Murder in 1654 - Broadsheet
Title: A true relation of a horrid MURDER committed upon the person of Thomas Kidderminster at the White Horse Inn in Chelmsford in the County of Essex in the month of April 1654
It was in the year of '54
Foul murder did occur
A traveller came to a Chelmsford inn
Then died in blood and gore
He only meant to rest one night
As to London he made his way
But he remained for many years more
While his ghost refused to lay
Tom Kidd had been to Huntingdon
Where family lands he'd sold
Weary he came to the White Horse Inn
With his cloak-bag full of gold
Travel-tired though Tom might be
His face it surely smiled
For the very next day he'd be at home
With his loving wife and child
The keeper, Sewell, who ran the inn
Tom knew from earlier time
Could not resist his scheming wife
Who'd hatched an awful crime
By sad mischance the landlord's wife
Saw gold bright in the light
And so it quickly came to pass
there was red blood in the night
The flash of golden sovereigns
had fired her evil greed
'Husband I will be the brains
And you will do the deed'
As Tom retired to bed that night
For the last time in his life
Between the sheets he dreamed sweet dreams
Of his children and his wife
His wife she waited patiently
But then she had great fears
For Tom never came as he said he would
There was silence for 13 years
All her enquiries drew a blank
Of Tom there was never a trace
Except unknown to those searching for him
Strange happenings in the place
The rooms upstairs were seldom quiet
A ghost prowled night and day
So the landlord and his wife took fright
and soon they went away
The fence at the back just wouldn't stay
upright for long at all
So John Cox would to do the job right
And build a good brick wall
As he dug the foundation hole
His pick struck something dull
On looking down amongst the earth
he found a human skull
He tossed it in the orchard field
but it would not lie still
It kept on moving through the grass
and even rolled up hill
John picked the gruesome object up
and thought it made a sound
Then dug down in the earth to find
a skeleton in the ground
The shocking news of this strange death
was by the journals spread
Mrs Kidd soon guessed the truth
and so to Chelmsford sped
She bravely went to that fateful inn
and there would stay the night
At two o'clock with an groaning crash
she was woken with a fright
The spirit knew his love was come
so boisterously did it show
Chairs went flying and the table split
from a dreadful ghostly blow
The unquiet ghost had walked before
since that bloody deed
Now Sewell and his accomplices
would soon pay for their greed
Sad was the tale of that bloody night
when poor Tom was killed
Enquiries soon found the story out
Of how his blood was spilled
'Will you rob me of my gold.
Murder me as well!
Take my money or my life
And I'll see you all in hell'
Cruel Sewell swung a poleaxe
Which struck him in the head
His wife then went and cut his throat
so Tom like a pig was bled
The ostler helped to dig the grave
out in the hotel's grounds
For this he got the traveller's suit
and also sixty pounds
Justice slow but certain came
to those who did the crime
First to die was the woman who
washed the linen at the time
She was brought before the justices
and made to swear an oath
'May I rot alive' so she said
'If I don't tell the truth'
'There was no blood upon those sheets
Of that I can be sure'
But soon her bowels began to rot
- for that there was no cure
Her loathsome death made Sewell think
Fear and doubt fought in his head
Demons and conscience struggled inside
'til he wished that he was dead
In case he gave the game away
by losing of his mind
His wife poisoned him so soon to hell
his soul it was consigned
In her turn she caught the plague
Before assizes time
And the gibbet claimed the ostler's life
for his part in the crime
Four deaths for one was not enough
The ghost hadn't settled the score
The family was broken by these foul deeds
So still he walks the floor
***
At night when you are fast asleep
And hear a ghostly call
Don't dig too deep in your back yard
'cos you might just find a skull
(Rendered into verse from a rare narrative of the same name for Essex book festival from a reference in Chelmsford Through The Ages found in Colchester library's local history section.)
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Husband and Wife
It's gonna be hard
To get back on track
After all that we've been through! !
Some say we're not meant to be together
Only if they only knew! !
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And lived the same old life
I always knew you'd be my husband
I always dreamt i'd be your wife
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What has changed?
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We need to talk it out
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Inexplicable.
The night was cold but still and clear.
As I patrolled the riverside.
I felt a sudden twinge of fear.
Quite suddenly I was terrified.
It was a strange experience.
I saw no reason for my fear.
It went against my common sense
When I thought I saw appear.
Two figure from the distant past.
A sailor and his light of love.
Fear for the moment held me fast.
Although I tried I could not move.
The sailor struck her on the head
with some heavy implement.
To make quite sure that she was dead.
Another blow more violent.
Then he made off and left her there.
He had done what he intended to.
Whilst I was forced to stand and stare.
There was nothing I could do,
When I could move I went to where.
I had seen her body fall
Her battered body was not there.
There was no blood no sign at all.
When I regained my self control.
Of course I double checked the scene.
Then carried on with my patrol.
Convinced myself that I had been.
Confused by some trick of the light.
It's possible I might have been.
But I won't forget that night
nor what I thought that I had seen.
The memory still bothered me.
When I retired I found the time.
