Long Defendant Poems
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While strolling through court corridors, many see many in grief,
but not me, I see opportunity,
such as with this court case now being held before me presently.
The defendant killed a college student while on a drunken driving spree
and this wasn't his first offense apparently,
but the judge decided to set him free
due to some legal loop hole technicality.
The decease's family was devastated understandably.
On some level I understand their frustration and grief,
I just can't feel it or feel anything emotionally.
Enjoy your borrowed time sir for as long as you can freely.
My dark passenger has informed me that we are destined to meet
and on that encounter your life will end, ended by me.
No more havoc upon any more innocent lives will you ever again reap.
I'm not trying to serve justice for anybody.
I'm attempting to quench the uncontrollable hunger of the monster within me
without preying upon the innocent and weak.
I'm a monster with a conscience it would appear to be.
If it were to be foe, I could bear it; He was my friend;
Why should he betray me? In public that too; at the end;
I kept him aside like a bone separated from meat,
Avoided the rarest of places where our shadows might meet...!
Public bus burning case of nineteen seventy seven,
Had peculiar facts and fancies fermenting like leaven;
My sister and brother-in-law had engulfed by fire,
Leaving their only son survived of all dangers dead-dire...!
Those survived, like the escapees of great Titanic wreck,
Claimed for compensations; wherein my nephew, little speck;
With me, as his advocate sought his mother's ornaments,
To give him as right of inheritance and sentiments...!
My friend, defendant, established as though it's an urchin's,
No doubt, our relation, like drought-cracked earth, got deterrence;
I worked hard to look-after my nephew; to make him great,
He's an entrepreneur now; I felt, I had won my fate...!
I wanted to know, why my friend did it for me; for what?
You are always for your nephew - he said- who is for that...
Friendship should be understood as loving service he said,
I understood; cried and embraced him; all differences shred...!
Could I call this forgiveness, yet? No. This, indeed, is love.
Has loving my friend, any limit? Love comes from above;
Giving and taking and supposed agape has its limit,
Doesn't forgiveness of less forgiven cross all summit...?
03 July 2022
Forgiveness Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Here we are in the village of Morristown, New Jersey.
It is September the sixth in the year of our Lord, 1833.
French immigrant Antoine LeBlanc went on a killing spree.
He took the lives of two rather prominent citizenry.
Antoine murdered Mr. and Mrs. Sayre, and their servant Phoebe.
The citizens of the town considered the deed so dastardly.
It only took twenty minutes for the decision of the jury.
With overwhelming evidence, the defendant was found guilty.
LeBlanc was afforded all the formalities of a fair hearing.
Judge Gabriel Ford handed down the sentence of death by hanging.
A crowd of about ten thousand are gathered in the public square.
Witnesses have come to see the execution from everywhere.
A rope around LeBlanc’s neck will propel him into the air.
Until he is dead, Antoine will be hanging in despair.
“That’s not enough”, cried some of the witnesses in their fears.
They wanted LeBlanc’s skin tanned and made into souvenirs.
Wallets, purses, lampshades, and book jackets were fashioned from his hide.
That is a gruesome fate that certainly cannot be denied.
Here is something else that I have to say:
Some of those relics of the infamous criminal still survive today.
I thank both wikipedia.org online encyclopedia and the website of Weird N.J. for information I obtained to write this poem.
"ALL RISE! THIS HONORABLE COURT IS NOW IN SESSION!"
I whack the gavel down, I'm a Bailiff by profession.
Another challenging day in the hallowed court room begins,
As hapless souls appear before the judge to recount their sins!
The cases on the docket really run the gamut, you see,
From a neighbor's barking mutt to murder in the first degree!
Some folks want a jury trial which is their constitutional right,
Praying a sympathetic jury will relieve them from their plight!
The judge ponders what to do with those poor forlorn souls,
Whose misdeeds have washed them upon on perilous shoals.
A defendant asks the inscrutable judge not to remand him to jail,
While his lawyer pleads earnestly for his release on bail!
The judge's pace is frantic, he's got a lot on his mind.
He's lost his specs, I say, "Judge, justice is supposed to be blind!"
My inane remark makes him guffaw and seems to ease the strain.
