Long Knife Poems
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He pushed her rapidly to the edge so many times
But she was a good girl, she told herself, shutting out her grandma’s voice
Poison him! Her grandmother urged. Showing her which herbs to gather.
His anger filled the room, wrote despair on the walls of her soul.
Still she ignored the voice, because she was from the Bible Belt.
Bible Belt girls just take their medicine, feeling they deserve it.
He took her to the hospital on the third day.
Another fall down the stairs, the intern guessed.
They got her in a room alone. Tried to get her to speak of his evil.
She deserved this. She had earned it. If she had just been good.
He is going to kill you the next time, one of the nurses said.
Press charges! But if she could just be better, and she knew she could.
He took a hammer to her, a knife, a whip, a chain. She clammed up.
Read her Bible, knew the answers were in there.
Page 183 her grandmother’s writing.
There was the recipe. It would kill him with no trace.
She slipped it into his tea, shaking so hard she thought he would know.
He slipped into a deep sleep and never awoke.
The coroner said “heart disease most likely”.
Page 183 more likely she thought, safe at last.
How far do the ripples spread, when eventually we die
Probably stay in the locality, level off, no major outcry
But let’s say we’re famous, suffering unexplained death
The ripples keep expanding, growing further in breadth
See the grotesque nature of spin, is to overplay a scene
Garnishing public outrage, lurid pictures fill our screens
Playing to an audience, ratings become the holy grail
Stories without embellishments, grow tiresomely stale
These ripples are an illusion, imagination going berserk
Carried along by a corrupt deception, truth been shirked
Evidence the one requirement, for establishing all facts
I extrapolate backwards, what the hell there’s no splash
Lines converge into partial truths, confused to a degree
Must be taken with a pinch of salt, querying what I see
Even this soup we enjoy, is manipulated and massaged
Most of the poems are quite good, others form a mirage
Taken out of context a rectangle, can become a square
Brought into focus, desolate pictures, not quite so bare
What’s basically a clean stab, or slash across the wrist
When poets stick in the knife, some give it a good twist
Using poetry for a hidden agenda, political or otherwise
Tantamount to mind-numbing crap, seen in the tabloids
If your going to post propaganda, to further some game
Write it on toilet paper, wipe off, that’s all you’ve gained
By
David Kavanagh
In my chamber
Of artistic endeavor
She sits on a chair
Unmoving
Like a block of stone
I with chisel and knife
Cut her up
Piece by piece
She is stoic
She never cries
I see no pain in her eyes
Gently, I carve her in my vision
I will mold her
I will hold her
I will told her
Stories of my past
She will be my prisoner
Of the heart
She has no where to run
I have no where to hide
Love
Stone cold
Emotions warm
In Silence
We both mourn
The histories
The stories
The memories
My love I created
In Stone
I have her on display
For you too, to see my suffering
I am the sculptor
Alluring thoughts
Come at the clocks latest hour
Sanity chased its dream
To regain its power
Madness creeping to take back control
As I walk down the wooden hall alone
Bugs are in my mind, scratching, bitting,
Raven plucking at my eye, while chanting
Die, Die, Die
God must be sleeping
For if he knew what the Angel makes me do
He would remove the madness
That oozing goo that's clogging my mind
Walking down the street in the night
Face only exposed in the light
Palms to forehead, slapping
Trying to regain rationality
Delusions of my sin to come
Fighting, trying to turn around and run
Madness found my sanity
Raven eating, there is no remedy
I'm the puppet, Death pulls my strings
I need to cut them, I'll go the extreme
Knife to wrist, cutting,
Blood now flowing, conscious slipping,
Light is fading, Death....
You can have me
R.K.H 10/09/2021
Forgiveness sometimes takes some time
One may not want to make up with a rhyme
Rough words said can cut like a sharp knife
Giving way to unforgiveness that can ruin a life
I say we should not bring pain but always bring love
Very often we react out of hurt and unlove
Even when the other person did not mean it
Now we need to say sorry but how will it fit
Everyone is different some can play dense
Sorry is a huge word and can make some very tense
Saying I love you can mend the friendship fence
Date Written: 5/24/2021
Note: Acrostic Rhyme
In a world of laughter, he stood apart,
A boy with shadows dancing in his heart.
With a grin that twisted like a crooked vine,
He found the punchline in the darkest line.
When others wept, he’d chuckle and jest,
Finding solace in chaos, a curious quest.
