Long Murderers Poems
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1
At peace perhaps too much
a fine Spring rain
we seek news from the desert or capitol
of those who have dedicated their lives to losing their lives for us
adventurers, ancient honor, land runners
this campaign a must to advance one's career
a war president needs war
2
All you need to know is the names of things
chambers of commerce and large corporations
elements, products, decay fungi, egg masses
cultivars and their relation to wild grasses and the edge
uses of herbs, languages of mammals,
purposes of insects, placement of rocks
the names of everything by which we know our way
3
I've read about those remarkable souls who maintain self-control
among murderers and the unentertained multitude
who may have even spoken persuasively
at the right moment for speaking
and thus attracted a now unwanted immortality
there are only two ways you can tell
a bird of prey from a vision - humor and ritual
4
the Fedex gal
would be unlike taking off Emily Dickinson's clothes
over the counter perfume and spray paint hair
postman's shorts, black socks
a woman's legs are much like a man's
yet she too is beautiful, too beautiful, weekends
boating with her man
5
Suburbs, lawns, blankets
in a long, long nursery of babies
napping, old, blameworthy
and, I say this respectfully, blind
certain and uninterested
in motives more subtle than their immediate comfort
Who am I to complain?
6
Plants, poems: riches
our financial advisor doesn't count. Good and simple
a man as he is. Comes tousled
from early morning golf and eyes puffy
from a late night fight or lovefest with his wife.
Inchworm
letting out its rope down an oak.
7
Late afternoon meeting
like the dry samara, achene or capsule surrounding a seed
how often have I tried to escape
my need, community, chamber of commerce
you cannot drive
the roads are theirs and the signs, perhaps
you can walk if you can name the plants and rocks and are willing to die
8
O happy family
there's some contentment in letting community and family decide
your place in it. Gatekeepers -
unconscious god, invisible hand, natural selection -
kind when refraining from violence
when not responding with force to the universe's effort
to extinguish us.
Soft spoken like Charmin
The earth is down to you
You'd sacrifice the clothes off your body
in a winter storm
Forever putting yourself out of the photo
Loyal to snakes
Spearhead in your spine
future bright as a lit billboard at 2 a.m.
all for $2000
Now you live among rapists, murderers
talking only within
Came out of the closet to me
and strictly me
Regret fills lungs like butterflies
My oldest friend
Dreamt of being a pioneer
We sucked ideas from each others brain
World conquerors together
Helped Mrs. Stalworth with 1000 groceries
Taught the slow boy to double knot
This is not your destiny
You befriended me when I was fresh meat
Orchestrating fundraisers in our minuscule community
Catching game winning TD’s
Unstoppable on the field
Nicknamed sticky hands on the gridiron
Now off it too
What changed, pal?
Times get rocky
you taught me that
Why can’t you take your own advice?
Frustration boils like magma
Secrets deteriorate a person
like battery acid
Why didn't you confide in me?
Heroin destroys like tornados
My heart full of glass and impotence
I could have helped you, brother
I'm sorry I let you fall
off that never ending cliff
Yesterday was supposed to be my last day.
I spent it covered in blankets, jumping at each sound, afraid to be myself,
Thinking if I was too much me, they would come and get me, and drag me off for my killing.
Afraid if I drew too much attention, they would end me in the most horrible-ness of ways.
Since I frankly had no idea who they was, it was even creepier than it should have been.
I was hiding, from whatever was supposed to get me, the product of a nightmare the night before.
Yesterday was to be my last day; I woke up with the knowledge yesterday.
I dreamed it, I felt it, I knew it, and I was frozen by it.
I was in a semi-catatonic state of pure misery all day, waiting.
Jumping at each car horn, or the creak of my house, watching for murderers.
When my eyes popped open this morning I leapt out of bed, thrilled, crazed with unbelievable happiness.
God had given me another day!
The first day of the rest of my life,
A day to do all the things I have never before done.
I could choreography a dance, design a palace, build a log cabin, learn the jitterbug.
My imagination is soaring now.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
And today I am ready to live.
They wrote laws
with cold ink
and dried blood in the margins.
They called it
the Black Code
the way one names a prison
with clean words
so as not to hear the screams.
