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Long Poems
Long poem by Stanley Carter | Details

Saul Grills Marilyn at a Seedy New Orleans Jazz Dive

Saul’s twinkling eyes took it all in – the platinum hair framing a first-class face, the silvery sheath dress wrapped around a figure that was out of sight, but in plain view. She was definitely the classiest thing in the joint -- Bannister’s by name, a jazz club just off Camp Street in New Orleans – and she was leaning against the side of a very lucky piano, crooning a sultry tune as Saul watched her from his table at the other end of the room, nursing some straight-up rye and taking puffs off a Lucky Strike – which wasn’t half as smokin’ as Marilyn. The ceiling fans didn’t put much of a dent in the muggy air, but that didn’t stop a cold chill from making its way down Saul’s backbone as Marilyn belted out the last few bars of her suggestive little ditty.

When she was done the patrons roused themselves from their stupor long enough to beat their hands together like they meant it, and Saul did the same, then motioned a cigarette girl over and whispered in her ear, dropping a fiver onto her tray. The girl swayed her way over to Marilyn, who was having a tête-à-tête with her piano player. After a few seconds he split, disappearing through a curtained doorway, and Marilyn perched herself on a stool at the far end of the bar. The cig girl muttered the message, jerking a thumb in Saul’s direction, and Marilyn started to shake her head as she turned toward him, but the moment her baby blues locked on his, the “no” turned into a “yes” and she crooked a beckoning finger. He picked up his drink and made his way through the clouds and the crowd till she filled his field of vision.

“Hello, handsome,” she said as she gestured at the stool next to hers. He parked his keister on it. “I understand you’re a private peeper, come all the way from New York City just to talk to little old me.”

“I’d have come farther,” he said, “just to get a good look at you.”

“Aren’t you the charm boy,” she said, producing a Kool from her silver handbag. He lit it. She puffed. So did he.

“Actually,” he said, “I’m in town on another case, but when I found out you were here I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”

“Good thing I’m not a bird. So what do you want to talk about? Dicky Delgado?”

“I didn’t know you had a mind-reading act too.”

“Mister, if I could read minds I’d be slapping your face right about now.”

He grinned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I know this. Delgado’s in a jam and Barry Bason is defending him and everybody knows you’re Bason’s pet gumshoe. I’m just trying to decide which I like better -- the tall, dark, handsome one or the lighter version. You and Bason are a couple of dolls. Although your pictures in the paper don’t do you justice.”

“Thanks. Neither does yours. And you’re right about Delgado. I’m investigating all his enemies, trying to figure out which one of them framed him.”

She crossed her legs. The oh-so-tight dress parted, nearly up to her waist, revealing the shapeliest shins this side of Betty Grable.

“You think it’s a frame job?” she said.

“Could be.”

“And you figure I might’ve had something to do with it?”

“Did you?”

“Oh come on. Sure, I resented that heel for giving me the boot, but I landed on my feet. In fact, I’m grateful to Dicky for setting me on a new career path. I’m moving up in the world.”

Saul glanced around the small, seedy nightclub. “This path leads up? Looks more like a dead end.”

“Hey, don’t let the decor fool you, handsome. This is one of the top jazz joints in the country and the boss pays a lot better than that skinflint Cuban. And a girl could get noticed here if she plays her cards right.”

“I’ll say.”

“I mean by record producers, smarty. All the big shots stop in here looking for new talent. We’ve already gotten a couple of nibbles.”


“My husband and I. Bobby was the guy tickling the ivories during my number.”

“Quite a cozy arrangement. Was it that way with Delgado too?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I wonder if you and Delgado sang a few after-hours duets. And when the lyrics got too hot for Dicky to handle he changed his tune to the wedding ring blues. That casts the brush-off in a whole new light, doesn’t it?”

“Is that what he told you?”

“No, but Bason figures it’s an angle worth pursuing.”

“Which proves that brains and beauty don’t often go together, especially in men.” She blew smoke in his face. “Bason is all wet. And you can tell him so.” She got up off the stool. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go change my tune.”

“Hold on, I’ve got a few more questions.”

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. Bobby Trope, blonde piano player and annoyed husband, stood behind him, along with a burly bouncer with anchors tattooed on his biceps.

“This quiz show just got cancelled,” Bobby said. “Time to sign off, shamus.”

