Best Ripper Poems
Through the streets of Whitechapel
A monster roamed them all
He left behind a history
Many to enthral
But who knew the romance
The lover behind this affray
He may wield a knife but in fact
Was Jack gay?
A romantic, emasculated by a wife
A sexual experience
Affected him for life
Read about the romance
The lover, murderer too
It's all in my new book
A paranormal tale for you
If you want a good yarn
My book is just a gripper
It's out in November and it’s called Rise of the Ripper
The man in the alley is insane.
Syphilis eats at his brain.
All dressed in black,
he is ready to attack.
He stalks in the dark of night,
trying to stay out of sight.
A certain type he wants to find.
Whores,filthy whores screams in his mind !
A door opens at a nearby Inn.
Laughter for a moment and silence again.
The click-clack of heels on cobble stone,
as a woman of the night walks home.
A short scream then a moan,
as flesh is cut from bone.
He can hear the music of wind chimes,
as he stabs fourteen times.
He feels joy at her last breath.
Justification is somehow felt by her death.
Her suffering and demise brings delight,
as he disappears into the night.
Jack the
Ripper,
He walks &
talks,
Like an
ordinary
person.
Is he a
psycho
murderer,
Or a serial
killer,
Maybe a
famous actor,
Or a police
constable.
He is
bloodlust
terror,
One who
possess skill
of invisibility,
Now he is
Legendary,
The renowed
london
bridge,
The place of
unravelling
horror,
An unknown
destiny
reached,
Or a mystery
of the Ripper?
Over a
century past,
From the first
victim to the
last,
The
speculation
goes on.
That his work
not done.
But where
does this
puzzle lead,
Of the many
of his
unresting
dead,
Still not a
trace of him
been found,
Only the
memory of
Jack the
Ripper
stills
haunts....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Jack the Ripper,
As a savage nipper,
Possibly slashed his toys,
And didn’t play with other boys.
Jack the Ripper
May have liked kipper,
But he ate a kidney one day -
Or, at least, so people often say.
For Andrea's Show me the Funny contest, Part Two
Originally for PD’s clerihew contest
Reaching to the sky in terror, another helpless victim of an
Inconceivable crime cries out for mercy. Blood curdles as screams
Pierce the night of London town. Who is the madman on the loose
Preying on the defenseless? The answer comes from hell…
Evil is lurking in every shadow. Do not close your eyes. The nightmare is .
Real, sinister, maniacal…No one is safe from Jack.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 10/16/13
For Russell Sivey's Everything Halloween Contest
.
the knife,as it cuts
spills guts,who share their secrets
living in someone
when the knife goes in
the cuts had a sure purpose
to preserve organs
he played a dirty hand
though he washed them
thoroughly each day.
Brilliant mind, hiding
a hollowness so dark
committing horrendous crime
on the lowly and the discharged,
those forced to feed on the grime
of sinners in bright attire.
No one would give a damn
to these despised street beggers
they would know his clever hands,
but their screams would not be heard,
their agony ending in shallow graves.
Ah those hands, how proud he was
so precise, unshaking, for he's a master
his work must be perfect, engraved
in the mind of his seekers
receiving his letters, taunting
leaving no clue to who he is
this ripper of life, never found...
but the night knows
the night has not forgotten
his screams are not heard
as knives swiftly rip at him,
his nightmare ends not.
CarolineCecile - 10.15.12
gruesome murder scene
missing body parts,loss blood
eyes have been removed
he watched her,
lying there in the grass, among flowers,
the cherry petals covering her slowly…
he suddenly realized
how sweet was the shadow
touching her
and each flower gently offering
its tribute of death to her
was no less beautiful
than that wonderful crimson bloom
he himself had helped birth
on her chest…
the nectar of that flower still on his hands
and the ethereality of the cherry-tree shade on his retina,
he wished to grow roots
and draw life from the very earth that she,
his masterpiece,
was slowly
beginning to become
I've spent the evening hunting, as I'm wont to do
and choosing for tonight an older lass,
I hold the shop door open while she passes through
and as it closes, watch her in the glass
Her face is plain, no trace of paint unlines her skin,
her matted hair is gathered in a bun
Beneath the shabby dress, her frame is overthin,
still, I've decided she's to be the one
I drop my gaze just as she steps into the street
Of which route she will take, I've made a note
My heart begins to pound and I increase it's beat
by fingering the blade beneath my coat
When moments later, I begin to follow her,
the horror I keep hidden shakes its cage
The monster I restrain by day begins to stir
and begs me to unchain it from its rage
She leads me on for leagues but I am not deterred
In fact, I'm quite encouraged by the treck
All bets, I'm not the first this dicey whore has lured,
which gets her one slice more across her neck
She hurries up the walkway of a sodden shack
and after she has shut the sagging door,
I peer in through a dirty window at the back
and see her place her parcels on the floor
No sooner has she done so, when a tiny child,
- her son - appears and dashes to her arms
and it is then, the thrashing beast I've let run wild
is battered back by blaring new alarms
I stand, deflated by this unprovoked retreat
and panicked, try to stoke the rage again
but find my homicidal urges can't compete
with what has just awoken in me, then
A crisis of one's conscience, for one moment, will
illuminate the choice twixt wrong or right
and as it was my BEAST, not HER, I chose to kill,
your cobbled streets are safe.