In the harbors
the powdered gentlemen
counted bodies
the way one counts coins
barrels
harvests
sacks of coffee
livestock promised to the fields.
And man became
movable property.
Yes
movable property
like a chair
like a table
like a broken tool
replaced without a prayer.
The triangular trade
drew its salty routes
between oceans
and even the storms were sometimes ashamed
to carry those ships.
In the holds
a human cargo
breathed on its knees
inside the caulking of darkness
children pressed against silent mothers
old men chained together
men turned into captives
before being buried alive.
The shipowner calculated profits
without looking the sea in the eyes.
The slave trade
had accountants
shareholders
Sunday prayers
and well-dressed murderers.
They called it civilization.
Then the whip spoke
in a language of leather
a language that opened backs
the way one opens a field for plowing.
And the masters laughed.
There was servitude
from dawn until the stars
hunger tied to ankles
bodies sold
names erased
the slow dehumanization
that turned human beings
into obedient shadows
into numbers
into sweat.
And then the rape
always lurking behind a door
inside a room without a sky
where even the night itself
no longer dared to enter.
There was the hanging
raised like an evil tree
to teach fear
to those who still dreamed of freedom.
Enslavement
was not only a chain
it was a gigantic machine
an imperial mechanism
that devoured peoples
and spat out sugar
cotton
and silence.
But listen carefully.
Beneath the scars
something was still resisting.
A song.
A drum hidden inside the chest.
A memory stronger than iron.
For no Black Code
no whip
no hanging
no merchant of men
has ever truly managed
to completely kill
human dignity.
Many years ago, I had gone to Pakistan for a poets’ conference.
They call it a “Shaayari Majlis” there.
The behavior of the Pakistanis, their warmth, the depth of their poetry—
again and again, it left me in awe!
Their wounded hearts expressed in lofty words
left me speechless—
they couldn’t hide their deep love for India,
nor their intense sense of grievance...
How is it that among such devout, deeply sensitive people,
terrorists and murderers are born—
that mystery, even today, I haven’t been able to unravel!
Many years ago, I had gone to Bangladesh for a poets’ conference.
The kindness, warmth, and love for poetry of the Bangladeshis
captivated me!
Their joyous hearts voiced vibrant expressions
that thrilled my soul.
Their deep love for Bangladesh,
and the earnest yearning to become like India,
startled me...
How did these open-minded people of Bangladesh
turn into violent communalists and India-haters?
That mystery, too, I haven’t been able to understand even now!
Many years ago, I had attended a rural poetry conference
in Murshidabad, a Muslim-majority region of India.
The behavior of Indian Bengali Muslims—
their hospitality, sincerity, and reverence for poetry—
enchanted me!
Their noble hearts poured out such graceful expressions
that my chest swelled with pride.
Out of love for the poets, the village audience
did not rise from their seats even for a moment!
How did those same noble souls
turn so violent—
that mystery, too, I have not yet been able to solve!
Perhaps I never will be able to solve this mystery...
Those who served salt on my wounds,
snatched my childhood diary,
threw it into orange fumes.
I hugged them.
Burned my dreams, locked every door;
my favourite scarf, they tore.
The depth of darkness they showed in their core—
fear of a knock on the door
since the age of four.
I sit beside my window,
watch a homeless snore.
I find his life a dream of mine—
jealousy from my eyes gets poured.
Yet after decades, I hold a smile;
all scars, perfectly, I hide.
I gift sweetness to the monsters
who drank my blood.
I offered bonds to the evils
who used to flood—
floods of tears,
oceans of sadness,
peace of heavy weight.
Yet apparently,
this is my karma.
This is my fate.
Urban Lengend
His name is only whispered, his face is hardly seen
A legend to everyone that grew up on these streets
Some called him a vigilante, some called him a Saint
He carried out justice using his enemies blood as paint
He had his code of conduct that most men abided by
And if you chose to break it then you just chose to die
Walking alone in the shadows searching for those who dared
His loneliness so apparent but his thoughts went unshared
His true name never known, everyone just called him The Clover
He made the streets of Boston safe before the night was over
Safe from the violence of murderers, thugs, and all the creeps
He made it so all the children weren't too scared to fall asleep
Police were always asking where can this Mr. Clover be found
They received only silence for no one dared mutter a sound
Many years have past since The Clover has been seen around
His memory lives in stories still whispered throughout Bean Town
04/28/17
written for poetry contest: Urban Legend
We have built a world—
Not for the need,
But for the greedy.
