Best Pitchforks Poems
With pitchforks and torches they rode through the night,
their goal was Milton Creek, by dawns early light.
A surprise attack was what they had foreseen,
led by the infamous, lollipop queen.
With a group of ringed men, she’d deceived and collected,
they rode for the jail, for the first one she’d infected.
In shackles and chains, her best awaited his trial,
I can’t say his name, so we’ll just call him Kyle.
Old Kyle was arraigned for a snake oil ruse,
he claimed to sell medicine but was just peddling booze.
They stopped just out of town by farmer Bill’s pig pen,
where they all shared a lollipop, and a *Cornish game hen*.
Rested and fed, they all headed for town,
their plan was to free Kyle and turn his frown upside down.
There were many new graves that we helped Mayor Tom to dig,
we could smell them all coming, they were pungent like a pig.
Little did they know how Milton Creek was protected,
we watched each other’s back, and our defense was perfected.
David and Terry, were perched on the roof of the jail,
I stood right out front with my leaded cocktail.
Tania and Jan were on the top of the saloon,
Milton was keeping watch, as he played a catchy tune.
Deb was on the ground, locked and loaded,
Lin had Jenna’s Winchester and some dynamite to be exploded.
*a Cornish game hen is produced from a cross between the Cornish and white Plymouth rock chicken breeds, it is served young and immature weighing no more than two pounds*
The Straw Man stopped by today
Listen to what he had to say
before blowing away
after this exposé
Aliens don’t do crop circles
or carve out landing strips
Only non-scarecrows have such ability
Ground crews do the Trojan work,
using string, planks of wood,
and sketchy blueprints
Heavy-duty equipment
is often required for the latter,
but not spaceships
As usual Ufologists and cults
are only too happy to jump on board
using the crappiest video recordings
as grainy evidence,
all enhanced by voiceovers
from know-all scarecrows that orbit the edges
of human gullibility and vulnerability —
ripe to be swayed either way
As for the heavens,
they never designed clarity on earth,
though they may provide
soul-searching clouds
that slowly unravel across the sky,
diluting everything
— even the water —
with bubbles of hope,
only to burst on the tines of pitchforks
misused by twisted hands
Such monsters
skulk in bedrooms and haylofts
after families in denial bail them out
They rarely take rain checks
unless kept in check
Though with hindsight,
it’s very poor foresight
to tempt them back downstairs
with a weapon as a birthday present
Many poets too lose rhyme and reason,
expressing reality as an
amputated tuning fork
whose stumps prevent them
ever facing the music
Others sense the blunt frequency
of straw beneath their feet
that will never soak up all the blood
And after spilling his guts,
the Straw Man added:
There’s still enough of me left
to return and break the back
of any new AI mirages.
By David Kavanagh
The innocent criminalized, chased down with pitchforks and torches of fire. Their names dragged through the mire, by the hair, stripped of their humanity.
Meanwhile the guilty cheer with cash and jewels, with measured feet on the demonic beat. The guilty drinking the blood of the kind, like wine.
Headlines say: “God is dead,” “No one’s watching,” “The law is what we say it is.”
Will we be sorrowful for such as these when the armies of God, with Christ at the lead, tread with grapes of wrath?
God’s fruit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, self-control.
Works of the flesh: sexual immorality, moral impurity, promiscuity, idolatry, sorcery, hatred’s, strife, jealousy, outbursts of anger, selfish ambitions, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, …the practice of such things.
Turn! Repent! The suffering will relent for the innocent. The bloodguilty will be paid with unquenchable suffering. Still there is time to turn and repent. See what a good God we have. He truly loves. None of us deserve anything from his hands and yet he offers everything. Why cling to a temporary offering when you can obtain glory?! We are tested and tried. Turn and repent!
*In italics from Galatians 5 of The Holy Bible CSB
If I so much as to disappear
The demons will go back to their fiery tower
And let me rest in my harmony
The butterflies will celebrate in flight
That the gangstalking evil which I felt
Will no longer be
The deep state will need to find another victim
To hold close to their pitchforks
As I would be free
But will I be remembered
Will anyone focus on my plight
Or will it all be in vein
The darkness cannot take me
For I am too angelic
I fought the demons hard and fierce
So remember me my dear souls
Let peace surround your beating hearts
For I will be in Gods embrace
Clean down to the bottom bill
Smashing gobsmacked cashless
Simply crass wealthy wanting more
The silent till awaits the masses
Pouncing plastic rapist rapture
Stripped!! The global bankers dream!