“Hi, Mr. Trope,” Saul said. “I hear you barely made it back in time for Marilyn’s show last night. Your flight out of New York got delayed due to engine trouble.”

“Who says I was in New York?”

“The girl at the TWA counter at the airport who sold you your round-trip ticket. Why did you go there? To tend to some unfinished business?”

“Unfinished or finished, my business is none of yours.”

“You got something to hide?”

“Nope. I just don’t like nosey questions from private dicks. But I got a question for you. Are you gonna blow this joint under your own power or do you need a little breeze in your sail?”

Saul glanced at the bouncer, then stood up and turned to Marilyn. “Nice meeting you, Miss Leeds.”

“It’s Mrs. Trope to you,” she said. “Now blow.”
(This is an excerpt from my mystery pastiche novella, "The 'I Love Lilly' Murders"

Copyright © Stanley Carter | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Carol Connell | Details

Seven Things The Lord Hates

Proverbs 6:16-19  These six things doth the LORD hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him: 
A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, 
  An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, 
  A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren. 

1.	A Proud Look

It sadly leads a man to such disgrace.
A proud look first begins within the heart,
then manifests itself upon the face,
and to the soul, it’s like a piercing dart.

The Scripture mentions satan’s sin of pride.
He wanted so to be like the Most High.
It drove him, and it led him to decide
‘gainst God rebel, His holy will defy.

The lofty scheme of satan came to naught.
For one who thwarts God’s plan, it’s never well.
Devil’s pride like a web, and he got caught.
His destination is a burning hell.

If character of man toward pride is bent
the only remedy is to repent.

2.	A Lying Tongue

The only remedy is to repent
if lying words from your lips do proceed.
Deceitful speech can cause a heart to rent;
is like sore wound inflicted that does bleed.

For uttered falsities, the price to pay
in Acts 5th chapter, story we do tell.
Husband and wife both lied on the same day,
died at apostles’ feet and went to hell.

Though judgment for our lies may not be swift,
God gives us time so that we can confess.
Be sure that with your Maker there’s a rift.
Continuing in lies leaves life a mess.

If telling of lies be your sinful plight
you best do a 180, get it right.

3.	Hands That Shed Innocent Blood

You best do a 180, get it right
if you have caused death of the innocent.
Such acts, they are so grievous in God’s sight.
Taking of lives, for us it is not meant.

How sad to read the tale of Abel and Cain,
first murder ever, spawned by jealousy.
The anguish of a brother that was slain
caused both their parents untold misery.

Each day the countless deaths of the unborn
regarded as just tissue, swept away.
Oh how the heart of God must truly mourn
as precious lives are trashed like worthless clay!

The path of such a sin, where does it start?
It’s deep within the bowels of the heart.

4.	An Heart That Deviseth Wicked Imaginations

It’s deep within the bowels of the heart
where thoughts of murder, rape and lust do spring.
Way down inside a man the crime does start.
The human heart is such a wicked thing.

Ill musings that are born of hate and greed
like venom that’s a poison to the soul,
when brooded on eventually will lead
to birthing of ungodly, evil goal.

The doing of all wrong first starts within.
It grows inside the heart before its birth;
does incubate and manifests as sin
and causes untold pain upon this earth.

Devising wicked imagination
bringing serious trepidation.

5.	Feet That Be Swift In Running To Mischief

Bringing serious trepidation
feet that run fast to do an evil thing
to their victims, a source of frustration
through infractions such trouble they do bring.

They cause tribulation, pacing the streets
with purpose in mind, never to do well,
race to computer spewing vicious tweets
perhaps inspired by the imps of hell.

Their wily unrest mostly in the night
scarcely aided by flashlight or candle,
upon spoil of others they take flight
to pillage, steal, maim, destroy and vandal.

The ones possessing mischief running feet
from such evil ways they ought to retreat.

6.	A False Witness That Speaketh Lies

From such evil ways they ought to retreat;
cease from character assassination.
Untruthful words they ought not to repeat
that ruin some poor soul’s reputation.

Some, they choose to speak such fabrication.
Do they think it might make self look better?
In the end it will be their damnation,
turning them into eternal debtors.

Don’t spin tales to make someone look bad
or secure a desired position.
It’s not worth it, and you will not be glad.
It leads to your personal perdition.

A false witness that speaketh cruel lies,
he is a foolish one that is not wise.