To study local history.
I found a record of the crime.
A woman's body had been found
Beside the waters of the Tyne.
Just left abandoned on the ground
She died in eighteen twenty nine.
Was I transported back in time?
On that cold evening long ago
.Was I a witness to that foul crime?
I cannot say I do not know.
Though I remember vividly.
The murder scene I thought I saw.
A trick of light most probably.
Though I shall wonder evermore.
Tuesday,07 February 2012
Http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Doctor’s Mistake
As towns flourish and teem with life
Of all colours and creeds
In one of them lived with his wife
A doctor, with certain needs
Life and practice were more than good
He’d friends on every side
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Which soon would turn the tide
One day a bad mistake was made
A fault he tried to hide
With pills a man in bed was laid
Who very nearly died
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The doctor was so high
The dose he gave could kill a horse
A man would surely die
For many years the doctor’s wife
Had prayed both night and day
For God to change her husband’s life
And take the drugs away
Her prayers were heard God saw how sad
His daughter lived with tears
Although her husband’s deeds were bad
God freed them of their fears
The doctor’s heart began to melt
He joined his wife in prayer
“Oh Lord my God what guilt I’ve felt
Since knowing You are there”
Salvation came because a wife
Had knelt in fervent prayer
Not only had her husband life
But now! Life’s Truth they share.
poem by Michael P. Johnson
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Sad Story 3 (A True Story)
In some lives tragedy lingers
like a low hanging dark cloud.
Take the life of a friend of mine.
A few years ago, he fell off his horse
and missed a lovely weekend away.
After months of recuperation
life started to build itself again.
Getting home one evening,
he found his partner not feeling well
and within a matter of hours, she was gone.
The weeks that followed
his world seem to be caving in.
First his job was to go
and then the flat he lived in.
Nothing seemed to be going right.
He met up with his ex-wife
because his daughter had become
a drug addict and an alcoholic.
Somehow, their love for one another
started to blossom again.
He began to grow in strength again.
Life was getting better at every bend,
but tragedy hadn’t left him,
it just waited to come back.
Then I heard it had struck again
just as he was getting settled
it struck again with vengeance
only this time to his ex wife.
He went around to see her
as he normally did
only to find police everywhere.
Asking why they were there,
they told him it was a crime scene I am afraid
and that his ex wife had been murdered.
How is he coping I am not sure.
I’ve tried to phone him,
but his phone is switched off I’m afraid.
There is an emptiness in my heart
as he is a nice and gentle man.
I shall keep on trying to get in touch with him,
as he is a good friend.
I just hope he doesn’t fall
into a depression again.
One never knows
how much tragedy any man or woman can endure.
This story has no end and nor will it
until I hear from my good friend.
27 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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The Confession
‘I'm ill, I'm ill, ' said Rockingham,
‘I'm ill, ' then took to his bed,
He tossed and turned in his fever there
As the visions danced in his head.
He couldn't tell if the world outside
Was real, or a crazy dream,
But muttered into the night, instead
Of some of the things he'd seen.
His wife, Marie, was a surly wench
She said, ‘I'll not be a nurse!
I'll not be tied to a sick man's bed
And left the room, with a curse.
She called the maid and she told her: ‘Sit!
And mop at the old man's brow,
I'll be abroad in the coach and six,
If he dies, go milk the cow! '
The fever turned to delerium
As he tossed and turned all night,
The doctor came, and he feared for him
As he lay in the grey twilight,
He used up seventeen leeches as
He blooded him, full sore,
But Rockingham was a haunted man
From a time of long before.
From time to time, he would sit up straight
And stare, with an awful dread,
As the ghost of Harold Murchison
Would hover, over his bed.
‘Don't come for me, it was my Marie
That you wanted - She was a witch!
If only you'd taken her off from me,
She's such a God-awful bitch! '
He fell back onto the pillow, cried
At the mess he'd made of his life,
And the worst mistake he'd ever made
Was to make Marie his wife,
She'd married him for the Castle gate
And the pride of a titled name,
But her love had stayed with Murchison
And she saw him, just the same.
At midnight they had hurried the priest
And the constable came too,
‘I think he'll be dead by morning, ' said
The doc: ‘Not much I can do! '
But Rockingham tossed as one quite lost
While the ghost lay in his mind,
‘It's true, it's true! What was I to do?
I poisoned her Harry's wine! '
He fell back onto the pillow, slept
In the peace of the almost dead,
For Murchison had faded away
At the words that he'd just said,
He woke that morn when a thunderstorm
Flash-flooded over the floor,
His eyes were bright from his endless night,
But the hangman stood at the door!
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jaspar
Jaspar was poor, and want and vice
Had made his heart like stone,
And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes
On riches not his own.
On plunder bent abroad he went
Towards the close of day,
And loitered on the lonely road
Impatient for his prey.
No traveller came, he loiter'd long
And often look'd around,
And paus'd and listen'd eagerly
To catch some coming sound.
