Long Violent death Poems
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Rosabella met her maker on Halloween night
It was an unnatural death . . .
Death met her in the maple forest
On the edge of town
She lay in the brittle leaves
Her eyes starring in horror
It was a violent death . . .
A dark veil of hair fell across an open eye
The stars twinkled down on Rosabella
She looked perfectly beautiful
Except she was dead . . .
Such a small wound to drain all her blood
A mere mark on her white throat
She was a fool . . .
To go walking on Halloween night
What could have lured her to the forest
With every form of ghost, goblin, devil
and vampire lurking about . . .
They took her to the town morgue
Draped her body with a virgin white sheet, so white
And there she lay waiting
Until . . . .
______________________________
August 26, 2012
Poetry/Free Verse/Halloween Night
Copyright Protected, ID 08- 416-335-26
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Halloween,
sponsor, Skat, Judged 09/2012
Honorable Mention
I was a little girl holding mothers hand-
unprepared for the harsh and brutal image
of my sister being run over by a truck
the image raw graphic violent and terrifying
I will always remember the chilling scream
my mother screaming and screaming and screaming
it will haunt me forever-
the bleakness the reality powerful fervent
perhaps that is why we were so close
mother and me
until her death we shared this raw emotion
just us-
the scene was garish
a little girl lay dead
in her sweet pink dress
I was naïve unprepared for such an intense
violent death
I was a just a flower growing
so I folded my petals up around me
and there I dwelled unspeaking just staring
into nothingness
mother went to a raw place painful and lost
only the love of a grandma
could reach my shattered tender soul-
she was uneducated and inexperienced
but with untrained skill she opened each
petal one by one and each raw emotion was revealed
somehow mother and I recovered in time (or did we)
and life rumbled on
but still when I go to the wind blown cemetery
and I touch the name suzanne
it all comes flooding back the undiluted raw image
and that penetrating scream to goes on for infinity
and this has made me the poet
I am
a poet born from raw exposed pain
______________________________
July 29, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/raw emotions
Copyright Protected, ID 15-695-291-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Raw,
sponsor, Catie Lindsey
Fourth Place
Reprehensible Savagery ©
'Pon reading tragic headline...,
aye experienced grief alone,
no matter the killer (Chris Watts,
thirty-three years
of Frederick, Colorado) unknown
to me, the sheer brutality,
whereat he killed Shanann Watts,
Bella and Celeste,
his once adorably beautiful,
now ceased wife
and daughters ages thirty four,
four, and three respectively
(purportedly via strangulation)
reflexively did i groan
particularly, the propensity to kill
with in sinew weighted bone
times gone by,
where expletive laced epithets
incessantly did drone
nearly activating trip wires,
a blood dripping knife,
would be shown
to police, unless...I took my life,
cuz immediate regret would well up
resulting with an agonizing moan...
hence after perusing morbid
(somewhat inexplicably fascinating)
screaming tragedy ado
admit sadness overtook this chap,
what wrought motive,
(albeit premeditated)
for him to construe
such an atrocious, ferocious,
heinous, et cetera grew
some crime toward innocent wife
(she supposedly knew)
intuitively felt and possibly
foresaw the slew
how her life (a grotesque
mass square aid )
would meet one gross violent death
intimating marriage frayed
ranking as "FAKE,"
or Eff for failing grade
yet tidbits publicized twas shaky match
from get go, no heaven made
nor wedded bliss -
her precious life paid
as well two preschoolers
(cute as a button),
and expectant third progeny (male fetus)
existence extinguished by, "killer"
the husband, who went
into a deadly tie raid
now guilt upon
his conscious heavily weighed.
One never realizes where inspiration comes from,
I found mine while strolling along...
a land with beautiful landscapes
that wouldn't let dreams escape.
One isn't born a poet, it's a revelation of fateful events
that are analyzed by an inner feeling...
so immensely simplistic and revealing,
absorbing the essence of prudence.
Some dissident strongly pointed out the strange isolation of an intellectual,
being estranged from real people who are more amicable...
how would he know how desolation confines
that soul in search of a serenity redeemed by prize?
Not living on the edge, but tasting the richness of slowness,
which controls the pace of the footsteps,
always keeping them in the right track...
how could peaceful thoughts trigger a violent death?
Thrilled to admire a head full of white hair, when that time arrives,
and reading names on limestone graves,
deepens my comprehension...
comparing their age to mine.
Walking in the true faith, seeing the wonders and the miracles,
and that fervent faith will make me walk
in the spirit for a testimony to all believers...
and as a follower of Christ, I stand on His rock.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Maimed in Miami’s neon glare,
Dead in Dallas under blood-red skies,
Cut short in California’s golden air,
Obliterated where Oklahoma lies.
Consumed in Colorado’s mountain shade,
Fired in Florida’s humid, fevered breath,
Killed in Kentucky’s shadowed glade,
Torn in Texas by the hand of death.
Murdered in Michigan’s cold embrace,
Shattered in Chicago’s restless night,
Nabbed in New York’s frantic pace,
Critical where Connecticut’s lights burn bright.
Gunned in Georgia’s sultry, silent fields
Mad men wielding iron forged in rage,
Liberty twisted for the fool who yields
to chaos, where no reason turns the page.
They cannot spell the sacred worth of breath,
nor grasp the fragile pulse that time has lent;
a culture fractured, courting violent death,
where guns replace the quiet argument.
