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Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Love has given up.
It was the wrong religion.

And London did not melt into the Thames.
You teetered on the edge of a golden world,

and then fell suddenly—
accused of sortilege, ******, and treason.

And at his pleasure—
or was it mercy?—

Was it for the sake of your seven years,
or perhaps for the little daughter?—

in which flowed the royal blood, spoiled by *** and lineage.
Whatever it was, no matter.

He would spare you the pain
of being burnt at the stake.

Instead, to be executed like royalty—
dispatched by a French swordsman.

The prophecy must have been of little comfort
as your ladies helped prepare you to meet

Death, newly betrothed.
A gown of dark grey damask

floated over a blood-red petticoat.
Your mantle was trimmed with ermine.

Queenly, you stood and addressed those who had come to
watch you. And then you knelt and began to pray, and

quickly and mercifully, the blade
carried out its trajectory.
Published along with other fine poems in my poetry collection, "Witch", available on Amazon and Lulu.
Hillary Magee Jul 2017
How fair and lovely  
This woman must be  
Adorned in the sea  
Of an ivory truth.  
She lends her hand  
To the most powerful man  
She will ever know.  
  
She denies him, however,  
With attention at her feet,  
Yet  
His eyes are set  
Regardless of where  
Hers linger.  
He longs to know,  
What is encased inside such a  
Fair, young and beautiful mind.  
So, he stares  
Intently.  
He stares,  
Desperately
In search of affirmation of her
Truth.  
In need of the possibility  
Of her potential  
To be everything he has  
Envisioned.  
Such a promising, vibrant,
Youthful maiden  
Aware of her power,  
Aware of her persuasion,  
Aware of his weakness,  
Looks away.  
Aware of her plans and her  
Secrets,  
She looks away.  
Yet his eyes stay upon her,  
Set like the fires of hell that  
Await her.  
A man so noble  
With a kingdom so mighty  
Lives with the unknowing  
Unsettling,  
Frightening possibility of  
Betrayal.  
He is the poorest man  
In the world.
CZ Sep 2013
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the

spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works

out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic

collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the

biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a

place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and

a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled

over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father

comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood

under his fingernails and lets you save him.  There is a place

where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where

everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for

the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty

verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through

someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie

Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you

can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself

tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your

thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant.

You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown:

stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still

a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea

and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are

going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and

breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to

memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard

for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going

to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going

to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going

to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire

world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are

going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and

molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and

longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your

lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn

knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save

you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight

because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are

purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your

feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling

of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself

tonight.
My modernday Morgan Le Fay
used to make love on graves,
now she sleeps all day.
She's a zomballerina in a zombikini.
masking her feelings with mirtazapini.
Dr.Fangoria prescribe the Torah!
Dr. Creepshow prescribe the Gospel!
O baby, do you still believe in All Hallow's Eve?

My costume's got no bonce on,
but I ain't Anne Boleyn.
Chub roll stump for a neck,
how do I sing?
Hole in my head
too whole to scream
'Verminend' to vulture teens,
smells like trick or treat.

This hello how low Halloween
I'm gonna go as a headless axeman.

Sabrina the teenage selfharmer
went to the witch doctors of big pharma.
Me, I swear by traditional eye of newt
- dontcha know Old Cloots is in cahoots with Boots?
Sepulchral ***,
Edgar Allan ***** on your meds.
But baby do you still believe
in All Hallow's Eve?

My costume's got no bonce on,
but I ain't met Madam Guillotine
for a ****** valentine,
1789.
Play chicken with depression,
you might lose your head
on swingers' ouija weekend
with the Livinghyphendeads.

This hello how low Halloween
I'm gonna go as a headless axeman.
Francie Lynch Apr 2018
No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse.
                                             Eve

I'm sure red's a better color for me.
                                              M. Monroe

She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
                                              Ulysses

N­ow that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.
                                             D. Trump

You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
                                              S. Freud

No. You keep it. I have enough.
                                              B. Graham

Are you sure that's the Delaware?
                                              G. Washington

E=Mc Donalds.
                                              A. Einstein

Go pound salt.
                                              Gandhi

Wha­t day is it?
                                               Roosevelt

T­hat's one small.... oops!
                                               N. Armstrong

I don't remember any of my dreams.
                                               M.L. King, Jr.

Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
                                                Jesus

Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
                                                W. Churchill

Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
                                                 R. Starr

It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
                                                 S. Hawking

Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
                                                  Robespierre

Before I was fined, I walked the line.
                                                   J. Cash

Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
                                                  Tolstoy'­s editor

What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
                                                   H. Ford

I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
                                                   ­Oppenheimer

I've never liked orange juice.
                                                    N. Brown

Really? You want to blame me?
                                                    ******

He stings like a butterfly.
                                                     S. Liston

#timesup #metoo
                                                     A. Boleyn

Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
                                                      Bell­

Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
                                                      R­.W. Sears

To be or to do be do be do.
                                                      Shakes­peare/Sinatra

When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin *******.
                                                      E. Whitney

We're the team to beat!
                                                      Toro­nto Maple Leafs

Don't call me a Mother!
                                                      Mo­ther Theresa

Is that a Cuban*?
                                                      M. Lewinsky
Of course all quotations are out of context.
Deidre Lockyer Dec 2018
I am journeying into my Anne Boleyn moon
Through her psychic belladonna storm
Lost in the maze of her fate
Whispering intimacies
Dreading the Tower’s raven call...
Anne, Anne, don’t give it up
For a world, a crown, a seed in your womb
And a man who won’t even read your poetry

Blood on my hands, slaying dragons

I am sailing in a dream of my Anne Boleyn moon
Desirous of her belladonna attitude
Readying myself for the
Inevitable conflagration
Of mixed messages and moonbeams...
Anne, Anne don’t give up
You’re an epiphany, a universe in disguise
A gothic sugar coated dance with tragedy

Blood on my throat, saving unicorns

My ship is a lullaby to my Anne Boleyn moon
Belladonna in my night eyes, uncanny
Lost in the satin of midnight
Dressed in descants
Awaiting the mystic gallery minstrels...
Anne, Anne, don’t forget
Who you are, what you want, your happiness
Other mouths will kiss you inside your poetry

Blood on the moon...finding myself

— The End —