Control the dough by feckless reign
A reckless chain to pitchforks once again
Upon revelation’s flight
Under Orion’s focus
I witness a fiery glow towards familiar horizons.
‘Tis no sunrise
It is a striking reality.
My saddened retinas witness monochromatic pitchforks,
Desolated screams,
Embellished declarations from misguided leaders
And self-made stallions riding into condescending sunsets
Without any earned punctuation to be taken seriously
A House of Eroded Representatives
A village of One
A village of souls
Pushing
Back
…
There was a home upon these well-worn landing strips.
This was my home.
But, these forged rooftops now taste
Withering, hurricane gusts of red velvet cake’s mold
Rusted nails forcibly detached from honored foundations
Unto egotistical coffins
The reality
Shining through meter-less corruptions
Comes full circle
Small doses of poisonous vendettas
Fed from tarnished, silver spoons
Echoes of Cuban Fidel
Lace elasticity of “open arms”
With onyx, unfiltered coffee drops
Coating infant’s petulant lip
Witnessing cotton-less sheep walking with listless fervor
Towards silenced, condemned “Noahs”
I signal pilot within my melancholic wisdoms
To redirect our flight
To a new horizon
To an unsheltered domain
Where even waterfalls still allow
Conducive verbiage to rise
Amongst the unabashedly meek
To a destination
Where stature is defined by all
Not by one
Where character
Is developed under accountabilities’ pen
Where high horses & curtained theatrics
Are the only victims of banned tomorrows
Where honor
Is still defined
Without deleted, impulsive banter
Where friendship,
Love,
Wisdom,
Memories,
Shine
…
Because
Things
Things are no longer the same
Things are no longer the same
Things are no longer the same.
©Drake J. Eszes
“And my ties are severed clean. The less I have, the more I gain. Off the beaten path, I reign.” –Wherever I may Roam by Metallica (my lifelong song)
Religion wrapped up with a bow
Sanitized, alphabetized, in
order all up in a row
No questions asked your belly
full your pockets overflow
Sieg heil, tow the party line
You'll be religion"s ho
Grab your pitchforks, torches
too we marching up the hill
The doctors in with body parts
and still attempts to build
In frenzy and with blood thirst
no mercy we'll extend
No matter what the truth is
we rally all the troops, and fight until the end
Just justify your actions
And say "God told me to"
For this will ease your conscience
And make your lie sound true
While the things that really
matter
Are lying unattended
To Mercy Grace or Humility
Your knee remains unbending
Your form of godliness has no
power God can see
But just hold another seminar
and make the topic . . .
me!
Stroke my pride fix my
marriage and my children too
Three easy steps become a
partner and then it's free for
you
But send your money in today
Or we're going off the air
But my book is free my teeth
are straight I got morning talk
show hair
Forget the sick forget the
hurting their sin is their own
fault
Let's just make sure we got our
steeples and stained glass
windows bought
We don't really want to touch
them for fear of their disease
But we do like our pews padded
and we do enjoy our ease
Because we know that God's
main concern is to make us all
feel good
And we 'll write another book
about it
When He don't act like we think
He should
And I'm sure when we stand
before Him
He'll pat our heads and say
Because you were religious
You made Me smile today
.
I think you see by now
This is not how it will be
For powerless religion is not
your destiny
And now you stand here gazing
Wondering what next I will say
Looking at hypocrisy
I bid you all good day
2nd Timothy 3:5
There’s a mob around the corner… and it looks like they are coming here.
Yep! Dragon must be in trouble, tho I can’t imagine what, where, or when.
Must be rather serious, for pitchforks are definitely, coming around the bend.
Dragon! Dragon! Dragon! Oh! Whoa is me! Yep! Here we all… go again!
I surely, should be more careful, as Dragon escaped me early this very morn.
