Henry McCarty (1859 – 1881)
a.k.a, Kid Antrim – ca. 1876
a.k.a., William H. Bonney – ca. 1877
Of Irish ancestry
New York-born
orphaned at 15
from his family shorn
repeatedly asking '¿Quién es?'
around midnight 14th July 1881
entering Maxwell's bedroom
their mutual friend but Billy without a gun
in Fort Sumner where by Pat Garrett
(1850 - 1908)
take my word I kid you not
age 21 sadly Henry the outlaw
in the chest was badly shot
for reputedly killing nine men
but for the posted bounty of $500
it took the Sheriff 369 days to collect
the reward promised by Governor Wallace
(1827 – 1905)
A nineteen-year-old boy
from Wallace
Idaho
who had, until this present time
never set foot beyond the city limits
or had a drink,
or kissed a girl;
stood in a sunlit
steamy
Asian field
and plunged his bayonet
deep into the heart
of a fellow human being.
Because he was asked to,
told to,
forced to,
pressured to.
The boy would later
step gently
on to a landmine
eviscerating
the lower half of his body;
and as his intestines
spilled onto the foreign land,
his lingering glazing eyes
stared
questioningly
into the slowly dimming light.
For the very briefest moment in time
two peoples were told to hate
to kill
as others had before
as others will do again.
I compose my poems like Wallace Stevens
by walking the streets of my town.
But unlike the esteemed Wallace Stevens,
I don't have to memorize or write my poems down.
I just turn on my cellphone's recorder,
then slowly whisper my word into it.
But instead of composing gems, like Wallace Stevens,
I tend to produce just a drivel of shhhhh~it.
Wallace Stevens said:
"Poetry is not personal."
He tried never to divulge
anything about himself
in his poems.
So he said.
But the work is
self-revelatory: veiled confessions,
repeated choices -- water, sea motion,
weather, the sky -- introspective isolation --
those silences and descriptive phrases
that communicate and characterize.
Human, no one --
especially not poets --
can really hide.
North West England gripped
Wallace, Gromit full of quips
on everyone's lips
Netflix chiefs ask Who's Nora...
why was this poor woman flipped?
William Ross Wallace'LIBERTY BELL'
__ ||__
) (
) (
)________ (
0
Wallace “Wally” Cleaver
handsome, well-liked high achiever,
befriended Eddie, so unlike him.
Golly!* Wally wasn’t given to whim!
Eddie Haskell
was a neat, slick, conniving rascal.
With his flattery and pseudo-smiles,
he spiced up the show with his wiles.
Leave It to Beaver
*Wally and other characters use expressions like “Gee whiz,” “Gosh,” and “Golly.”
September 29, 2021
entered in the Clerihew 2 Contest Placed 1st
Sponsor: Joseph May
As Wallace lay on wood and blood,
His own, his care he did not heed,
Thoughts of moors and springtime flood,
Purple glens, the heather's bud,
The truth he knew had been his deed.
The court had called him traitor thee,
Sentenced him, like pawn, an object,
Against all England, no dignity,
A traitor to Edward?
He was never his subject.
Again, he thought of heather's flower,
At peace, in quiet, he will pass,
When Edwards’ finished his devour,
With end coming and lest his power,
Scotland’s brave again to mass.
Again, to rise, cause future graves,
To tell the truth, freedom is what’s best,
Sons never live like slaves,
Clans will conquer all but knaves,
At the future King’s bequest.
To his freedom he now resigns,
Marching to heaven, regrets not one,
As tall as he stood, in his times,
Clans surround all in his mind,
Venture to the light, to the Son.
Death and Victory
I know what a poem
looks like.
I know how to make
my prose look like verse.
A little tuck here,
an indent there,
et voila! It’s verse!
or worse ...
a pale imitation of seem.
(can I have some ice cream?)
This poem has been removed for publishing on Amazon in WW II in Poetry: Veterans Stories in Poetry, including my late father's who was a Spitfire pilot in the Nigeria Squadron. As it says at the end, "For free speech".
https://smile.amazon.co.uk/WW-II-Poetry-Veterans-Stories-ebook/dp/B07DGLF33G/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1528537495&sr=8-1&keywords=Rhoda+Monihan
WILLIAM WALLACE
Blindfolding Justice, lest the blind might see,
what tyrany's been passed down countless years
by those who make the claim, nobility
are all the ties that bind through death and tears.
What manner of a man stands up to these
annointed to the reign passed down by name?
No archer known to anyone who sees,
could suffer all, lest freedom is his flame.
Do endings end it all, or just begin
the pure of thought, that life is meant to please?
Though he was dragged and naked for his sin,
are kings not lost, and fallen to their knees?
And yet, their holding on is all life shows,
Through centuries royalty still comes and goes.
© ron Arbuthnot
Scottish crofters from Wallace's time,
trying to make a living of the land
committing not any crime.
With God’s grace and will to raise
a family keeping it simple, yet nothing
was going to be “run of the mill”
An English King, a tyrant so ruthless and
willing to invade. Reasoning was futile
it was impossible to persuade.
He rampaged with vast army's,
taking away the Scotsman's “freedom”
What is a life if you are not free
to roam the place you call home.
Sir William Wallace made a choice,
He stood up to be Scotland's voice.
Shining in courage strong for our
God given right “our freedom”
Wallace became the people’s champion,
put upon a pedestal, so he honoured
this with his battle skills.
With great courage and gifted in the
art of war. He defeated the English
upon the battle field, with his almighty
clamour sword.
Through the English army's impetuous
foresight. Wallace stood and watched
blood soaked as the remaining sasinacks
took flight.
Sir William Wallace,
Regarded as Fearless,
Military Leader and Scottish Knight,
Who like all men slept at Night
As I gather them to the first class lounge
Surely we will calm down the throng.
Of mothers in shock,fathers at a loss.
Crying wee ones encased in their arms.
Lifeboats not nearly enough I hear.
And so we play together as one.
The piano and cellos,the violins.
Kindred spirits fighting our terror.
On we play as the air becomes frozen.
Horrific screams we play beyond.
Seven band members and I.
Wallace Hartley is my name.
Please do remember me.
The bandmaster am I and these
Are the last moments of my life.
And so I instruct the band to play
One last song to say good-bye.
"Nearer My God To Thee" reverberates
Across the splintering bow as all light
From this world is extinguished at last.
By Deb Wilson
for My heart will go on and on contest
sponsored by Tracie~Indigo Dreamweaver
Fit like? Foos yer doos? How are you. How are you getting along?
Dee yer av the news? Have you heard the news?
Aye ! Woppin aint it? Huge, isn’t it.
Pitched a fit !
They sai e larst is ed
a noo, dun’t mik foon o the dead
Quartered to the Auxters armpits
‘ung as a tallyboggler hanged as a scarecrow
dee ye ken? Do you understand
Bloody houghin revolting, vomit inducing
Aye, the crown is on a shooglie the King’s position is wobbley
‘is erse is oot the windae he wont get far acting like that
© Oct 15 2010 Charles Henderson
6 th in Deb's Sistas contest
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