He sat him down beside the stream
That crossed the lonely way,
So fair a scene might well have charm'd
All evil thoughts away;
He sat beneath a willow tree
That cast a trembling shade,
The gentle river full in front
A little island made,
Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone
Upon the poplar trees,
Whose shadow on the stream below
Play'd slowly to the breeze.
He listen'd--and he heard the wind
That waved the willow tree;
He heard the waters flow along
And murmur quietly.
He listen'd for the traveller's tread,
The nightingale sung sweet,--
He started up, for now he heard
The sound of coming feet;
He started up and graspt a stake
And waited for his prey;
There came a lonely traveller
And Jaspar crost his way.
But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd
The traveller to appal,
He would not lightly yield the purse
That held his little all.
Awhile he struggled, but he strove
With Jaspar's strength in vain;
Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd,
And never spoke again.
He lifted up the murdered man
And plunged him in the flood,
And in the running waters then
He cleansed his hands from blood.
The waters closed around the corpse
And cleansed his hands from gore,
The willow waved, the stream flowed on
And murmured as before.
There was no human eye had seen
The blood the murderer spilt,
And Jaspar's conscience never knew
The avenging goad of guilt.
And soon the ruffian had consum'd
The gold he gain'd so ill,
And years of secret guilt pass'd on
And he was needy still.
One eve beside the alehouse fire
He sat as it befell,
When in there came a labouring man
Whom Jaspar knew full well.
He sat him down by Jaspar's side
A melancholy man,
For spite of honest toil, the world
Went hard with Jonathan.
His toil a little earn'd, and he
With little was content,
But sickness on his wife had fallen
And all he had was spent.
Then with his wife and little ones
He shared the scanty meal,
And saw their looks of wretchedness,
And felt what wretches feel.
That very morn the Landlord's power
Had seized the little left,
And now the sufferer found himself
Of every thing bereft.
He lent his head upon his hand,
His elbow on his knee,
And so by Jaspar's side he sat
And not a word said he.
Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried,
Come--cheer up Jonathan!
Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart,
Come! come! take courage man!
He took the cup that Jaspar gave
And down he drain'd it quick
I have a wife, said Jonathan,
And she is deadly sick.
She has no bed to lie upon,
I saw them take her bed.
And I have children--would to God
That they and I were dead!
Our Landlord he goes home to night
And he will sleep in peace.
I would that I were in my grave
For there all troubles cease.
In vain I pray'd him to forbear
Tho' wealth enough has he--
God be to him as merciless
As he has been to me!
When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul
On all his ills intent,
He plied him with the heartening cup
And with him forth he went.
This landlord on his homeward road
'Twere easy now to meet.
The road is lonesome--Jonathan,
And vengeance, man! is sweet.
He listen'd to the tempter's voice
The thought it made him start.
His head was hot, and wretchedness
Had hardened now his heart.
Along the lonely road they went
And waited for their prey,
They sat them down beside the stream
That crossed the lonely way.
They sat them down beside the stream
And never a word they said,
They sat and listen'd silently
To hear the traveller's tread.
The night was calm, the night was dark,
No star was in the sky,
The wind it waved the willow boughs,
The stream flowed quietly.
The night was calm, the air was still,
Sweet sung the nightingale,
The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd,
His heart began to fail.
'Tis weary waiting here, he cried,
And now the hour is late,--
Methinks he will not come to night,
'Tis useless more to wait.
Have patience man! the ruffian said,
A little we may wait,
But longer shall his wife expect
Her husband at the gate.
Then Jonathan grew sick at heart,
My conscience yet is clear,
Jaspar--it is not yet too late--
I will not linger here.
How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought
Thy conscience was asleep.
No more such qualms, the night is dark,
The river here is deep,
What matters that, said Jonathan,
Whose blood began to freeze,
When there is one above whose eye
The deeds of darkness sees?
We are safe enough, said Jaspar then
If that be all thy fear;
Nor eye below, nor eye above
Can pierce the darkness here.
That instant as the murderer spake
There came a sudden light;
Strong as the mid-day sun it shone,
Though all around was night.
It hung upon the willow tree,
It hung upon the flood,
It gave to view the poplar isle
And all the scene of blood.
The traveller who journies there
He surely has espied
A madman who has made his home
Upon the river's side.
His cheek is pale, his eye is wild,
His look bespeaks despair;
For Jaspar since that hour has made
His home unshelter'd there.
And fearful are his dreams at night
And dread to him the day;
He thinks upon his untold crime
And never dares to pray.
The summer suns, the winter storms,
O'er him unheeded roll,
For heavy is the weight of blood
Upon the maniac's soul.
poem by Robert Southey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Family life
At home
Husband
And wife...
Some time fighting...
Word's to words...
With bad words...
Sometime hit
The husband wife
Mistakes...
Wife was crying...
Husband was woory...
Wife also
Lovingely hit...
Husband also take easy...
At night husband
Wanted wife
For sex...