7.	He That Soweth Discord Among Brethren

He is a foolish one that is not wise
sowing seeds of discontent and discord.
Maker of division, it’s no surprise
his subtle dealings, hated by the Lord.

When he feels to him, there has been offense
immediately to blabbing he does go.
To him it only makes perfect sense.
His perceived injustice all should now know.

The devil uses him to cause church splits
in assemblies that have sweet unity.
The discontented throws his hissy fits,
for turmoil makes opportunity.

When grumbler gets all up in your face
it sadly leads a man to such disgrace.

Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Kelly Deschler | Details

The Dark Legend Of Haunted Road

There are roads that seem inviting in the light of day
Only to cast its eerie shadows when the sun begins to go down
Engraving a revealing legend after the darkness has given way
To the blood curdling horror that once terrorized an innocent town

The legend says that years ago a terrible event took place
When a patient known to be psychopathic escaped the institution
The doctors notified the police who immediately gave chase
Though disappointed they became after finding no resolution

On one Halloween night, screams of murder were heard by Haunted Road
Now, no one ever dares to enter those woods where the tragedies took place
Some have sworn that they still hear the screams within suffering echoes
Still see the trail of blood stained puddles that mark his evil trace

It is here that he and his victim's spirits may forever hide
Where voices of the dead lead you to a darkened cabin in the woods
They cannot escape the horror of the way in which they died
Only the brave hearted would dare to go where this cabin stood

A few trick or treaters decided to dare themselves to enter Haunted Road
They convinced themselves that this would end up being just a thrill
Little did they know that evil was waiting for them when they chose to go
The ghost of the psychopath, eager to commit his next kill

They walked along slowly, barely breathing, and listening to the sound
Of another pair of feet behind them, dragging heavily on the pavement
All the kids stopped with their hearts pounding, only to see nothing around
Just the moonlight, a howling wind, and scattered leaves, twisted and bent

A dense fog soon began to fill the air, giving them more of an eerie feel
Still, they proceeded to walk to where they planned to be
A run down cabin slowly came into focus, reminding them that the legend is real
It was then they decided to turn back around quickly

Standing behind them was the killer's ghost, grinning from ear to ear
His red glowing eyes could not hide his psychotic, bloody thirst
The trick or treaters ran to the cabin, thinking, it's time to face our fear
As they approached the door, one said, "okay, now you go first"

One by one the trick or treaters tried quietly to lead the way with regret
Though their footsteps creaked the floor boards of the old wooden floor
It began to thunder and lightning showing the theme in silhouette
Then all of a sudden they heard the slamming of the cabin door

It was locked, there was no escape, they were trapped for certain
In this abandoned place where the victim's bodies were stored
Then near the corner something stirred like a blowing white curtain
Their eyes grew wide with terror, this occurrence couldn't be ignored

Out from the darkened shadows he came into sight
His eyes glowing red, his breath smelled of death
Suddenly, he grabbed hold of one of the trick or treaters that night
While the others tried to break free, out of breath

The cabin door was broken open, they ran through, and heard a scream
From the captured boy in evil's clutches, with his costume now torn
The others were relieved to finally find a way out of this bad dream
They were too afraid to help their friend, and a new legend was born

The two trick or treaters were shaking in their warm beds
Traumatized about the horror they faced from a dark legend
They couldn't believe that one of their friends was actually dead
Left them both wondering if this is really the end

They yawned, and tried to get up, but their hands were tied
Still in the cabin, they had not escaped this living nightmare
As the killer came closer and closer, the young kids just cried
Knowing that their lives would be ended right then and there

Written by: Gail Angel Doyle & Kelly Deschler

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Ivor Davies | Details

Not in the Job Description

A hive of activity, twenty four hours,
The centre was where they controlled,
All the technicians, in all of our vans,
Delivering the service we sold.

But in the small hours, those there at night,
Would tell a strange story to all.
About a small woman who looked very sad,
And seemed to walk right through the wall.

This came quite a problem, for staff working there
Refused to be present alone.
Although the late shift would need only one,
Nobody would work on their own.

Their manager called me, for I was her boss,
And said this needs sorting today.
She knew I had knowledge of things of this sort,
And asked me to chase it away.

Now can you imagine, the rules I would break,
If I had agreed to this task.
A senior manager leading his staff,
In a séance, is that what you ask?

But somehow this problem seemed deeper to me,
A poor soul adrift with no light.
Although staff were frightened and that was quite bad,
The woman was tied to her plight.

