Best Violent Death Poems
I heard about your violent death...
And had not known about your poems.
I went searching for them, but it seems as if
Someone must have put them away.
Perhaps they would be just too lovely for our ears to hear...
Perhaps the words would be more worthy
Than our repentant hearts might be permitted to feel?
And I am left looking out of my upstairs window
At the mass of white blossoms beautifying the pale cherry trees;
Not even a wisp of wind ...the whole World is left
Silently grasping for breath;
And the fraught blossoms dares not even tremble
Should they lose their tenuous grip upon the crowded
Black twigs.
Daughter
Your face mirrors mine,
As mine does my mothers.
Your smile is a smirk
That quickly explodes
Into sublime lightness.
Your skin has a blush
As does plums true wine,
When young men turn their heads
And whisper your name to each other.
Your hair casts a curtain
Over your face . It acts as a veil to
Guard your thoughts and hide your moods.
It falls long and silky to your waist,
and parts in a sliver,to allow one eye to spy.
If I could love you more
It would surely be like a violent death,
For I would faint, become breathless,
And my heart would burst forth from my breast
My life has been in free fall since your birth.
A never ending plunge into bottomless depths,
Fearing for your wellness and happiness.
I live only to hear you call my name
Hopefully with joy, and not with tears.
On that face that mirrors mine.
Rosabella met her maker on Halloween night
It was an unnatural death . . .
Death met her in the maple forest
On the edge of town
She lay in the brittle leaves
Her eyes starring in horror
It was a violent death . . .
A dark veil of hair fell across an open eye
The stars twinkled down on Rosabella
She looked perfectly beautiful
Except she was dead . . .
Such a small wound to drain all her blood
A mere mark on her white throat
She was a fool . . .
To go walking on Halloween night
What could have lured her to the forest
With every form of ghost, goblin, devil
and vampire lurking about . . .
They took her to the town morgue
Draped her body with a virgin white sheet, so white
And there she lay waiting
Until . . . .
______________________________
August 26, 2012
Poetry/Free Verse/Halloween Night
Copyright Protected, ID 08- 416-335-26
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Halloween,
sponsor, Skat, Judged 09/2012
Honorable Mention
I was a little girl holding mothers hand-
unprepared for the harsh and brutal image
of my sister being run over by a truck
the image raw graphic violent and terrifying
I will always remember the chilling scream
my mother screaming and screaming and screaming
it will haunt me forever-
the bleakness the reality powerful fervent
perhaps that is why we were so close
mother and me
until her death we shared this raw emotion
just us-
the scene was garish
a little girl lay dead
in her sweet pink dress
I was naïve unprepared for such an intense
violent death
I was a just a flower growing
so I folded my petals up around me
and there I dwelled unspeaking just staring
into nothingness
mother went to a raw place painful and lost
only the love of a grandma
could reach my shattered tender soul-
she was uneducated and inexperienced
but with untrained skill she opened each
petal one by one and each raw emotion was revealed
somehow mother and I recovered in time (or did we)
and life rumbled on
but still when I go to the wind blown cemetery
and I touch the name suzanne
it all comes flooding back the undiluted raw image
and that penetrating scream to goes on for infinity
and this has made me the poet
I am
a poet born from raw exposed pain
______________________________
July 29, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/raw emotions
Copyright Protected, ID 15-695-291-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Raw,
sponsor, Catie Lindsey
Fourth Place
Nations and nationalities, you are not chocolate,
you are the sweetest Jam cooked from bitter labour!
You are the original egg, the supreme cause of war and peace!
You are the homeland of the rising sun and moon.
You are the cameras recording
from all angles the smashed egg. You know everything,
but have no one to add it all up,
so I'm glad that you're both there and not there,
I see you and I don't see you.
Nations and nationalities,
self-love is the caries of the soul.
What enterprise of violent death
wants to remain unpunished?
Nations, have you inquired of each other's health?
Have you dreamt of a homeland
where the sun and moon do not rise,
a homeland without the vain pride of the envious,
a homeland without sexual gymnastics,
a homeland without boxing money,
have you dreamt of the homeland as a full glass
of love with no jealousy?!
Long live the full glass of love without jealousy!
O my tv's had a gray, gray screen
Since it blew up last June.
The radio plays no melody.
The piano's out of tune.
Alas! My ipod's ceased to work.
My laptop's gone kaput.
My car just died a violent death,
And now I am on foot.