Wife will say
Backpain acting
Going for
Hear with life
Every day
At familylife...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Do
Well I've gone steady with a-lots of girls
And to all of them I tried to be true
But I'm so glad I never promised them
What I promised you
And that's I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life)
Well I heard from my folks
Time and time again
To make sure that I found the right one
And every time you meet
Your heart will beat
And you'll want to say
You'll say I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life now)
Oh yes I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life now)
Ah ha ha I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life now)
Ah ha ha I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life now)
Ah ha yes I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wife- better half of life
Wife is the better half of life
Give wife love affection as soul-mate
Wife is not glorified maid as said
Wife do not want money salary honorarium
Do not make hulla gulla and do not beat drum.
Mian bibi relationship should not be commercialized
Third party intervention in family relation vandalized.
Wife is not a domestic labourer
Wife is backbone of the family
The maile stone of the family
Wife is the torchlight of the family
Wife is the colorful star
Do no put any question to her.
Wife is there to give everything
Wife is not to take anything in return
Wife is the goddess.
Only mad man can say wife is a domestic servant
Make wife a wife life-partner better half
And enjoy life freely.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dukite Snake
Well, mate, you’ve asked about a fellow
You met to-day, in a black-and-yellow
Chain-gang suit, with a peddler’s pack,
Or with some such burden, strapped to his back.
Did you meet him square? No, passed you by?
Well, if you had, and had looked in his eye,
You’d have felt for your irons then and there;
For the light in his eye is a madman’s glare.
Ay, mad, poor fellow! I know him well,
And if you’re not sleepy just yet, I’ll tell
His story,—a strange one as ever you heard
Or read; but I’ll vouch for it, every word.
You just wait a minute, mate: I must see
How that damper’s doing, and make some tea.
You smoke? That’s good; for there’s plenty of weed
In that wallaby skin. Does your horse feed
In the hobbles? Well, he’s got good feed here,
And my own old bush mare won’t interfere.
Done with that meat? Throw it there to the dogs,
And fling on a couple of banksia logs.
And now for the story. That man who goes
Through the bush with the pack and the convict’s clothes
Has been mad for years; but he does no harm,
And our lonely settlers feel no alarm
When they see or meet him. Poor Dave Sloane
Was a settler once, and a friend of my own.
Some eight years back, in the spring of the year,
Dave came from Scotland, and settled here.
A splendid young fellow he was just then,
And one of the bravest and truest men
That I ever met: he was kind as a woman
To all who needed a friend, and no man—
Not even a convict—met with his scorn,
For David Sloane was a gentleman born.
Ay, friend, a gentleman, though it sounds queer:
There’s plenty of blue blood flowing out here,
And some younger sons of your “upper ten”
Can be met with here, first-rate bushmen.
Why, friend, I—Bah! curse that dog! you see
This talking so much has affected me.
Well, Sloane came here with an axe and a gun;
He bought four miles of a sandal-wood run.
This bush at that time was a lonesome place,
So lonesome the sight of a white man’s face
Was a blessing, unless it came at night,
And peered in your hut, with the cunning fright
Of a runaway convict; and even they
Were welcome, for talk’s sake, while they could stay.
Dave lived with me here for a while, and learned
The tricks of the bush,—how the snare was laid
In the wallaby track, how traps were made,
How ’possums and kangaroo rats were killed,
And when that was learned, I helped him to build
From mahogany slabs a good bush hut,
And showed him how sandal-wood logs were cut.
I lived up there with him days and days,
For I loved the lad for his honest ways.
I had only one fault to find: at first
Dave worked too hard; for a lad who was nursed,
As he was, in idleness, it was strange
How he cleared that sandal-wood off his range.
From the morning light till the light expired
He was always working, he never tired;
Till at length I began to think his will
Was too much settled on wealth, and still
When I looked at the lad’s brown face, and eye
Clear open, my heart gave such thought the lie.
But one day—for he read my mind—he laid
His hand on my shoulder: “Don’t be afraid,”
Said he, “that I’m seeking alone for pelf.
I work hard, friend; but ’tis not for myself.”
And he told me then, in his quiet tone,
Of a girl in Scotland, who was his own,—
His wife,—’twas for her: ’twas all he could say,
And his clear eye brimmed as he turned away.
After that he told me the simple tale:
They had married for love, and she was to sail
For Australia when he wrote home and told
The oft-watched-for story of finding gold.
In a year he wrote, and his news was good:
He had bought some cattle and sold his wood.
He said, “Darling, I’ve only a hut,—but come.”
Friend, a husband’s heart is a true wife’s home;
And he knew she’d come. Then he turned his hand
To make neat the house, and prepare the land
For his crops and vines; and he made that place
Put on such a smiling and homelike face,
That when she came, and he showed her round
His sandal-wood and his crops in the ground,
And spoke of the future, they cried for joy,
The husband’s arm clasping his wife and boy.
Well, friend, if a little of heaven’s best bliss
Ever comes from the upper world to this,
It came into that manly bushman’s life,
And circled him round with the arms of his wife.
God bless that bright memory! Even to me,
A rough, lonely man, did she seem to be,
While living, an angel of God’s pure love,
And now I could pray to her face above.
And David he loved her as only a man
With a heart as large as was his heart can.
I wondered how they could have lived apart,
For he was her idol, and she his heart.
