Long Hangings Poems
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I thought it was oh so nice that Lady Florence Artifice lived in her house with goats.
She dressed in overalls of a man, with layers of bibbed overalls, dresses and coats
There was no other livestock in our neighborhood, but I thought inside was really good.
She was an oddity to others in town, but my twin and I loved it when she was around.
Her stories were terrifyingly thrilling, about hangings and people who tarred others.
We kids kept these tales to ourselves, not wanting to be censored by our mothers.
We followed her and Kneely, her head goat, up and down the block when she came by.
She would not talk to the grownups; they had no time for her; I always wondered why.
Strange, odd, weird, I heard them whisper sometimes about Lady Florence Artifice.
These small town Iowa women on my block were cliquish and clannish, and not very nice.
My mother thought it was hilarious that the kids loved this old crazy woman so much.
She allowed us leeway to run up to her garden and help her clean her rabbit hutch.
Florence knew the name of every flower, bush, vine, plant, mushroom, seed and tree.
She kept up a constant chatter that always amazed and delighted nine-year-old me.
She told us about killing cobras, rattlesnakes, lions, tigers, and one time a grizzly bear.
It was a sad day in the lives of us children when Lady Florence and Kneely were no longer there.
Great country rich, land of my birth, that cradled my childhood and taught me of
Worth.'
Land of struggles, and dreamtime lore.'
A country of invention, and of weathers raw.'
Do we have an easy history.? I must answer no.' I owe us; that much at the
least.'
In my mix of emotions, i shall try to so'
Well, to put a relief of our history in this
I'll tell.'
Of a crowns avairice, of some humans in
Chains, others free agents who came to
Make gain'
They came to Australia..with expectations
And dreams, some of great horror' they did
Create scenes.'
Then there were the existing, the Aboriginal
Mobs, living for millenia with their corroberee councils..
Hunters and trackers, survivalists and they paid their costs, leaving newborn infants, in
The open to die.' If the extra life would be too much? This was a part of their bush lives; to oft..
Then there were the guvenors, and officers of the crown, instructed to tame the country.'
With their own views.' As they built the settlements, and kept their convicts
Down.'
There were lashings and hangings, And genocide too.' All tasmanian Native
Peoples wiped out..Its quite true.'the decades advanced..
( The boomerang factor )
From the past collision of cultures, a new country was emerging..Herb Elliot was to become a champion, Lionel Rose Evonne Goolagong,
Shane Gould..We were really flying.'
In the 1960s and 1970s there was an atmosphere of change and hope.' A wish
To be more unified, and a regret.' I tell
No jokes.. I ask all Aussies can we
Go back.? And fix the wrongs we did not
Do.'
Or do we move forward on Australia day.'
And all the days that follow too.? Can we
Be free of trauma.? Yet refer to lessons past.? I advise resume in the ' true blue spirit ' and give the world a blast.' Avoid the
Forigen influencers who want to rake dead
Coals..' Only to enslave us all..!!! Now
get up' be your best; be really bold.!!!
YESTERDAY VIEWED AND RENEWED AGAIN
It is being pontificated
that we should be on the right side
Of history;
But if we were to do so,
We would be on the wrong side
Of ourstory:-
While many of us have won
The jeopardy of their history,
We’ve lost the truth of ourstory:-
Oh, it had nothing to do with “Trebecks”,
Just the lies wrapped around ourstory’s neck;
And the oppressors dancing with all the stars
While forgetting about all the racist wars
As they stream law and order’s crying shame
And the veiling of our injustice of the same.
Today they still say, the more things change
The more they stay the same;
To believe such is really to be a bit deranged,
Or one who has become insane:-
Hey…remember, those before us did more with less;
Leaving us less to do at our best:-
In the flowing waterfall of ourstory’s victories:
We’ve survived 400+ years of slavery!
We’ve survived the hangings of strange fruits!
We’ve survived the KKK’s racist war bombings!
We’ve survived the Jim Crow’s droppings!
We’ve survived unjust shootings and kneeings!
We’ve survived so much Sisyphus rock-like debilitation!
