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Poems On / About MURDER  12/21/2014 3:11:57 AM
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Writing Rebels

My writing on the wall results in murder,
Murder on the horizon shuns me,
This deed is done for the prison,
Opening the faces as they murder.
These walls ask of you a lesson of kindness,
Kind men shock our helping hands.
The idols are shattered in minutes,
Offerings begin to stage rebellion,
The altar was to offer its sacrifice of blood
And flesh. I have known the reality
Onto the realities, kicking the beggars
In their fortune and in their blood.
My writing is of the graphic writers
Who wait with increased gravity.
Naveed Akram

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Before the dawn,
When the chains were still on,
They chanted: Mother India!
Now the chains are gone,
And the dogs are on a roam,
And they roar: Murder India!
In a free India,
The dogs freely roam,
Stealing the tiger claws
From our nation's pride
And tear our sisters,
Our brides, our mothers!
In buses, in streets,
On beaches, in coaches -
Stray dogs let loose…
In a ‘free, free' India!
Free rape, free bribe,
Free theft, free murder…
India of mother murderers!
Amidst the noises and barks
Of unruly urban extremities,
My heart attempt to say:
‘Mother India…'
But alas! My strangled voice,
Caught in the tiger claws, scream:
‘Murder India! '
abhilash fraizer

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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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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