Friend, there isn’t much more of the tale to tell:
I was talking of angels awhile since. Well,
Now I’ll change to a devil,—ay, to a devil!
You needn’t start: if a spirit of evil
Ever came to this world its hate to slake
One mankind, it came as a Dukite Snake.
Like? Like the pictures you’ve seen of Sin,
A long red snake,—as if what was within
Was fire that gleamed through his glistening skin.
And his eyes!—if you could go down to hell
And come back to your fellows here and tell
What the fire was like, you could find no thing,
Here below on the earth, or up in the sky,
To compare it to but a Dukite’s eye!
Now, mark you, these Dukites don’t go alone:
There’s another near when you see but one;
And beware you of killing that one you see
Without finding the other; for you may be
More than twenty miles from the spot that night,
When camped, but you’re tracked by the lone Dukite,
That will follow your trail like Death or Fate,
And kill you as sure as you killed its mate!
Well, poor Dave Sloane had his young wife here
Three months,—’twas just this time of the year.
He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Vasse,
And was homeward bound, when he saw in the grass
A long red snake: he had never been told
Of the Dukite’s ways,—he jumped to the road,
And smashed its flat head with the bullock-goad!
He was proud of the red skin, so he tied
Its tail to the cart, and the snake’s blood dyed
The bush on the path he followed that night.
He was early home, and the dead Dukite
Was flung at the door to be skinned next day.
At sunrise next morning he started away
To hunt up his cattle. A three hours’ ride
Brought him back: he gazed on his home with pride
And joy in his heart; he jumped from his horse
And entered—to look on his young wife’s corse,
And his dead child clutching his mother’s clothes
As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose
From her breast, where ’twas resting, the gleaming head
Of the terrible Dukite, as if it said,
“I’ve had vengeance, my foe: you took all I had.”
And so had the snake—David Sloane was mad!
I rode to his hut just by chance that night,
And there on the threshold the clear moonlight
Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door
With an awful feeling of coming woe:
The dead was stretched on the moonlit floor,
The man held the hand of his wife,—his pride,
His poor life’s treasure,—and crouched by her side.
O God! I sank with the weight of the blow.
I touched and called him: he heeded me not,
So I dug her grave in a quiet spot,
And lifted them both,—her boy on her breast,—
And laid them down in the shade to rest.
Then I tried to take my poor friend away,
But he cried so woefully, “Let me stay
Till she comes again!” that I had no heart
To try to persuade him then to part
From all that was left to him here,—her grave;
So I stayed by his side that night, and, save
One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound,—
O God! that wail—like the wail of a hound!
’Tis six long years since I heard that cry,
But ’twill ring in my ears till the day I die.
Since that fearful night no one has heard
Poor David Sloane utter sound or word.
You have seen to-day how he always goes:
He’s been given that suit of convict’s clothes
By some prison officer. On his back
You noticed a load like a peddler’s pack?
Well, that’s what he lives for: when reason went,
Still memory lived, for the days are spent
In searching for Dukites; and year by year
That bundle of skins is growing. ’Tis clear
That the Lord out of evil some good still takes;
For he’s clearing this bush of the Dukite snakes.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Bloke Called Sid (Aggro-Man)
Because his day was rather dull
Sid kicked a tramp and broke his skull,
He liked to think that he was tough
And no-one dared to call his bluff
Except that day a guy called Geoff
Declared outright 'You're just a pouf! ! '
That ended in a bloody fight
But he felt really great that night,
He'd punched him hard and cracked his ribs
And put an end to his filthy fibs.
No-one was gonna call him 'gay',
Not if they wanted to walk away!
He quite liked girls but he left his wife
'Cos she always nagged him about his knife,
He'd got her pregnant anyway
And she needn't think he was gonna stay
And listen to some screaming kid
And a wife who hated whatever he did;
He'd got important things to do
Which wouldn't interest a c*nt like you,
(C*nts like you don't have a clue
And always go running to the Boys in Blue!)
One day when he was crossing the road
A car swerved past and left him dead
(He lay there in a pool of blood,
At least that's what the papers said.)
You may think he was a waste of space
But you wouldn't have said that to his face,
He led a life of petty crime
And now he's locked up in this rhyme.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Made Me A Man
As I work with the sweat upon my brow
As so to support my family my wife and child
I do for them, all that I can,
As GOD, he made me a man.
I Protect all which is mine and what I own
Which includes my possessions and also my home
At my wife’s side I will always stand
As GOD, he made me a man
I will never ever lie or cheat or steal
Never hurt anyone when instead I could heal
As I know what is in my greater plan
As GOD, he made me a man.
I will never ever start a war or even a fight
Whether I be wrong and they be right
I will talk with them, until we both understand
As GOD, he made me a man.
I will not break the vows I made to my wife
No matter the problems or even the rife
I know years from now in front of GOD I will stand
As GOD, he made me a man.
A soul and a life GOD he gave me
He showed me the roads and told me to be free
I gave up being a boy from worries I had not ran
As GOD, he made me a man.