I gathered my team from the centre right there,
And met at my home late that night.
A manager, supervisor, controller as well.
With for some others, we’d try to do right.

Though none of the people who worked in this place,
Had walked on this pathway before.
Almost as soon as we dimmed down the lights,
The voice from my ‘manager’ swore.

She’d gone in full trance and as plain as could be,
Was the lady who shared her workplace.
But t’was me she resented, she saw me a threat,
For she thought I’d no right to her space.

A very long evening, but I’ll tell you most,
Of the things that took place there that night.
This lady was wandering and bound to the earth,
After having a terrible fight.
An immigrant woman, from somewhere in the east,
Had been brought by her spouse to this land.
He’d beat her and kick her, and keep her in fear,
When his drinking was guiding his hand.

Than one day in torment, she’d suddenly snapped,
And run a steel blade through his heart.
Then buried his body in our building’s vaults,
But could then never make a fresh start.

So even when passing, she carried her guilt,
And was shackled by this to her home.
It now was our duty to help her get free,
Or eternity she’d have to roam.

But alas as I open my mouth to begin,
My brother’s face changed and ‘he’ swore.
”You murderess bitch, you’ll pay for your sin”
Then he rose up to “murder the whore”.

Now though I have travelled this pathway before,
I think you’ll agree on that night.
The last thing I wanted was two people there,
In séance beginning a fight!

Thank heaven my spirit can stand on it’s own,
For I sent this madman whence he came.
And when ‘she’ stopped shaking from meeting her man,
We finally got back to the game.

Convincing this lady, that she’d really died,
Then took up the most of the night.
But very soon after, with one of her friends,
We helped show her the way to the ‘light’.

The control room now happy, they’ve only one ghost,
And nobody wants him to go.
He’s a cheerful chappie they meet with a smile,
And he stays in the shop down below.

For three of the staff it has altered their lives,
Though they knew that her ghost they had seen.
They thought she was evil and wanted them dead,
But now know, she was walking in dream.

These three never ‘shopped me’ for playing my role,
Though at times, when alone late at night.
I’m sure they all wonder what fun there’d have been,
If I hadn’t broke up a good fight!

Ivor G Davies

Copyright © Ivor Davies | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Details

good cop

Good Cop                                                                                                                       You're a cop.                                                                                                                          In Hitler's Fatherland, Nazi Germany, 1964.                                                                                                 Little more than a rookie.                                                                                              Normally catching petty criminals and hookers in dark alleys.                                                        A call came through, a body in the woods.                                                                               You the cop, first on scene.                                                                                                   Little did you know that you, the cop, would bring everything crashing down like a house of cards.                                                                                                                      By investigating this crime, you the cop, sent fissures right to the top of the Nazi regime.                                                                                                                                     Secrets spread forth like acid; burning everybody.                                                                              The death of a race, the Jews.                                                                                      Extinct.                                                                                                                                    Retired top Nazi murderer told you, 'Not a brick remains. The Jews are in the East.'                                                      You knew you had to see with your own eyes, you the cop.                                                             Where it happened.                                                                                                                        So you went to Poland and saw.                                                                                          There were bricks there; moss covered, dirty and half buried.                                                                 What untold story did they tell?                                                                                                 Millions of ghosts hovered around you.                                                                               Crying for justice, permanent release.                                                                                                    As the SS came for you, you knew the cost - your life.                                                       With Kennedy visiting, you got the secret out.                                                                                     By forsaking your life, you collapsed the most evil regime in human history.                                                                            Ended Hitler's reign of terror, allowing peace to ignite.
edits look fine here. on final post after edit some text is out of line. not as bad as epub system i use tho which screws up word 2007 onwards. oddly word 03 is fine. hit enter key, text on next line. not like carppy 07 onwards. progress huh? yea right...

Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Maman - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's Mum by T Wignesan

Mama – Translation of Kevin Gilbert’s « Mum » by T. Wignesan

Kevin Gilbert (July 10, 1933 – April 1, 1993) - father of Irish-English ancestry, mother an aboriginal from New South Wales - was orphaned at seven. His elder sisters looked after him until he left school at 13 to scavenge a living through hunting rabbits and kangaroo and thriving on what he could pick up from white peoples’ rubbish heaps. He was also a seasonal worker, as he says, « …not just because times are hard, but because I was BLACK and the white man had taken my country from my people and kept me and my people as victims, as slaves. » In 1957, he was sentenced to penal servitude for life for having killed his white wife in a brawl when he was « pissed » in the wee hours of the morn.  « …of which I can only say that, I was a Black boy in a white court where the jury, the judge, the lawyers were ALL white. What chance of justice ? »  He served fourteen and a half years in prison where he managed to get some training in printing : a good many of his works were self-published at first. 
He has the distinction of being the first aboriginal playwright (his first play, The Cherry Pickers, written on toilet paper, was smuggled out of prison) ; the first to anthologize aboriginal poetry ; the first to produce a political tract or dissertation, and the frist to produce an oral history of his peoples in book form. Like his contemporary Oodgeroo Noonuccal, he enjoyed the reputation of being a great talker. This poem and the quotations are from his anthology : Inside Black Australia, Penguin, 1988.) T. Wignesan, december 4, 2016.

Quinze chiens rôdaient
ils hurlaient sans relâche
leurs poils sales
broussailleux et leurs os
désignaient leur forme
rappelant d’un passé maigre
voire, encore plus pénible
autour de leur vieille maison
dont ils restaient toujours fidèles
comme si ils voulaient dire
il y ait quelque chose plus que le manger
que nous retiennent ici
une qualité que nous nous sentons et apprécions
laquelle fait hérisser et briller nos pelages 
par l’amour de ceux qui habitent là-dedans
et en entrant par la porte de la tente 
je m’étais pris à la gorge
je vis
une femme sur un lit
ses jambes pareilles à des boîtes d’emballages
morte – elle resta immobile
le drap d’une couleur jaune sale
la couverture déchirée se trouvant
sur ses pieds 
la condition déplorable de sa tente délabrée
des casseroles enrobées de graisse m’ont presque obligé
à pousser des cris d’horreur – mon esprit
divaguait tout azimut - le bruit me tambourinait aux oreilles
j’entendis la voix douce d’un homme : «  Ma Mama
elle est aveugle et pendant toutes ces dix-sept 
années je n’ai jamais vu
sans rime ni raison   la décision
pour ne pas nous accorder un chez-soi
ce fait
témoigne de cette vérité-là : la tente le lit
les chiens sont mieux abrités,’ lui dit-il.
‘Ma Mama, elle est aveugle, elle dors maintenant
elle réveillera bientôt
la vérité est que
elle n’ira nulle part
ailleurs que restait dans son lit
La Commission décida : pas de foyer
ne pas mérité
ou Noire ou quelque chose et…’
dit-il :
‘les chiens vivent mieux que nous dans ce pays
et nous ne pourrions faire mieux que mourir
ma mère, elle est aveugle,’

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2016

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Diane Lefebvre | Details

The Old House And The Specter

The pale apparition swirls in on night mist.
It envelopes her body, then breathes out its kiss.
Cold to her cheek as the fog to the shore;
She utters a sigh then sleeps deeply once more.
She’s new to the house, uninformed, unaware.
But soon sleep will not come for she’ll sense it is there.
Soft scuffs on the staircase, strange sounds in the hall.
Doors opening and closing, pale face on the wall.
Something behind her: she’ll turn now aware.
The cold then surrounds her, first taste of despair.
The house knows her panic. The house knows what’s there.
What lurks in the hallways, haunts bedroom and stair.
The house is aware of the present . . the past:
Knows happiness here in its walls cannot last.
The old house remembers the lives through the years.
The pain and the sorrow; the sadness, the tears.
It creaks in the darkness recalling such woe,
Of year upon year empty lives growing old.
Of dreams never realized and youth gone awry.
Of death without warning . . spilled blood left to dry.
The house wants to warn her, “Get out while you can.
This thing that now haunts was a strange, evil man.
A man with no conscience; a man without hope,
Who murdered his family then died by the rope.”
But death could not stop him returning from hell:
Five years in the future, dead child in the well.
Then another new owner deceased on the stair.
His wife dead of fright in her soft, easy chair.
And the time added up along with the dead.
The old house became empty, forlorn, full of dread.
Long years in the passing, house silent and grim.
No hope for the future as 'it' waited within.
But tales of the hauntings grew thin though the years.
A new owner then entered, unaware of old fears.
Threw open the curtains to let in the sun;
For the house a new chapter had surely begun.
But the house bides its time, for it knows 'he' is there,
With his festering hate and such wanton despair.
It watches and listens as the terror begins,
And it knows it must act, or he'll kill once again.
So it waits for a night when the owners not home.
Just the house and the specter are there all alone.
And comes the hard time the house faces the fact;
The hour is here to rise up . . to react.
A window slides open, as if on its own.
Then a breeze enters in, ever gently it’s blown.
And a thin gauzy curtain flutters soft like a sigh,
Nearing ever so moth like, a gas lamp nearby.
The inferno erupts climbing woodwork and pane.
It roars up the walls; this malevolent flame.
Then spreads to the hallway burning evil one's lair
And consumes all it touches, both bedroom and stair.
And the shrieks that were heard by the gathering outside,
Was the house as it withered, combusted, then died.
Of the tenants who'd perished so far in the past;
The old house had made certain, they would now be the last.
And a weed covered hillock is all that remains,
Of the house and its memories . . of the sorrow and pain.
With an evil dammed specter that lurks as before,
Guarding over an empire which is present no more.
And on that last day when the Lord calls us home;
The specter must stay and guard his old bone.
He'll not be allowed all that venom to quell.
He will never know heaven, for he’s made his own hell.