When HBO plays great, my dears,
When car and gadgets run,
I'll pay thy exorbitant fees, my dears;
Then we'll all be having fun.
So fare thee well, my saviors dear.
I'll call thee in a while.
Take care of these, young fix-it men.
They're really worth a pile!
Robert Burns, Scottish poet, 1700's
entered in Julia Ward's A Light to Like Poetry Contest on June 25, 2017
I was at work in Chicago when shots were fired in Memphis. I had no idea that shortly thereafter, cities would also be on fire.
It was close to quitting time when my boss said to me, "He's dead!". I do not remember my reply, but no doubt confusion filled my head.
So I boarded a city bus for home from 'The Loop' to the Westside. But before I made it home, the flames had already lit up the night sky.
I have had many a peaceful dream as well as some horrific nightmares. This was clearly not a dream but a living front-roe-seat nightmare.
From the streetcar, I could see mayhem and a city out of control. Aghast, bewildered, filled with disbelief, eye to eye with hopelessness.
There had been progress, but the wilderness wandering would continue.
A young man of 18, I was both sad for Dr. King and shocked for America.
Massive violence had erupted upon the violent death of a non-violent man. Irony defied imagination as logic, reason, and sanity bowed to emotion and passion.
Presently, as I write this on the west coast, it's 5:30 PM in Chicago, just about the time that I received the news 50 years ago. 50 years ago today, the voice of 'The Dreamer' was silenced, giving way to the alarming siren sounds of fire trucks and police cars.
04042018cjPSFB
Maimed in Miami’s neon glare,
Dead in Dallas under blood-red skies,
Cut short in California’s golden air,
Obliterated where Oklahoma lies.
Consumed in Colorado’s mountain shade,
Fired in Florida’s humid, fevered breath,
Killed in Kentucky’s shadowed glade,
Torn in Texas by the hand of death.
Murdered in Michigan’s cold embrace,
Shattered in Chicago’s restless night,
Nabbed in New York’s frantic pace,
Critical where Connecticut’s lights burn bright.
Gunned in Georgia’s sultry, silent fields
Mad men wielding iron forged in rage,
Liberty twisted for the fool who yields
to chaos, where no reason turns the page.
They cannot spell the sacred worth of breath,
nor grasp the fragile pulse that time has lent;
a culture fractured, courting violent death,
where guns replace the quiet argument.
Yesterday it stained the Texas plain,
tomorrow’s shadow falls on unknown sod
in that wide land where logic lies in chains,
and steel alone decides the will of God.
Reprehensible Savagery ©
'Pon reading tragic headline...,
aye experienced grief alone,
no matter the killer (Chris Watts,
thirty-three years
of Frederick, Colorado) unknown
to me, the sheer brutality,
whereat he killed Shanann Watts,
Bella and Celeste,
his once adorably beautiful,
now ceased wife
and daughters ages thirty four,
four, and three respectively
(purportedly via strangulation)
reflexively did i groan
particularly, the propensity to kill
with in sinew weighted bone
times gone by,
where expletive laced epithets
incessantly did drone
nearly activating trip wires,
a blood dripping knife,
would be shown
to police, unless...I took my life,
cuz immediate regret would well up
resulting with an agonizing moan...
hence after perusing morbid
(somewhat inexplicably fascinating)
screaming tragedy ado
admit sadness overtook this chap,
what wrought motive,
(albeit premeditated)
for him to construe
such an atrocious, ferocious,
heinous, et cetera grew
some crime toward innocent wife
(she supposedly knew)
intuitively felt and possibly
foresaw the slew
how her life (a grotesque
mass square aid )
would meet one gross violent death
intimating marriage frayed
ranking as "FAKE,"
or Eff for failing grade
yet tidbits publicized twas shaky match
from get go, no heaven made
nor wedded bliss -
her precious life paid
as well two preschoolers
(cute as a button),
and expectant third progeny (male fetus)
existence extinguished by, "killer"
the husband, who went
into a deadly tie raid
now guilt upon
his conscious heavily weighed.
Pandora's Box
The skies rip apart
Filling with a hot white fire
The winds blow both hot and cold
Burning and freezing
Birds are replaced by black dragons
Smoking cinders fall like rain
Covering the ground below
Burying people as they run
The ancient gods rise up from the ashes
Full of vengeance and hate
Desiring peace they fight for humanity
What has caused the world such pain?