As I say my prayers alone at night
I humble myself to the Lord and his might
I know that GOD, he made me a Man
But I am the one, who made me who I am.
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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They Went Home (Terzanelle) (In Answer To Maya Angelou)
They visited her when the wife was not around,
they found her house antiseptic clean,
tracked her down where ever she was to be found,
while she was full of passion like a nymphomaniac Herculean
all kinds of men knew her lips,
they found her house antiseptic clean,
knew the shape of her legs and hips
but some was treated better still,
all kinds of men knew her lips,
and they visited one night or more to get a thrill
before they went home to the sweet wife,
but some was treated better still,
before they went to a loving family and a clear-cut life
they experienced her really intimately
before they went home to the sweet wife
and everyone that were visiting her left separately.
They visited her when the wife was not around,
they experienced her really intimately
tracked her down where ever she was to be found.
[Reference: They went home by Maya Angelou.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Turn Around
I was working all night in my office
When a man I had recently killed
Called me up from a phone near my building
So I looked out the window at him
He had the same obsequious manner
That was the reason I had him killed
So to calm my nerves I sang this song
To him, over the phone
Turn around, turn around
Theres a thing there that can be found
Turn around, turn around
Its a human skull on the ground
Human skull on the ground
Turn around
I was out by myself in the graveyard
I was doing an interpretive dance
When I felt something heavy and pointed
Strike me in the back of the neck
And then the ghost of my dance instructor
Pushed me down into an open grave
And as dirt rained down she played a xylophone
And sang me this song
Turn around, turn around
Theres a thing there that can be found
Turn around, turn around
Its a human skull on the ground
Human skull on the ground
Turn around
We were waving our arms out the window
Of a fast moving passenger train
Acting in an irresponsible fashion
Until the engineer whose back had been turned
And who we thought would find us highly amusing
Quickly swiveled his head around
And his face which was a paper-white mask of evil
Sang us this song
Turn around, (round) turn around (round)
Theres a thing there that can be found (theres a thing there that can be)
Turn around, (found) turn around (round)
Its a human skull on the ground (its a human skull on the)
Human skull (ground) on the ground (round)
Turn around (turn around, turn around)
Turn around, (round) turn around (round)
Theres a thing there that can be found (theres a thing there that can be)
Turn around, (found) turn around (round)
Its a human skull on the ground (its a human skull on the)
Human skull (ground) on the ground (round)
Turn around (turn around, turn around)
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Non Swimming Man Of The Sea
He had his own fishing boat for many years though he never ventured far out to sea
And from fishing he made a good living enough to upkeep his family
He was born and he still lives near the ocean and the ocean holds no fears for him
But to many it may seem a bit strange that he's never learned how to swim.
Though he left school young for to fish with his father he's a bright man and nobody's fool
And his son and daughter live in the big city their children in Primary school
Two years ago his wife she died suddenly they had been married for thirty five years
And though for her his grieving is over thoughts of her still move him to tears.
A year younger than him she felt quite well till a massive heart attack struck her down
And one day he too will go to join her in the grave yard in the sea side Town
He had a wish to be cremated and his ashes spread on the sea shore
But to his wife he must remain true and with her he will lay forever more.
He sold his fishing boat when his wife died his great zest for life with her died
He now lives on the old age pension and from his cottage he can hear the tide
Rage against the rocks on the fore shore the huge waves they rumble and roll
The immortal voice of the ocean is ever soothing to his soul.
Last February he turned seventy and the years have left him gray and slow
Still he finds comfort in his good memories of his better days decades ago
Of his beautiful wife and their children but life part of mortality
And the Reaper is now quietly waiting for the non swimming man of the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Golden Years
he finally reached his golden years
wanted to leave his family,
thoughts and love to share.
so he sat with pen in hand
wrote about his lifes plan.
it started off with just his dream
never expecting the unforseen.
as his plans began to unwind
he found himself lost in time.
he joined the army at an early age
this was to become the setting stage
he survived the street gangs and a war
and never talking about what he saw.
he managed retail businesses all his life
met the woman who would become his wife.
he had always loved children
so he thought it was time
his wife agreed and it turned out fine.
a beautiful little girl came into their life
and everything seemed twice as nice.
now he had two women who captured his heart
and knew right then, that this was the start.
the start to his golden years
with his wife he could share.
all the dreams that were meant to be
was now becoming a reality.
but the years was going by fast
he knew his dreams would not last.
now with this thought in mind
he decided it was time
to put his life in perspective
for the golden years to become effective.
so he changed his train of thoughts
a late retirement he would abort.
he retired before his time
so he could enjoy life the way
that it was meant to be
living happy and carefree.
now that he finished writing
down his thoughts and plans
he let them know
'YOUR PERCEPTION BECOMES YOUR REALITY'
and this is what mine was to me.
the golden years are now mine
and i'm lost in its time.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A New Temperance Poem, in Memory of My Departed Parents, Who Were Sober Living & God Fearing People
My parents were sober living, and often did pray
For their family to abstain from intoxicating drink alway;
Because they knew it would lead them astray
Which no God fearing man will dare to gainsay.
