A double murderer
Shot before a firing squad
Justice or revenge?
An eye for an eye
So, the old law book conveys
Punishment for sin
Society’s way
To rid town square of wrongs
Yet, death row awaits
The hangman stands by
The masses don’t know his name
Pulls the trap door latch
The cycle repeats
With no real decrease in crime
No one ever wins
Justice will make deals
With the guilty to win cases
Takes her blindfold off
Death for some killers
Others given terms or pleas
For the same offense
Lex talionis
The law of retaliation
Not meted out fairly
The clinking toward an adventure.
The door latch of an old manor
to enter an obscure maze
and defy the legend.
A basement with tombs
and oubliettes.
And a dart
to meet
death.
It's no true door without a latch,
After closure,still easy catch:
Robber to one's helpless things snatch;
A firm structure turns a bad thatch
And up with things one starts to patch!
It's no Good Gate which lacks a latch:
Could never an invader match,
Who'd across it march with his batch...
Woe to a door met as a batch,
Which carpentry needed a latch:
The Devil's plot agent shall hatch.
He recently turned one
Got his first hair cut
blue jeans with pockets.
His gait has changed
almost as if he knows
he’s headed somewhere
not now, maybe
when he figures out the door latch.
He knows there is power
in the remote, the cell phone.
He also knows what’s in his diaper
But seems confused
as to how it got there.
I know that he knows
more than he is letting on.
I think all babies do
and keep their secrets
because they know
we can’t be trusted.
I talk to him of great things,
rainbows, rabbits, reindeer
and the essence of who he is,
the miracle of who he may become,
not drinking from the dog bowl.
He recently turned one
Still figuring out the pockets.
John G. Lawless
©9/25/2022
everything came from the back door
a peace offering sandwich
something to be lost on the clothes line
and when the door slamed close
chickens scramed with their necks crained back
in their traditional drinking mode
the sound of the back door latch
was forever in thier collective memories
handed down in their genes
the door shut as they drank their last
their soft fluffy feathers turned to down
thoughts left on trianged ground
like the hard edges of earth was the cure
mixed with ash from cooking fires
their poop was like sin and cancer combined
scraped from the feet of snotty nosed boys
corpes stacked like the forgiveness of all
on weathered picnic tables feathered
as if a calibration for nutrition
was calculated in pounds of chicken heads
feathers, bodies and poop
Way back then when I was two,
I couldn't even tie my shoe.
But I could stand up on a chair
to retrieve my teddy bear.
Way back then when I was four,
I'd sneak out the doggie door,
cause the door latch was too high
for such a little guy.
Way back then when I was six,
I could really do some tricks.
I would climb way up in trees
and hang there from my knees.
Way back then when I was eight,
I sure loved to roller skate.
It was always quite a thrill
to go flying down a hill.
Way back then when I was ten,
I for swimming had a yen.
From a cliff beside the falls
I did lots of cannonballs.
When I think of stuff I did
when I was just a kid,
I'm stumped how one so bold
could end up getting old.
January 23, 2016