So I went out to meet them folks, and find out, what had gone, so very wrong?
What? Dragon accidentally hit an outhouse? And it rolled WAY down a hill?
There was someone within? He was the Sheriff of CrazyLand? No! Not HIM!
It seems we never win! But there’s more? Dragon finished his crash landing…
By Knocking down the town Water Tower, that serves all, both, near and far?
Then, on the way back home, he told the Sheriff he smells, and to get a bath!
I guess it’s WAY too late, to go home, to bed, and then to cover up my head?
OH MY! Well! Then! I’ll tell the Trolls to fix the Water Tower before it dark!
And YOU, our lovely Sheriff, can use our shower, since we have our own well.
And as for cooking food this day… Bring it here… for Grandpa Troll to make.
A block party would be perfect after all… Now, Really… Don’t you think?
So every thing turned out all OK… with so many nimble hands always about!
But Dragon had to repent… You see… And stay firmly there, beside my knee…
And yes… We even fixed that old out house! But, still… I’m grateful to say…
It all can stay around the corner… just like yesterday… and, soon… today!
Written 10-11-2014 Contest: 'One of Your Best'
"Simply Put, Touched"
Simply put,
nothing is ever
truly simple
from the get-go
the process
is complex
Love
or
not
in between
the middle road
of black and white
the colours
like codes
turned on, fire up
the frequency
needs to be
finely tuned
the lessons
heard hard
on the inside
learned
without
the constant
external braying
of trolls
their silver bullets
and bloodied pitchforks
solace
is discovered
inside the reflection
of pools
their drowned
broken treasures
discovered
along
unknown paths
their rippling surfaces
like bodies of shining satin
touched
under gaze
of guarding
emerald forests
shining canopies
held
touched
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"Gotta get away, we live in a realm
Still I gotta break up and out of this hell
But, man, that frequency's so low
Damn, that frequency's so low"
touched.
v. to touch.
adj.
feeling gratitude or sympathy; moved.
adj / informal
slightly mad; crazy.
Walking along from the public house late that night
My lantern giving just a little light
My thoughts as I walked, was I very late?
The time unimportant the year eighteen thirty-eight.
A scream I heard, from a far off distance.
Commotion coming my way, do I make a stance?
A lone figure running towards me, I stop dead in my tracks.
Do I move aside or run away, or even turn right back.
My lamp is only a candle; its light is very dim.
I see a tall figure with glowing red eyes; he is tall and very thin.
With a hooked nose and ears, those look as if they are pointed
He bounds past in the lamp light, with a hood and cloak appointed.
I know not what it is, but to me it looks very evil.
Wrapped in cloak with hideous looks, I am sure it is the devil.
The mob that is chasing it, finds me standing in their way
With cudgels and with pitchforks, but they let me have my say.
Satisfied it was not me, the chase begins once again.
I join the mob in the chase; my heart begins to feels the strain.
We chase the devil along a dark narrow path hoping it makes a gaff
We catch up and corner him, he gives a demonic laugh.
The devil turns to the mob; he’s trapped by a fifteen foot hedge.
His laugh rings out his claws are drawn, silver talons, light glistening on the edge.
One of the mob shoots at him, but the devil opens his mouth wide.
Blue flames and fire shoot from it, blinding the shooter, who steps aside.
The devil leaps the hedge with a great agility
I am aghast with fear and shock, a demonic laugh reaches me.
We stand not knowing what it was, will it be coming back?
A voice from the mob, whispers you know what…
That was spring heeled Jack
Spring Heeled Jack was seen during the time of Jack the Ripper in the streets of London in 1838.
No more swastikas -
you're with Daddy now.
When father sneezes,
Dachau odes are sprayed
onto sandpaper.
Linen tissues
glaze his black horns.
Dish rags polish
obtuse pitchforks.
Papa squirms
in a bag
full of God.
Achoo!
Ach, du
Die!