Some people do say that God made strong drink,
But he is not so cruel I think;
To lay a stumbling block in his children's way,
And then punish them for going astray.
No! God has more love for his children, than mere man.
To make strong drink their souls to damn;
His love is more boundless than mere man's by far,
And to say not it would be an unequal par.
A man that truly loves his family wont allow them to drink,
Because he knows seldom about God they will think,
Besides he knows it will destroy their intellect,
And cause them to hold their parents in disrespect.
Strong drink makes the people commit all sorts of evil,
And must have been made by the Devil
For to make them quarrel, murder, steal, and fight,
And prevent them from doing what is right.
The Devil delights in leading the people astray,
So that he may fill his kingdom with them without delay;
It is the greatest pleasure he can really find,
To be the enemy of all mankind.
The Devil delights in breeding family strife,
Especially betwixt man and wife;
And if the husband comes home drunk at night,
He laughs and crys, ha! ha! what a beautiful sight.
And if the husband asks his supper when lie comes in,
The poor wife must instantly find it for him;
And if she cannot find it, he will curse and frown,
And very likely knock his loving wife down.
Then the children will scream aloud,
And the Devil no doubt will feel very proud,
If he can get the children to leave their own fireside,
And to tell their drunken father, they won't with him reside.
Strong drink will cause the gambler to rob and kill his brother,
Aye! also his father and his mother,
All for the sake of getting money to gamble,
Likewise to drink, cheat, and wrangle.
And when the burglar wants to do his work very handy,
He plies himself with a glass of Whisky, Rum, or Brandy,
To give himself courage to rob and kill,
And innocent people's blood to spill.
Whereas if he couldn't get Whisky, Rum, or Brandy,
He wouldn't do his work so handy;
Therefore, in that respect let strong drink be abolished in time,
And that will cause a great decrease in crime.
Therefore, for this sufficient reason remove it from society,
For seldom burglary is committed in a state of sobriety;
And I earnestly entreat ye all to join with heart and hand,
And to help to chase away the Demon drink from bonnie Scotland.
I beseech ye all to kneel down and pray,
And implore God to take it away;
Then this world would be a heaven, whereas it is a hell,
And the people would have more peace in it to dwell.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Pearls of Verna Boone
I'd been alone for a year or so
Since Norma Jean had died,
I stayed in the house I'd bought for her
At the end of River Drive,
I'd felt her death as a fatal blow,
A crippling twist of fate,
For Norma Jean was my one true love,
Though I'd met her a little late!
I was past my prime when our eyes had met,
And she'd looked so young to me,
Her eyes had sparkled like diamonds set
As scarabs in sand and sea,
She saw the desert behind my eyes,
The emptiness in my life,
I stumbled over the words, but she
Said 'Yes! ' - She would be my wife!
I didn't know that she carried then
The seeds of a painful death,
Her face was flushed at the altar stone
And she seemed so short of breath,
I thought it merely a passing faint
That excitement had brought on,
As we stood in front of the Minister,
And joined our lives as one.
But then at home, she fell apart,
Collapsed on the kitchen floor,
I saw her lying, and coughing blood
Like I'd never seen before,
The doctor called, and he shook his head
As he left her there in the bed,
'I'm very sorry, ' the doctor sighed,
'But your lovely wife is dead! '
I cried and raged, and swore at fate
I smashed each wedding gift,
I wouldn't go to the funeral
But stayed at home and wept.
I cursed the heavens and thought that hell
Could never have been as bad
As a love that I'd waited a lifetime for,
A love that I'd never had!
The house next door was a rental place,
Stood empty for months that year,
But then a couple had moved on in,
I didn't see him, just her.
I thought that he was a traveller,
Was constantly on the road,
He came at night, and he left at dawn
In a battered and ancient Ford.
I had no reason to talk to them,
I sat at home with my grief,
I wandered out in the garden then
At one with each falling leaf,
But then one day, I heard her there
The other side of the fence,
Breaking her heart, as crying there
She sobbed with vehemence.
After a week of this, I climbed
The fence, and spoke to her,
'Why do you sigh, why do you cry? '
But she cried then all the more.
I walked around and sat with her
Quite late in the afternoon,
She smiled, and dried her eyes, and said,
'My name is Verna Boone! '
She said she'd only been married
Just a year this coming Spring,
But now that she knew the man he was,
Regretted everything,
He'd lost her money, just gambled it,
Had spent it on other girls,
And now they were left with nothing, he
Just wanted her mother's pearls!
'They're all I have to remember her, '
She sobbed, like a frightened child,
'They're worth a lot, but they're more to me, '
She looked at me, and smiled.
She took me inside and pulled them out
Three strings, they were very fine,
'He said that he's going to pawn them! '
Then she put her small hand in mine.
I was sad, alone and vulnerable,
I looked at her lovely curls,
She smiled at me, and she asked me then
If I'd care for her mother's pearls?
'I'll say they're lost, misplaced, I'll say,
He'll rant and rage, and more,
But he won't be able to pawn them now...'
