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Poems On / About MURDER  11/22/2014 2:38:31 AM
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Chinese Whispers

…Murder! Miss Marple investigating….
…Murder! Miss Marple investigating….
…Sorry, I didn't quite hear….
…Sherman says he's sorry but he didn't hear….
…Surfing stories and bitter beer….
…Surfers in bars? I'd rather play cards…
…Surfers and cards and Ray's impatient…
…Surfers and sharks are playing Patience…
…Smurfs outsmarted St Ignatius…
…Worship the martyr St Ignatius…
…Slippery worms, garden geishas….
…Something about worm casts and carnations…
…Wormy carp invagination….
…Words - the heart of imagination? ...
…Murderous Harpy infestation…
…Murder! Miss Marple investigating….
Diane Hine

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A Murder of Crows

Twas a murder of crows,
That served my alarm,
That early Tuesday morn-
I got only snippets,
And tiny tidbits,
From the monstrous swarm.
As I dressed and readied,
And prepared myself,
To face just another day-
Twas a murder of crows,
Whose haunting prose,
Warned of the danger my way.
I stepped from the door,
The cold air crisp-
And chill winds joined in their song-
And the murder of crows,
Plus a cold current's woes,
Urged me to see what was wrong.
Pulling up my collar-
And fixing my coat-
And tying my scarf to a knot-
I ignored the warnings,
the pre-called mournings,
And proceeded with hardly a thought.
But now, I wonder,
If I had stayed,
And heeded their morbid calls,
Would I be hear?
Filled with fear?
My body-
My blood-
Frozen solid in the clutches of winter and fall.
Hope McPeak

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Today I saw a hawk suddenly appear swooped and
grabbed a sparrow standing on a phone line.
It sat on an old oak tree tearing it victim apart
and since it was sated other sparrows flew about
without fear. The human world is more complex
we use religion to commit murder, this time as
often Islam a peaceful religion, has once again been
used as an excuse for murder.
This modern life soaked in blood, but we only react
to what we see, grisly murder enacted by idiots,
who do not deserve to be understood by liberals.
Yet I wish there were a phone camera ready when
drones tear limbs from the innocents´ bodies, most
of them children who do not understand why.
oskar hansen

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Little Harry

Harold was an evil child
Conceived on a stolen train
Born in a sack from a prostitutes back
He had murder on his brain

As a babe he took the greatest joy
In spitting on his Mother’s breast
He would wait till she was near asleep
Then scream to break her rest

At Two he strangled an alley cat
And orphaned all her kittens
At Three he murdered all of those
With blood he felt quite smitten

Four and Five were dreadful years
As Harold only worsened
To become at the tender age of six
A most formidable person

He’d wear his knickers day and night
In a knot atop his head
By day he’d make up murder songs
At night his mind burned red

For blood this little chap did thirst
He yearned for life to cease
He killed his mum, his dad, his aunt,
His little brother Reece

And finally, the little sod
Climbed the house’s highest shelf
The final act, the curtain fall
Little Harry killed himself
Ashley Hawkes

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Poems On / About MURDER