Yesterday it stained the Texas plain,
tomorrow’s shadow falls on unknown sod
in that wide land where logic lies in chains,
and steel alone decides the will of God.
The battle cry of a Samaria pierces the night
"Ninjas meet your death, no matter how you fight me, the Samaria's decree is death before dishonor"
What you think the little sword is for
It's hard to stab myself with a Katuana
You finger Chinese stars
Well I finger a poisonous arrowhead into my bowstring
Your send out your Shadow Spirit
I don't care white ninja or black ninja
Well mighty men meet a Valiant man
And now you meet a violent death
There now buzzards and vultures devour you
This is our culture we only defend our land
We only sent out a hand of help
You slap us in the face, you wont ever do that again
Freeze the moment let us twins remind ourselves
Who knows where the spirit goes it is like the wind
Come here to where we look the storms in the eye
And before we perish bro we might as well sip on some rye
Is there harm if I don't take off my armour
would you be offended if I sais when your indoors
put your sheild to rest
On sand soaked with blood,
two young men are breathing hard.
The taller one has armor,
a sword and a net.
His opponent has only
an arm guard and a dagger,
but no encumbrance.
Thus, moving quicker, this man
avoids the constant thrusts of
the taller one’s sword.
Finding his chance, he lunges
and his dagger pierces through
unprotected flesh.
Crimson red blood gushes forth
from the tall man’s thick midriff.
The crowd screams delight!
Spurred on by their approval,
the shorter man strikes again.
This time his dagger
finds muscle, sinew and bone.
Hot pain consumes the tall man,
but he can't cry out.
His life blood is draining and
the net and sword are useless.
By oath he is bound
to endure a violent death. . .
and so he lifts his finger.
To his friend - his opponent -
he offers his throat.
No mercy handkerchiefs wave.
The editor gives thumbs down.
As his fellow man
buries the blade in his throat,
a young man embraces death.
The death of this slave
is the gladiator’s lot.
Another slave lives today,
but his death also
is imminent; then he too
will finally know freedom.
For Amy Green's
Choka for a Chokehold Poetry Contest
Singers and dancers,
artists and writers,
philosophers and poets,
academics and health professionals,
parents and teachers,
actors and contemplatives,
grandparents and children,
live and die between Heaven and Hell.
Between Heaven's interdependent sensory Enlightenment
and Hell's individual secularized Industrious-Militant Revolutions
Pathology and sin result from severing healthy spiritual tools
for development
from degenerative denatured fake-wealth weapons
for destruction.
Heaven's tools restore peace
where re-tooled weapons
without divine mercy
redistribute Hell's sure-fire punishments.
Sacred tools,
like bicameral hearted minds,
were
and are
for hunting,
gathering
harvesting
cooking
serving
cleaning
recycling
composting
regathering,
impressing
not trangressing,
health-restoring FuturePowers.
Weapons were
and are
for killing
threatening
hating
condemning
judging
repressing
depressing
suppressing wealthy MultiGenerational Matriarchal FlowCycles.
Technological tools,
post industrial,
have evolved from
WorldWideWebs of Heaven
for cooperative social health information
Too often devolved into propaganda weapons
against WorldWideWalls for self-ghettoizing Hell
promulgating competitive anti-social disinformation.
Sacred tools, verbal and non-verbal,
derive from
and help build
heart-paths toward progressive liberties in love
and conserving equitable and responsible compassions.
Secularized weapons
contrive from
and help destroy
other paranoid
rabidly bipolar
mind pathologies.
Sacred tools serve immortal life.
Secular weapons serve up violent death.
Just as word choice
is the smallest detail
of communal win/win communication,
Weapon choice is the smallest
and also least cognitively wealthy, part
of commercial and residential conscious win/win choice-making
well-tooled
politically healthy
true-wealth conserving co-investment,
Articulating
incarnating
re-creating
sacred life evolving in-between
LeftBrain's ideas of Heaven
and RightBrain's experiences of lose/lose Hell.
Our life a horror movie they played to us in real life
In horror films black people die first
We always make smart decisions
And yet they still manage to find a way to erase us even in film
They don't leave us alone
Not in life
Not in death
Not even in fiction
They do this to show that no matter what we will always be trapped
That even if we follow the rules
We still die
We are still erased
That we still have no control
Over our own fate
We will always be puppets
To a system
That doesn't control by using string
But by barbed wire
Making sure every movement is painful
Making sure we have a slow and violent death
That with every breath
The barbed wire strips another piece of our flesh
Slowly peeling away our blackness
We are seen as the disposable one
In life
In movies
And shows
To be the one who helps
The one who saves
And the one who sacrifices
Their life
For their white counterpart
To make sure they get to the end
Where's our happily ever after
We always get the struggle trope
And when we ask to change the ending
They just say nope
Pandora's Box
The skies rip apart
Filling with a hot white fire
The winds blow both hot and cold
Burning and freezing
Birds are replaced by black dragons
Smoking cinders fall like rain
Covering the ground below
Burying people as they run
The ancient gods rise up from the ashes
Full of vengeance and hate
Desiring peace they fight for humanity
What has caused the world such pain?
Pandora's Box has been opened
Hope has died a violent death
The last chance was taken from man
Rains will wash away the ash
The sky will heal
Man will survive
He always has
The gods will return from whence they came
But Pandora's Box will remain empty
Devoid of all hope