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Margaret Wade | Details

Chalk Line

Chalk is the magic of blackboards, sports fields and
little girl's sidewalk games of Hop-Scotch.
How many equations and statements, measured lines, and boxes
do you imagine have been drawn upon those waiting surfaces?
Dare one imagine -into infinity?

On this day, however, looking down at this particular sidewalk,
one is immediately taken aback by the sarcasm of adaptation.
There, in heavy-caked blueish and ominously thick chalk, a line
is drawn in the shape of what looks like a curled up fetus; only larger.
It is expanded voluminously to accommodate the size of an adult -
a dead adult.
There is no magic to the outskirt of this irregular curvature, 
only an unambiguous stakrness.

Moments ago the now empty space within the blue outlined
enclosed a living person.
That occupant is quickly designated as "the body," "the cadaver," or
"the deceased," and so, is hastily carted off to a morgue.
One instant this was someone- alive and breathing- and the next,-
a stone-cold corpse who no longer owns their humanity.

Having lost their life at the hands of another, this nameless person
is identified forever after simply as, "the victim." And while the
perpetrator shouts and demands their rights, the only thing left for
the victim is the silence of lost life sanctified in the ritual of "last rites."

No ACLU representative would or could advocate for the victim. This
casualty would not have the life a perpetrator does to secure a lawyer.
Instead, the State will represent the fallen "in perpetuity." There 
would be no plea bargain, no court date would be assigned, and 
no judge or jury selected, no Court of Appeals. 
There are no years; not one, not twelve, not twenty, not even
a second to fight for the right not to be a victim.
There might be stays of execution for the killer, while there are
no stays before the victim's execution. Certainly, there was no

The dead will file no frivolous jailhouse law suits costing the tax
payer's untold dollars' worth of nonsense. They will make no
silly demands that jelly accompany their jailhouse peanut-butter
The dead make no demands for there is no one to protest.
The dead's jail is forever the grave.

Oh yes, there will always be a mass of 'do-gooders' lining up to
grumble about the state's taking of a life. Indeed! There will
be more people protesting the death of the murderer on the
night of execution than showed up at the victim's funeral.
The victim didn't want a funeral, much less last rites, but got them.
The only thing the victim really ever wanted was the right not to 
die, not then; not the way they died.

And -already, that chalk line, once so pronouned and repugnant,
has been worn away by passing footsteps and time.

There is sadness, both to the senseless loss of lives and the
indignity of task that chalk too often is required to perform.

For chalk and the marks it makes, after all; were intended for
the magic of black boards, sports fields, and little girls sidwalk 
games of hop-scotch.

Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by John Arribas | Details



I’m off to bed early I’ve had a really rough day
Ramos, my boss is  difficult that’s the least I can say
He’s made a day at the office a time that I dread
I think of the guillotine and cutting off his head
He’s an example of what’s called schaden fruede
That type of personality will cost him some day
I’ll just hug my pillow and close my eyes
And think of ways to hurry his demise

I can’t fall asleep I keep tossing and turning
My face is freezing but my body is burning
I feel nails or thorns are poking me in the back
Oh god  there’s someone here with me in the sack
I don’t move but look down at my feet
Claws and a tail are sticking out from under the sheet
It must be a reptile or some kind of bird
I’m frightened I’m trembling was it a scream I heard

I jumped out of bed, turned on the light
I’m the only one here no one else is in sight
The room darkened and smelled of rotten eggs
I tried to run but there’s no strength in my legs
I see someone in  black from the corner of my eye 
Points his finger at me says you are my prize
He’s wearing a robe with a hood covering his head
When I look straight at him my vision is blurred

He changes into a jester sporting a conical cap
Says you are a fool caught in your own trap
I turned to find the most beautiful woman I’ve seen
Tall, red lips, long black hair with a greenish sheen
I asked  how did you get into this room
We’re wed my love, I am the bride you are the groom
She pulled me close, she was sweaty and scaly now
Her slimy forked tongue slowly caressed my brow

Head man (2)

She said mate with me I’ll grant wishes, three
And when they are filled you will belong to me
I stepped back and looked into her eyes
So gorgeous and tempting I was mesmerized
Music started  playing with a rhythmic beat
We started dancing I was inflamed with heat
Animals, mostly cats, were filling the room
The odor of sulphur was the acrid perfume

The dance got faster I was scared and dizzy 
She said my name is Lilith but never call me Lizzy
I guess I fainted,  I don’t remember much more
The phone started ringing with me on the floor
Looked at the wall clock it was quarter to two
Caller said  cops are here they’re waiting for you
I hadn’t missed a day at work for over a year
Tell me again what you said  I didn’t hear

They found Ramos this morning cold and dead
They have his body but can’t find his head
By the way:
I just saw the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen
Tall,  red lips, long black hair with a greenish sheen
She’s your new secretary came from company staff
Poor ole Ramos, seems you’ll have the last laugh
I had a headache, exhausted and badly battered 
I wished  I felt better that was all that mattered
I’m hoping the cops won’t treat me as a suspect
No alibi will surely be an incriminating aspect

I bent down to get my shoes from under the bed
Something was bundled in a pillow case was it a

Copyright © John Arribas | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by James Edward Lee Sr. | Details

Died by the Gun Where have all the Johns Gone

Where have all the John's gone ?
they all been murdered by the ones
Who have the right to bear arms
It was 1963 and I was walking home from school going home for lunch
While in Texas something was going to happen to us that would change the nation
Someone took a rifle in assassinated John the  man was our President John F Kennedy
He was shot down gun down in a motorcade died by a gun
You know the Second Amendment says you should have the right to
Died by a gun
You know
Where have all the John's gone they all been murdered by the ones
Who have the right to bear arms

It was the 1980s and as John Lennon was in his Courtyard
Just beginning to enter his apartment
He was gunned down by an assailant
A long occupants murdered and killed
He was shot down gun down
Died by the gum
You know
 the Second Amendment says you have the right to
Die by the gun you know

Where have all the John's gone
They all been murdered by the one
You have the right to bear arms

This glass John was my best friend 9 months older than me I called him brother
Went to the same grade school used to walk me to kindergarten
Alas we went to the same Junior High and High School
We were even an ROTC together taught me many things even introduced me to Pizza
We shared many many hobbies reading and drawing our own comics
Creativity was there creativity we shared
And all the years that I've known him we only had one falling out only one
Sad matter of the fact is I never told him I loved him he was to me as an older brother
He was a fan of The Beatles even I began to like them
He married his high school sweetheart had boy child a boy

He will later join the Marine Corps and man it look good in the uniform
He knew karate and he was kindhearted
He would help anyone anywhere at anytime a true friend
But in the year of 1978 coming back to vacation to Omaha Nebraska
In route traveling through the desert of Arizona
He stopped to help a distressed Traveler so he thought
He never made it here cause he to was ambushed gun down shot
He was murdered himself his wife his child his niece all shot
Died in the hot desert
His niece bled to death all murdered by the Tyson family left dead in the desert
The nine month old son and the mom all shot dead
All of them died by the gun
You know

Where have all the John's gone
They all been murdered by the one
Who have the rights to bear arms
I pray none of us died by a gun

                                     Dedicated to President John F Kennedy
                                             Singer-songwriter John Lennon
                                                     John Francis Lyons
              Murdered by the Tyson family Father and Son in Arizona in 1978                      
                                           my best friend and my brother
                                 Written by James Edward Lee Sr (c)1978

Copyright © James Edward Lee Sr. | Year Posted 2017

Long Poems