Palaces boast of fifty rooms
Where no soul sleeps.
Garages gleam with a thousand idle chariots,
While the homeless pray to wind and pavement.
One man holds
A thousand acres of land,
While millions kneel
With no soil to claim as home.
Step into the White Halls of Power—
Leaders dine in gold,
While the governed die in rags.
Do not lecture me on capitalism.
Do not seduce me with socialism.
No system survives
When fed by the hunger of greed.
In the West,
The poor bleed for the rich.
And the rich—
They only bleed for themselves.
For us, the poor,
Life is not a journey.
It is a sentence—
A maximum-security prison
Called Earth.
The billionaire thief walks free.
But the hungry man who steals a sweet?
The law devours him.
And you call this justice?
Even now, on dating apps,
On poetry platforms,
On every glowing screen—
“Premium Subscribers”
Is the new deity.
It’s no longer about love,
Or passion,
Or talent.
It is about price.
It is about profit.
Money has replaced meaning.
It dictates.
It directs.
It decides.
Only the greedy shall survive.
So tell me:
In a world so rich,
Why are there so few rich?
And you—
You who call yourselves civilized—
You elect thieves and murderers,
And expect to build Eden?
Fools!
A greedy pig eats even its own children.
Not out of anger—
But out of greed.
This…
Is the world we have created.
by Andrew Crisci
Bitter tears drip from my red pupils like incandescent, hot lava
erupting from a volcano to appease the urges of weeping;
and do I mourn for myself, or for the poor, innocent, persecuted,
misunderstood and unloved? Will this cry of injustice change anything?
Will the oppressor be softened by them or remain vile?
It's very rare that pretentiousness turns into consciousness,
revealing all the faults that make one a persona ingrata;
why is human pride such a tempting desire to own everything,
to destroy what was built with stamina leaving no footprints?
What will be said about an era which did not prosper and shine?
Who will write the testimony books, if not those inspired?
Take the written word away, and the darkness will definetely return!
Dante and Shakespeare did their part in divulging it: you do yours!
Yesterday's world was a menacing shadow oblitering all knowledge;
the masses were ignorant, but some fervently sought education
through the favor of Kings and Queens, not ignoring the urges of weeping
that came from poverty and unvoiced thoughts that couldn't be expressed;
yes, the above-mentioned Rainassance poets did succeed in their quest!
What disturbs me is the absence of fairness and equality in our times,
even murderers can be acquitted for reason of insanity..they take a life
so sacred and useful in scopes beyond comphrension and imagination;
how wratful God must be over the decision of a lenient, or corrupt judge!
And what outrages me is the heartlessness of mothers that want obortion,
or leave the new-borns in trash bins, or on sidewalks...not even
on a church's steps to be spotted by passerbys who will come to their rescue;
and sadly they will die without knowing the urges of weeping as we do.
How cruel and lawless is Man ruling the earth without the concept of humaness!
And what does He care if they live in squallor and are denied happiness?
All He desires is riches, admiration and comfort over the urges of weeping!
Entered in Michael J. Falotico's contest,
" Sounds Of A Cry "
Hearts torn and shattered,
Yells at tyrants, a dire plea,
Yet torture remains unbothered,
Greed inflicted agony.
Young and old precious souls,
Against murderers of democracy,
Arrogance, firepower, overrules,
Unfazed atrocity.
Those who raise their voices, beware,
For they may lie dead on the ground,
Heroes choose to dare,
Rallying justice to abound.
Who cares for Myanmar's plight?
Their struggle and their pains?
Should darkness engulf their light?
Shrugged, none of our concerns?
O wake up comfort's slumber,
Let's not be blind, their hearts bleed,
Nor let their hopes torn asunder,
Or leave their courage fade.
Crusaders of democracy,
Myanmar against tyranny,
Their lives of sacrifice,
Shall not fail our eyes.