I find his bifocals and he dispenses justice once again!
A Bailiff's job is hectic and there's little time for leisure.
Loyalty to the judge is paramount since you serve at his pleasure,
Tactfully but firmly communicating with all sorts of humanity,
Supporting the judge and the community with the utmost fidelity!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Ah Such A Great Night...
To Fish In The Cyber Sea
Always does this generic guy abhor
inflicting pain and suffering,
hence I haint n'er fished before,
and even metaphorically
referencing piscine creatures
(strictly as prosaic analogy),
aye reel lee deplore
causing deliberate suffering vehemently
contradicts my credo,
dogma, ethos, et cetera
within and/or without, the
webbed, wide world
this *****sapien doth explore
and as an aspiring scrivener
(fraught with floor rid sweaty palms
even in the dead of winter
offer poems galore
already written alluding to the
unpleasant physiological hoar
rubble sensation of dripping
(nee sopping) wet hands,
a curse that follows me indoor
or out, thus no surprise,
an aversion to mingle,
no matter socialization even jure
re: duty with defendant
whereat, me complicit sharing
Matthew Scott Harris namesake
accused of outrageously unreasonable
po' wet tick rhyming scheme
(but nonguilty exemption status
decreed since accused ache'n to yours truly
receives social security disability)
would be a more welcome palliative
versus less wick
Kurd substitute then Cap' kanger
rue, and ameliorate self imposed
sole lit aery isolation and
on the flip (Wilson) side keeping
streets safe, cuz temptation
dust newt not lure
me into a life of crime) more
or less chuckling,
that profuse perspiration,
would be mon nor
matt heave, while
accomplices fall down
laughing in tears,
and thence the poor
seer suckers nabbed
(cautionary fruitless
canter berry tale), and
(whew) not sullying
only whetting my
steely slippery rapport.
THREE SIDES TO EVERY STORY
There’s the prosecution with firm resolve
With a jutting chin, in that righteous pose
Poking accusations, seeking the conviction
And trying to expose all attempted fiction
But with that one last chance at the close
The facts, around which it should revolve
The defence, allowed just a little latitude
Offers reasons why police were mistaken
Upon such factors the case is dependent
And seeking sympathy for the defendant
Claiming that due diligence was forsaken
Open hands, an almost pleading attitude
Then the jury, some keen but others not
Expenses paid yet not covering lost wages
The judge is expecting our decision today
But we’re all still unconvinced, either way
And this trial has been going on for ages
Let us just say guilty with what we’ve got
Bang the gavel. Bang it again.
It's Judgment Day for my children.
Bang the gavel. Bang it again.
I sit on my Throne, a figure on High
To pronounce Judgment from my seat in the sky.
It's Judgment Day for my children. They tremble before me.
I sit on my Throne, a figure on High.
Three sons and a daughter down on their knees. Begging for mercy.
It's Judgment Day. Bang the gavel. Bang it again.
The first defendant arises. My only daughter.
She kneels before me, head bowed, hands clasped. Begging for mercy.
She recites her litany of offenses against me.
Should I cut off her head or merely sever her knee?
Now my first son, a strongman, comes to his feet
Massive muscles trembling before me
He cut me off hard at age thirty-six
Not a phone call or test, not even a card
I ponder whether I should burn him to death in a tub of pig lard.
Let him beg for mercy.
My last two sons stand up together. They're good boys, respectful,
kind to me and kind to my wife.
There's no doubt in my mind that I'll be sparing their life
It's Judgment Day for my children. They tremble before Me.
I sit on my Throne, a figure on High.
I call my daugher to the bench: "What do you have to say
in your defense, miserable wench?"
She breaks down in tears that melt down her years. Before me stands
a mere lass of nine.
"I'm so sorry, Dad," she whimpers. "I treated you like dirt," she simpers.
"Off with her head," I shout, proclaiming her sentence.
I sit on my Throne, a figure on High.
******************
But I am not God. I have no gavel to bang nor Throne to sit on
Neither am I any figure on High.
My judgment is flawed, as are my decisions
All of them models of judicial imprecision
Only one thing I know and I know that thing only:
God, the True Judge, requires us only
To act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly before Him.