Destruction was funny, a comic delight,
As he laughed at the ruins that filled up the night.
His humor was sharp, like a knife in the dark,
A shield against sorrow, a flickering spark.
He wore his weirdness like a badge of pride,
An outcast, he thought, with nowhere to hide.
But in the quiet corners of his mind,
A flicker of truth began to unwind.
For in the mirror, he saw not just him,
But a reflection of her, his mother, so grim.
She danced to her own tune, a whimsical song,
With no need for friends, she felt she belonged.
In her solitude, she found her own grace,
A strange little world, her own sacred space.
Her laughter was odd, her quirks were profound,
In the silence of stillness, her joy could be found.
And as he looked closer, he started to see,
The weirdness he felt was a part of her glee.
Together they thrived in their peculiar way,
Finding comfort in shadows, in night and in day.
For the boy who once thought he was lost in the fray,
Discovered his heart in the games they would play.
So he laughed when he should, and he cried when he must,
In the chaos of life, he found love and trust.
For the strange little boy, with his dark sense of cheer,
Was just like his mother, and that made it clear.
In a world full of normal, they danced to their tune,
Two outcasts together, beneath the same moon.
With sarcasm woven in laughter and tears,
They embraced their oddness, conquering fears.
Butter the toast, butter knife, bread.
blue plate, no sunlight, short-sighted blue night,
electric rings of silence.
Breakfast is slow,
not that hungry but there is honey
and I am lonesome in a tired body.
Soon, hands will press the tabletop,
will rise up, push up to lace-up walking shoes,
enter the coming light
that unsteady, unready light
with its slippery yo-yo gleams,
enter it all; the concrete hills,
the leaf and branch, the cast-up legs
of the still twitching,
the buoyant tumbling of the living,
the pumped-up throats
of the starry-eyed singers,
enter it fully, growing less unlikely,
enter myself as an unrepentant prodigal son
returning home.
A gift desired
Oh for a true, blissful moment of satisfaction.
A gift from your heart – a life time of gratification
would come on the wings of positive reactions
to this man, along with intimate communications.
This you would be able to see, with the eyes of your soul,
with the eyes of your heart, if only you cared to know
beyond, which you only see with the eyes in your head,
those eyes you perceive with – from your intellect instead.
For me, Moneca, my Dear, your sweet voice is all I hear
bouncing, ricocheting, echoing off walls far and near
that enclose the empty spaces, enfold the void’s of my life.
Memories of inner beauty, of you cut deep – by the knife,
that is your tongue, is your feelings, your belief,
your constant statements - from which there is little relief.
B. J. “A” 2
April 13th 2008
The mind eternal lies before us always.
Less pure in tone, we come to it drenched with life;
Fearless companion in our hour of days.
A purity not withstanding breadth of knife.
Away! Away! succubus death,
much less a breach than I.
How many not mislaid in breath,
In priceless toll, said duty to be paid.
No field of honored memories
they preach without belie.
Captured each, and each with closed fist shouting;
Me or not, Cold or hot, we stand between as choice;
all for desperate screams grown silent.
Pastoral in the presence, of one solitary voice,
Whose form of words so hesitantly mouthing.
Whence came we witness to the stream.
Whose eyes are these that hold our field a-view?
Memories whose touch a solid scream;
Form ignored and glory gored of few.
We are not the man.
No animal or simple word defined.
We pause, we pleasure, we perform,
With speck, and all our mind deform;
Our fingers will one day unfold.
Our torrid tortured tale be told.
Yours, mine, ours,
Drumroll spam-like dance,
Become the gist of one more fist
To smash against the sand.
He weeps, assigned to mourn for others who
Had none to mourn them, none to say goodbye,
Those whose harm medicine can’t undo,
Whose bodies he takes apart each passing night.
He scrubs, a cleansing ritual, to keep
Away the microscopic things unseen
The rite distracts from tears he wants to weep,
The tears a spell for spirits in between.
The spirits who pass on under his knife,
Though now are still and silent, him remind
Of another who once left this life,
Whose spirit longed for, tried for, peace to find.
But now is not the time to cry and mourn,
For there’s a job, as reason is to rhyme
For some, still from this life, who, not yet torn,
Without these gifts, would soon run out of time.
The necromancer’s tears are never shown,
But what he does has ripples far and wide.
Now for his former acts he can atone,
His magic helping those on either side.
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