the air reeks of stale coffee and ink-stamped lies,
judges sit like smug kings,
smirking over lives they'll never live,
dismissing truth with a gavel's cough.
innocent men shuffle like cattle,
faces drawn, hands calloused from the grind—
plead guilty or rot waiting.
'justice, ' they call it,
while the lawyers get fat off their despair.
the court stenographer types it all up,
the lies, the twisted logic,
and the perjury sworn like gospel
under a fluorescent crucifix.
if you or I did what they do,
we'd be cuffed and carted off,
but they wear robes like armor,
cloaked in immunity,
proud in their manipulation,
gods of small, dirty kingdoms.
good men shrink in fear,
their courage ground down
by the grinding stone of this machine—
truth doesn't pay,
honor doesn't sell,
and doing the right thing
is the fastest way to lose.
Hillsborough,
where the guilty are freed
and the innocent are crushed,
where justice is just another game
rigged from the start,
Callused, without a true heart.
At best, I am a stenographer:
the Muse dictates...and I write;
the Muse seeming all the
inspiration, a constellation
of wit and style – while I, a
single star – an abysmal one
at that...having enough spark
to mildly gleam, however, left little
more dignity than to obediently
listen and record –
It seems to me this way
with all forms of endeavor:
Reactionary! to traffic lights,
weather, pets, mates – and, of
course, our God and His Fates –
Lord, am I this, only...made to
be a mere puppet? At my zenith
another worthy Muppet....
In the court room there's
one stenographer
six men
six women must be the jury
one judge
one verdict
audience the assembled spectators or listeners at a public event
one court room filled with 107 persons
two lawyers, six witnesses
six men
six women must be the jury
one judge
one verdict
guilty
7/23/18
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
Somewhere in New York,
A piece of paper floats
Several stories above the ground.
Somewhere in Virginia,
The devil licks a lime
And fire erupts.
Somewhere in Pennsylvania,
There is a swan song
Where angels are born.
Somewhere uncharted,
A stenographer is busy
Watching the eyes of the free world
Closely.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.