So, my just action will be
to love mercy and walk humbly:
"Come back, my daughter.
Return, my son.
I forgive you completely!
~ Can you forgive me?"
June 28, 2018
Visions of you
I see a knight in armour – one of King Arthur’s – ready to do battle
at the drop of a word – for Queen, country, god and ego.
I see Babe Ruth, knocking balls out of the game,
in order to be the winning team – for god country and soul.
I see Amelia Earhart, taking on the air, the skies, the world
– for ego, spirit, soul, heart and the abused child / woman in her.
I see Muhammad Ali, putting on the gloves in order to knock out
all wood be challengers to her position, control, power, rightness.
I see a chess pro, taking out the pawns, the knights, the bishops,
rooks, the queen – check mating the king – putting him in his place,
- under her thumb, under her queen - winning the game.
I see a friend chocking up in the crunch – makes the wrong choices –
ends up missing, sinking the eight ball that she is now behind.
Never winning the game she so desperately wants to play well.
I see a friend who needs so much more than she is,
who needs so much more than she ever gets,
who needs to be a lover and loved,
who needs to be loved as a lover.
B. J. “A” 2
July 29th, 2003
Visions of you
Part Two
De ja vu - I see a sergeant, major, barking out orders, to all,
as if this world were her own private army.
I see a little Hitler, – mustache and all – trying to rule
her tiny, little universe – make it fit her ideal dream.
I see a Johnnie Cochran, and his dream team ( your demons ),
O J Simpson, the defendant, convincing herself and the world
she is truth, she is right, she is might, and as Jonnie Cochran,
the lawyer, the mouth piece shooting down - all reason, all logic,
all attempts – by denying, by lying, by deception, by trying
to baffle brains with bull ****, by throwing every irrelevant
- verbal diarrhoeaed – thought and word into the fray,
in order to distract, avoid the issues, the truths, to be right.
I see a Jim Jones, a Joseph Smith, preaching her gospel,
a gospel according to her - designed to have the sheep,
the blind, the week, the lost souls of this planet
to follow her path without question, and in the end,
sacrifice “ ALL ” for the sake of her fragile soul,
her floundering, lost spirit, her ill ego.
I see a friend, with a heart of gold, if truth be told.
More of a friend to those who have done her wrong.
then to those who truly care, about her welfare.
B. J. “A ” 2
July 29th, 2003
In a court where justice stands, A person, and People's fate rests in our hands.
An individual took a bold stand tall, Against a system that's hurt us all.
With a gun, he made his case, Not for killing, but to face
The power that caused so much pain, in healthcare's name, he sought to gain.
The jury has the power grand, To change the outcome with hearts in hand.
Their job is not just to see the law, But to find what's right, without a flaw.
Jury nullification means this: To say, "This defendant, we dismiss."
For justice's sake, they can decide, To change the rules that we abide.
A verdict not just guilt or free, But a stand against what shouldn't be.
For in their hearts, they hold the key, A single choice can set us free.
So let the jury speak their mind, To make our future fair and kind.
In their hands, a chance to right, The wrongs that keep us in the night.
Jury nullification can right many wrongs within our nation.
because we arrested a suspect
he must be guilty.
the complainant said that there was no perpetrator,
that’s what the report said
in clean boxes
and stamped ink certainty.
no room for hesitation there—
no trembling human maybe,
no “we might be wrong”
no blood on the margins of procedure.
just a name turned into a case number
and a number turned into guilt,
like the typewriter never learned doubt
and never wanted to.
wanting, no needing a conviction this opportunity
may not come again,
causing harm to the complainant never mattered,
like perfume on a locked cell door.
and everyone nods
because it’s easier that way
than looking too long
at the wrong face in the mirror of authority.
because after the report was written
the truth never mattered.
and truth is just another signature
at the bottom of a form
nobody reads twice,
not even the ones who wrote it,
not even the ones
who have to live then die inside of it.
and the defendant given only two weeks
to prepare for trial,
the state attorney introducing an empty paper bag
that caught the attention of the jury,
without ever being opened.
while telling the jurors that the burden of proof
fall's on the defendant to prove
that he is innocent of those heinous charges.