Oh, though we may not be exactly where we really
Think we ought to be,
Let’s praise God almighty, we’re not where we once were;
On this, we all can agree.
Thus, despite the blood-red devastating state of the nation today,
Nothing will halt our ebon liberty:-
As we continue our liberating labors of love, let’s be forever aware:
Only the worker dies, the labor goes on:-
Remembering Mrs. Sully always makes my face break out into smiling mode.
Her face was as craggy as a grave, there was an aluminum tooth on the left.
When she smiled, it gleamed with pure happiness, making her stories even better.
When I first met her, her ferocious stories kept my gentle side terrified, for hours.
I thought she was the Hansel and Gretel witch, because she looked like my vision of her.
There was a unique smell around Mrs. Sully, an earthy, vegetable-type smell.
She was always in her garden, killing snakes, big black ones, with large mouths.
She relished showing us how she whacked them with her hoe, hacking them to pieces.
Although short, stooped over and old, she was a force no snake wanted to encounter.
Her stories were full of spit and vim, anger, and devilishly mean murders and such.
If you decided to share a story, she did not hear it, she did not pause if you wanted to talk.
You had to walk along beside her, acting like wearing two or three house dresses
over each other under a pair of overalls was normal, seeing the bibs and lace stick out like crazy.
Her expertise was incessant talking, not waiting for social cues or societal nonsense like that.
She knew about all the hangings that had ever happened in the county, and relished telling
About them in full-force detail, hoping to keep us on our toes, ripe with worry.
All you have to do is mention the words Mrs. Sully, and the old-timers smile, remembering
Those awful hangings, and what happened after the rope was yanked, because we all knew.
Sometimes I swear I see her in her old black hat, pulled down nearly to her eyes,
Stooped carriage, pushing a rusty brown wheelbarrow full of produce, from one farm to another.
We were lucky, our house was smack in the middle, so we would run out and hear the tale of the day.
She owned two properties, a block and a half from each other, one of them had goats.
If we were really lucky, she would have one of her mean goats on a little leash and we could walk our block with it, as it butted us with its angry head.
Rumors said the goats slept in the house with her. It did not matter to me, she was a character
I will never forget her, sometimes picturing that amazing aluminum tooth, which told excellent
Stories. Stories I do not dare tell my own sweet grandchildren, as they stay up too late already.
Childhood’s no longer a time to chill,
We’ve found ways child’s very child to kill!
Time then to draw a line—
Every child's no Einstein,
S@tire that enough of truth has still.
___________________________________
Happenings | 04.01.2020 |
Topic: humour, childhood, parents
Poet’s note: I see an infant in a cradle. Instead of colourful sundry hangings over the cradle shaft (watching which my generation grew up to be a happy-go-plucky child), I see label-banners that read: JEE, IAS, NEET, GMAT, CAT, GRE, all hurdles that a student has to pass for a bright career attracting good salaries, and his parents filled with aspirations looking over . What a way to raise a child!
Despair of spectres whispered, John heard it muttered
Fears spoken, centuries of shame sunk into stone
Hanging tree hoisted him, feet above ground fluttered
Rope bound neck bulged, blood starved eyes shuttered
Aghast, entertainment starved spectators absorbed gore
Under his breath they heard it uttered,
" I am among the lowliest, and the last"
Sentiment collected by authorities, soon to outlaw
Heinous hangings of criminals and martyrs
Testiment to the cruelty, trademark of cessation
Clouds of purest doves spun above the atrociousity
Tyburn' s turbulent history viewed at Marble Arch
Has John's pledge to thank for returning compassion
14th September 2020
For: Line Gauthier 's Contest
Tyburn Collaboration max. 14
"Nicholas Street Jail is a real place"
The building is imposing, massive and fearful,
built in 1862 as a jail and gallows for criminals;
the conditions were inhumane and appalling,
on the top floor was death row with only one way out.
It closed in 1972 (hangings had not been done in years,)
renovating was done but the creepiness remained;
one hundred and fifty unmarked graves were found,
deemed a heritage building it was turned into a hostel.