At least tonight....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written: June 4, 2021
Contest: Imagism Poetry
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
as he stabs,he loves
not the human,only death
and death becomes her
He cuts throats too, my dear friend Ramsay!
How can I sing myself to comfort,
Sing wonderfully, as my father brags,
With a cut throat!?
Perhaps the draining of my fluids shall be our killer's lullaby,
As he sleeps soundly with the soothing flow
Of my newly dead blood!
With an uncertain sigh,
I now stand alone, quaking!
Cruel thought imagining despairing fate
How could Ramsay have so much faith in a cowardly girl
When faith is simply what she lacks?
She is out to find an evil one unseen,
A twisted fiend that can be he that passes—or he!
Where shall she go from here?
Surely she cannot stand in this spot forever;
The rain has already chilled the coward to the bone,
When all she has on for warmth, the foolish child,
Is a thin old sweater?
But, ah, her bone is to be chilled once more,
And the weather, I'm afraid, will not be the cause. . .
-this is a dark soliloquy of a character in an unfinished play about Jack I wrote... maybe a couple years ago? I gottah put a date on these things! Haha-
As the receding
nestles of dying
love
in full bloom,
now
sadly blown away.
The seasons of
the massacreing
tides of Autumn,
the soothing winds
of change,
now gently at bay.
As love's decree
of passion
resides at chamber,
felt within the door.
To conjure a broom
for everyone to hold,
peasantry, pleasantry,
a harlot,
and a merciful whore.
There is passion
hidden beneath
the swirling cosmos,
a treasure found
within thee.
Like the hearkening
cries,
of Dove's. . .
made beautiful,
peace be with me.
As songbirds sing
the beautiful grandeur
of rose gardens
made lively,
exuberant,
a splendor of bliss.
As wine bearers
fathom,
the essence of wrath,
a gentle darkness,
a widow's hastening kiss.
By way of coven,
be it not foul,
and also full
of such,
a bestowment of blessings,
of tears, of gentility.
There ponderous,
my Hecuba,
amidst your poisonous
scope of treason,
Mars and senility.
Conceit upon
this morrow's eve,
of sacrilege and blaspheme
concerto phantasm.
Yes, for tradition calls,
upon entrance of estate,
made unbeknownst,
no proclamation of thee,
a luciferus ******.
As a racing menace
bewildered,
by the means
to wound obscene.
Ungored, at length,
a mandrake's gesture,
bitterness
and more poison
of undine.
Where'll'st be,
betaking your ambience,
of twilight autumn
oh fine.
A lecherous Eve,
a serpent's wisdom,
to set her on,
oh perilous eyes
of mine.
As perching swans
upon the revealed
ides,
of Zeus.
Gentle lady,
I beg thee,
a pardon
for the ibis goose.
Of thee,
the essence Diana,
as graceful
as no other Ceaser.
Fleeting perils
of doubt,
madness,
and glee,
what it takes
to please her.
Oh shadows
of temptation,
a scurried passion
of the Abydos
at Hades
A gentle Isis,
mistress
to
the Lots of Salem,
o'er plentiful
maids.
Though
to scathe
a peasant maiden,
be it not of chivalry
due rotten chaste.
The kingdoms
of decadence
and decay. . .
of the morrow,
a consent
of distaste.
Aaron Kosminski, you were not Jack the Ripper
as many would have thought.
You have not kept a dissecting knife under your coat
as Raskolnikov had kept the ax.
You were not addicted to opium.
You liked the verse, The Hound of Heaven
and that’s Finis Coronat Opus -
the violence did not seized your hand,
there was no sound of dripping blood.
Your eyes, motionless with horror,
were not fixed on crime.
You were just like Jozef Konrad,
and myself, countryman emigrant,
only searching for peaceful life.
© A.R. Wielgus 2015