Pandora's Box has been opened
Hope has died a violent death
The last chance was taken from man
Rains will wash away the ash
The sky will heal
Man will survive
He always has
The gods will return from whence they came
But Pandora's Box will remain empty
Devoid of all hope
Like the willow leaves
Merely! runs forward.
Then soothingly or almost
the shadow of shadow
A distance in the dark
towards the road,
went to evanescence
Has been under
The sword's coughed,
Jumpy to:(the sudden violent death)
Right now! Gently of life _ shackled.
In smoothness, blessedness and in
The fragile beauty sleeps!
Wearisome at his land!
Wanderer in his sea!
Exiled near the top of death!
And near his green hamlet -
lost his glory which --
(aged and perished).
On sand soaked with blood,
two young men are breathing hard.
The taller one has armor,
a sword and a net.
His opponent has only
an arm guard and a dagger,
but no encumbrance.
Thus, moving quicker, this man
avoids the constant thrusts of
the taller one’s sword.
Finding his chance, he lunges
and his dagger pierces through
unprotected flesh.
Crimson red blood gushes forth
from the tall man’s thick midriff.
The crowd screams delight!
Spurred on by their approval,
the shorter man strikes again.
This time his dagger
finds muscle, sinew and bone.
Hot pain consumes the tall man,
but he can't cry out.
His life blood is draining and
the net and sword are useless.
By oath he is bound
to endure a violent death. . .
and so he lifts his finger.
To his friend - his opponent -
he offers his throat.
No mercy handkerchiefs wave.
The editor gives thumbs down.
As his fellow man
buries the blade in his throat,
a young man embraces death.
The death of this slave
is the gladiator’s lot.
Another slave lives today,
but his death also
is imminent; then he too
will finally know freedom.
For Amy Green's
Choka for a Chokehold Poetry Contest
A Light Nightmare
My soul lays dormant in the chamber of a revolver
Silent, still, ready to explode into the oblivion of violent death
Fear keeps the shiny metallic surface of my being a compact shell
The last traces of love have vanished with the light of a dimming reality
My dead eyes move and perceive but refuse to see
My hands shake with the tremble of fear playing a dull melody
BANG! The light floods into the void, the universe is born
Sweat, tears, longing, anger, sadness, hate, repentance, forgiveness, love
Ego dissolves, life force flows through the ether
I hear radar waves pulsing hitting my sailing soul
Again and again without end and without change
My eyes begin to open and peek through the crusty curtain of sleep
I reach over impulsively and turn the alarm off on my phone
My hands no longer shake and the illusion of the revolver has left
The light pours in like a cold bucket of water
Did I escape the metal encasing of my soul?
Is this the light I saw after the BANG!
Am I in heaven?
Or hell?
Or simply being with the image of nothingness haunting my dreams
When you have Darkness fill your life
And the light leaves with a violent death
A feeling that flees leaving you with strife
To keep going onwards or to draw that last breath.
The Struggle has been lost
The Blood pours out of the Defeated
Energies from constant conflict are exhaust
The men who lie dying their life cheated
The defeated fall finally beaten
The fires of desire in their souls conquered
By Death Their Souls were eaten
Unneeded death by the incapability of concord
In the end all things die
So in the end there’s no need to cry
I met my maker on Halloween night, Halloween night, a night for horror,
It was an unnatural death; It was full of fright;
Death met me in a maple forest, The rain was falling,
On the edge of town. Oh the night was so dark.
I lay in the brittle leaves, I heard a man's harsh breath,
My eyes stared in horror; The forest was full of fog;
It was a violent death, A Dracula came with sharp teeth,
A dark veil of hair across my eyes. I had seen his dark silhouette following.
Stars twinkled down on me, Why had I come for a walk,
I looked beautiful, except; The man had skin so white;
I was dead, I should have run away,
It was a small wound. When he reached for me, I screamed.
All my blood was drained, A mere mark on my white throat,
I was a fool; To go walking on Halloween night alone:
And why this maple forest, With every form of ghost and vampire lurking,
They took me to the morgue. Draped my body in a sheet.
Oh I was white, And that sheet was white,
And I lay there waiting; Then I felt the sheet being pulled away;
I had an odd feeling, I felt his wrist on my lips,
Then I was drinking with thirst. And I knew I would be forever, undead.
______________________________
Oct0ber 2, 2015
Free Verse
For the contest, Your Own Favourite Halloween Poem
Sponsor, Carol Eastman
First Place