It is said to be haunted by the men executed there,
the dark cells can be rented on that top death floor;
small cells with tiny barred windows the only light,
some have seen ghosts standing at the end of their cots.
There are creaking cell gates and heavy footsteps heard,
wailing and weeping and praying all the night long;
on a dare- I rented a top floor cell with bars,
and was told the gallows still remained down the hall.
I went to my bunk not really believing the stories,
but in the night hands were reaching, pulling me;
I screamed but no one was there,
restless, I started walking a dark narrow hall.
There was a man walking also and I wanted to talk,
hello, sir, I called but he did not stop as I followed;
he opened a door and went through, I hesitated a moment,
then, I opened the door, it was the gallows . . .
His was hanging, his neck broken, his eyes staring,
I tried to scream but no sound came as hands pulled me;
decomposed dead were reaching and all had broken necks,
I was screaming when my body dropped into an empty void.
Found in the morning, crumpled and weeping,
talking hysterically about being hanged by decomposed men;
muttering about being dead, dead, dead,
and from the dark side of my mind I cannot escape . . . ever
The mental hospital where I reside is like a jail cell,
where ghosts hang me each night in the gallows,
where I fall into that empty vast void,
screaming, screaming, screaming . . . in the silence.
______________________________
September 25, 2022 (edit from September 19, 2016)
Poetry/Verse/One From the Dark Side of My Poetry
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1490-294-25
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Submitted into the contest, From The Dark Side
sponsor, John Lawless, Judged 10/04/2022
Ninth Place
My house blew clear to Texas the cowboy said.
His spittle hit a saddle, and my face turned red.
He was crude for sure, but his stories were great.
I waited to hear more, and it was worth the wait.
He had stories about tornadoes and rattlesnakes too.
Shared some horrific details about hangings before he was through.
Why do you listen to that old coot? My mama said.
She does not know the beauty of an old crazy man’s head.
He can entertain the best of us with stories of far away.
Much farther than most of us will ever travel if Ma has her say.
“Past Abilene that old house began to fall apart, he said with a grin.
I love his stories, his mannerisms, his invented words, and his fantastical vim.
She’s coming! Mom said this in a sing-songy way.
She knew that my twin and I were fascinated with Florence,
she was like our new toy. We had been afraid of her for years
due to her wizen face and her propensity to look like an older
version of the witch from The Wizard of Oz.
We ran out there like salivating puppies,
waiting for Florence to regale us with stories of hangings
or killing snakes, stories that gave us nightmares.
We were ten, ten-year-old girls live for nightmares, right?
She was leading Charming, one of her favorite goats,
as she laboriously walked toward us, head down, black hat,
nearly touching her shoulders. Her white gray hair was flying
out on one side. She stopped right before she reached us,
not looking up.
“Hey, Florence!” my twin and I both said at the
exact same time. I could tell she was smiling.
“Came to see Charming, huh?” she asked.
Then she giggled, but it was more like a cackle.
A cackle that used to terrorize us, but now it delighted us.
She was our new toy, she and Charming.
I don't want flowers
You know I grow my own
I don't want bull**** wall hangings
To put on my home
I want my soul to be watered
And treated like a flower
And instead of a wall hanging how about YOU actually
"Enjoy the little things" now wouldn't that be amazing
I don't want a card. I'd rather just be held
Not your gifts out of sorry!
That were thrown down near me.
You came back home with hallmark
Material doesn't mean a thing to me when
First thing in the morning
Laying in bed, you left
I still could hear you yelling in my head
Mother's Day is hell
So I held my babies
I gave the flowers to my daughter
She put the hanging outside
I didn't open up the card
I wiped the tears that I cried
We made beautiful cards for our neighbors
We laughed and we smiled
My children are my life
So I'm celebrating with them
Never going to let a man
Make me feel this low again
I'm supposed to feel appreciated
And I do by my kids, so guess what
I still win.
No matter what you're going through
Hold your children tight
Be a happy momma and don't pretend. Show them
Everything's going to be alright. <3