It started with a single thread,
something, someone once had said
something, for which I still felt dread
something, that I'd long thought dead
This thing, that would not leave my mind,
this thing, so mirthless and unkind
a mote in ancient history's eye,
a speck of dust to make gods cry
I stitched the horrid thing together
with fingers flying fast as feathers,
on fear and pain and shame and guilt
and soon, I'd made this patchwork quilt
It covered me from head to foot
a second skin; this horrid suit
and though it was the perfect size,
't was truly just a poor disguise
It stunk of hatred and revulsion,
self doubt and many more compulsions,
the ghastly scent drew clouds of flies
that follow close, when something dies
Rows of stitches that could be zippers
and dark red eyes just like the Ripper's,
a protruding pair of rusty bolts
to charge me with a million volts
A hideous and hulking brute,
all this work had now borne fruit
so now, 't was time to seek my mate
for surely, I deserve this fate
Legs now stiffened as if poles,
I lumbered like a long dead soul
until a crowd began to form,
their horror whipping to a storm
Armed with verbal pitchforks true,
the deepest hatred did they spew
and banished me with utmost haste
to a land of ice; this frozen waste
Where I now wait for one to follow,
this monster with a heart so hollow
to free me, or to end my pain,
just so, I may begin again
Every time I get happy
the Nana-Hex
comes through.
A dog's canines
change into chainsaws,
toothpicks turn into knives,
coral reefs diverge into dirty sponges,
a sandcastle into a mausoleum,
a soldier-ant burrows deeper
into my borrowed grave,
reveille trumpets tap
a tip-toed timpani of
disenchanted malevolence;
all for the Nana-Song.
I am eleven.
I am naked.
I am screaming.
I am kneeling in the shower
and every time I shriek:
"I feel like dancing today or
look, I can tie my shoelaces or
my bruises have healed or,
my neck is not scarlet like
the underskin of
Grandma's fingernails" -
it plays again, it reprises -
like a Bizet refrain
scraping pitchforks
against agate slabs,
shaving fresh flesh.
All for the resurrection of...!
All for the redemption of...!
the Nana-Hex.
Now, I am fifteen.
I don't talk. I fail to eat.
I scratch poetry and snivel.
My front teeth
are chipped and broken
like the high-browed brim
of Nana's low-ball snifter.
I picture four undertakers
from my windowsill.
Three of them are for me -
the fourth filthy fist,
clutching a scratched
chromed rung,
is for her.
Throwing confetti
from a guarded train
as she selfishly vacated me,
Dr. Zhivago evasive and...wait!
"look I've made my bed, dear Nana.
I lost another tooth, I received
an A+ in geometry.
No. I'm not part of one's family circus,
I'm not a crippled duckling
in a shooting gallery anymore."
Mom, Momma - I...
I can't catch her confetti, Mother.
I can't, poor Momma - but...
when her swastikad locomotive
bleeds into the
frozen chambers
of Auschwitz's
omnipresent shower heads,
and my stifled tears choke
your starved larynx
like a rabid cat
untangling balls
of matted string; then...
and only then -
dear God,
please tell Grandma Nana -
I've formidably said:
hello.
If the Rubik's Cube was Round
Would the Earth not?
Would the men with knives and pitchforks
After Eratosthenes be proud?
Would voyagers search far and wide
Once more for the famous edge
Only for the fall
If only the Rubik's Cube was Round
VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE
From the bridge, track the ghosts of line, goods yard, Old Town Station
Where we lingered and noted the numbers of each passing train
Web of steel and of steam entwined village and town across nation
'Til Arcadian rural slow lines suffered untimely wane
Gone: the Market where cows sheep and pigs brought in telling perceptions
The images, noises and smells of the farms to the town
The tweeded farmers with leathery limbs and faces
And gaiters of deepest sheen in a rich chestnut brown
Flaxen ropes, billhooks, pitchforks enough for a peasants' uprising
Spread along the High street and over the Corn Exchange square
While Newport Street furnished inns for all thirsts' reviving
And above all, the clock tower made skyline iconic and fair
Then was school run not cosseted chauffeured, in family car
But raced, skipped or dawdled through field, street, market and station
Our little world teamed with action, unscreened, with no bar
Of health and safety; adventure without filtration
In that world we seemed in different incarnation
So are we the same people, and do we now view the same place?
Can we yet discern immortality's intimation?
The adventure goes on though perhaps at a difference pace.