level, stood
a tiny squirrel—the happiest
of its anchored tenants—manipulating
its prized find with animal dexterity
mimicking that of a seasoned magician.
Suddenly, like an elevator running
straight-up to the top floor,
she swiftly shot up the towering trunk
to the toned leafy hair-like tree top;
There she silently sat herself
within the chameleon-like
camouflage foliage of survival.
After a moment of rested assurance,
the tiny squirrel just as quickly
descended the seeming smooth-barked
trunk where she sat—quietly gazing.
Suddenly aware of the liberating
experience between we three, I became
one with nature and her liberating message
to us all—whose ancestors had given all
that we might mutually survive
in that moment of deep consciousness,
I remembered the trying times when we
would cut down trees for sheltered comfort
and kill small squirrels to fill empty stomachs
while some of us filled empty nooses of trees.
Let us not forget how far we have come
and how far we have yet to plow onward
to get where we must and ought to be.
We too must be squirrely wise as we grow;
scurrying up the triumphant tree of liberty.
Who the hell rings bells anymore
whether in a Capitalist society, a Theocracy, an Oligarchy,
or a Dictatorship
the DING has sure been taken out of the
rama dama ding dong
No ones home, the juries out
G-d is dead?
Shell, Chevron and Texaco
have reduced the life expectancy of people in the Niger delta
to 50 years ......
The Oil companies are fracking the hell
out of the water table ....from here to Canada and back
and guess what..then they can up the price of
BOTH oil and FRESH? water??
Who are the bell ringers [Ask Jessica Ernst how the water is in her well?]
Where are the bell ringers [hmmm, Canada?]
[Strangled in the nooses of corrupt governments]
DO say! Do doubt! Do think....
Take a whistle blower home for dinner!
Blinded by the stars [lulled into limbo by Flamingo dancers]
living vicariously ..voyeurs
peeping through the key holes of ****-holes
Pull yourselves UP..OUT, declare COMMIT
re-remember what it means
to have YOUR WORD mean something
re-remember what it means to be a friend.
Free yourself, for no one else will.
Fallacies RING true to the disempowered
there DONGs removed, their clappers plucked
Sex, drugs and Rock and Roll was the mantra
of MY age, and HELL NO I WON'T GO
our calling card.
*Thank you to my muse and friend Rueben O.
for inciting this ancient ding-dong :)
Please read his excellent write [Didn't Don't]
I sit, think; catch a quick wink as the ship sinks.
My instinct is to lip sync till the slip’s pink.
Can’t win fights when my chin swipes reach only shin height.
And when kin likes taking Schwinn bikes to my wind pipe.
It’s useless. I’m an aloof spruce, I’m fruitless.
The looseness of nooses is becoming a nuisance.
Screw this. Hope has gone the way of the dodos.
I pack my bindle full of beans and hop a train with the hobos.
A Lesson in History: How to Subdue a People
Be brazen in thievery and sweet-tongued deceit
To, of their lands and people, take receipt.
Merchandise their inhumane objectification,
And keep them checked with generous flagellation.
With threats of nooses around their necks, or mutilation,
Deny them education for continued Blaxploitation,
To engrave ignorance and inferiority in their genes,
And achieve their eternal subjugation by any means.
Pretend yours are the magic words to open doors,
Seize their diverse tongues and give them yours,
Forbid songs of their motherland in your fields of cotton,
So their origins, after few generations might be forgotten.
Confiscate their identities and give them your name
And refuse them every chance at some historical fame.
Rewrite as idiots and cowards their dead heroes and braves
To kill their ancestors again, even in their graves
But beware, for they’ll pull your cobwebs off their eyes
And in time, in bits and droves, see, hear, and begin to rise.
Their voices will grow deafening and their impacts more felt;
None can eternally hold a people with a whip and its welt!
I.
Fire hoses attempt to wash away
blackness as if underneath their
brown skin held white bodies’ hostage.
Scorching days in the field glistened scarred backs
as the winds carried their songs to God.
Flaming bodies hang from trees, many trees
by white hooded ghosts of the night—but no one
sees that their souls took flight to heaven,
no one sees them at all.
II.
This skin, brown skin, it is
said to be tainted with sin and because this skin cannot blend in
with the bodies of white men,
this skin will wear and tear from nooses and police bullets.
This skin will bleed from the
whips and bruise from prison chains,
until all what remains are the stories of our struggles.
Our ancestors gave us this skin, brown skin,
in order to continue from where their bodies
had once fallen.
So we were chosen and won’t admit defeat,
until this skin, brown skin, can walk on
mother earth without dripping blood onto her soil.
America, the beautiful...
aimlessly just like a cloud
drifting free above the crowd
of cluttered chaos and bleak souls
of jungles thriving in hellholes.
America, whose freedom's praised...
floating over stained landmarks
(those abandoned, spotty marks),
where still we fight for equal rights
and others live barb wired lives
and yet most struggle to survive.
America, the patriot...
what constitutes right or wrong?
The status quo? Thick and strong,
that hides behind the weak and blind
and what I'll call BULLreaucracy
and manicured hypocrisy.
America, how's glory sung
when silenced by human tears,
their sufferance braved through years?
It's not starred banners waved in air,
but nooses hung with ropes threadbare!
America, you noble one...
to the world, your throne is might
proudly hailing in every light.
BUT crown your good? With brotherhood?
where discordance and hatred fall
with little mercy on us all?
America, triumphant one,
lead us to untrampled ground,
out of the past, homeward bound,
over ramparts and black hearts
beneath the shadow of His hand
and once again to your great land.
Dark echoes of the past reverberate
In Mississippi voices filled with hate.
This morning nooses hanging from a tree
Remind us all of lynching history.
Some people claim great progress has been made
And racist attitudes, in time, will fade;
If this is true then why do people try
To resurrect the Old South's battle cry?
To say Jeff Davis was a patriot
Is simply vile and apoplectic rot.
He was a traitor to his very core
In spite of false heroic Southern lore.
The South was built upon the backs of slaves
Who found no freedom 'til they found their graves,
And those who try to sanitize this truth
Reanimate the hate of John Wilkes Booth.