Then she walked me to the door.
I took her home, and I placed the pearls
With the gems my wife had once:
'They'll be all right in the downstairs safe.'
It was then that she saw the gun.
She looked afraid, but she picked it up
And weighed it there in her hand,
I took it gently and locked it up
With the rest of my contraband.
'She must have watched as I spun the dial,
I know - I was such a fool! '
The sergeant sat and he stared at me,
And his stare was distant, cool.
He didn't believe a word I said
I could see that now, I'm done!
They put me back in a cell to wait
To be charged with Murder One!
She told them I had come over when
Her husband came home one night,
Waving a gun and ranting, then
Her husband put up a fight!
I'd shot him once through the head, she said,
Then taken her on the bed,
Stolen a fine pearl necklace,
Then beaten and left her for dead!
They found the gun on the floor, they said,
I knew that the gun was mine,
They found the pearls in my safe, they said,
It was only a question of time.
She sat at the back of the court while I
Was stood in the prisoner's dock,
And I noticed she wore her mother's pearls
With a nice new evening frock.
10 August 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ghost at the Second Bridge
You'd call the man a senseless fool,—
A blockhead or an ass,
Who’d dare to say he saw the ghost
Of Mount Victoria Pass;
But I believe the ghost is there,
For, if my eyes are right,
I saw it once upon a ne’er-
To-be-forgotten night.
’Twas in the year of eighty-nine—
The day was nearly gone,
The stars were shining, and the moon
Is mentioned further on;
I’d tramped as far as Hartley Vale,
Tho’ tired at the start,
But coming back I got a lift
In Johnny Jones’s cart.
’Twas winter on the mountains then—
The air was rather chill,
And so we stopped beside the inn
That stands below the hill.
A fire was burning in the bar,
And Johnny thought a glass
Would give the tired horse a spell
And help us up the Pass.
Then Jimmy Bent came riding up—
A tidy chap was Jim—
He shouted twice, and so of course
We had to shout for him.
And when at last we said good-night
He bet a vulgar quid
That we would see the “ghost in black”,
And sure enough we did.
And as we climbed the stony pinch
Below the Camel Bridge,
We talked about the “Girl in black”
Who haunts the Second Bridge.
We reached the fence that guards the cliff
And passed the corner post,
And Johnny like a senseless fool
Kept harping on the ghost.
“She’ll cross the moonlit road in haste
And vanish down the track;
Her long black hair hangs to her waist
And she is dressed in black;
Her face is white, a dull dead white—
Her eyes are opened wide—
She never looks to left or right,
Or turns to either side.”
I didn’t b’lieve in ghosts at all,
Tho’ I was rather young,
But still I wished with all my heart
That Jack would hold his tongue.
The time and place, as you will say,
(’Twas twelve o’clock almost)—
Were both historically fa-
Vourable for a ghost.
But have you seen the Second Bridge
Beneath the “Camel’s Back”?
It fills a gap that broke the ridge
When convicts made the track;
And o’er the right old Hartley Vale
In homely beauty lies,
And o’er the left the mighty walls
Of Mount Victoria rise.
And there’s a spot above the bridge,
Just where the track is steep,
From which poor Convict Govett rode
To christen Govett’s Leap;
And here a teamster killed his wife—
For those old days were rough—
And here a dozen others had
Been murdered, right enough.
The lonely moon was over all
And she was shining well,
At angles from the sandstone wall
The shifting moonbeams fell.
In short, the shifting moonbeams beamed,
The air was still as death,
Save when the listening silence seemed
To speak beneath its breath.
The tangled bushes were not stirred
Because there was no wind,
But now and then I thought I heard
A startling noise behind.
Then Johnny Jones began to quake;
His face was like the dead.
“Don’t look behind, for heaven’s sake!
The ghost is there!” he said.
He stared ahead—his eyes were fixed;
He whipped the horse like mad.
“You fool!” I cried, “you’re only mixed;
A drop too much you’ve had.
I’ll never see a ghost, I swear,
But I will find the cause.”
I turned to see if it was there,
And sure enough it was!
Its look appeared to plead for aid
(As far as I could see),
Its hands were on the tailboard laid,
Its eyes were fixed on me.
The face, it cannot be denied
Was white, a dull dead white,
The great black eyes were opened wide
And glistened in the light.
I stared at Jack; he stared ahead
And madly plied the lash.
To show I wasn’t scared, I said—
“Why, Jack, we’ve made a mash.”
I tried to laugh; ’twas vain to try.
The try was very lame;
And, tho’ I wouldn’t show it, I
Was frightened, all the same.
“She’s mashed,” said Jack, “I do not doubt,
But ’tis a lonely place;
And then you see it might turn out
A breach of promise case.”
He flogged the horse until it jibbed
And stood as one resigned,
And then he struck the road and ran
And left the cart behind.
Now, Jack and I since infancy
Had shared our joys and cares,
And so I was resolved that we
Should share each other’s scares.
We raced each other all the way
And never slept that night,
And when we told the tale next day
They said that we were—intoxicated.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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