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neth jones Mar 10
gallows on the rooftop
where window washers go
                            to suspend
metal gibbet
            quick hinge, raise and lock
secure against the weather

whipped                                
  combed and packed snow
    ice crusted dunes
strain the winds over the buildings roofing
                                 an extreme combing exposure
                                
doubtlessly
they'll be no labor done today

On the seventh floor
i watch from behind
              an environment sealed window
              wolfing my lunch on a short break
                                in the warm fire escape

i watch
a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall
                                      cuffed by a spasm of wind
he descends a short bolted ladder
              and makes a geared approach
crouching
his weight against the wind  
          he drags a heavy kit
            mummified in protective clothing
              passing my spot and he then heads outward
                    towards the bounds of the rooftop
he mends a stable stance
one foot close to the edge
the rest of him
in a low defensive pose
clips his harness to the gallows
stands to take a confident beating
            of the breath stealing
                      brawling winter gale
he radios for the gantry to be raised
10/11/21
There’s a thick cloud of smoke inside my head
I’m trying to escape but I can’t find an exit
I cover my mouth but it finds a way in
The noxious fumes are all too familiar

They drift and they shift like a menacing shadow
They hang and weigh heavy like a man in the gallows
And the more I try to search from within
The more I begin to helplessly sink

A lost puppy
looking for a master
But I was, I was
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Abby M Jan 2020
I often wander past her gallows
And feel a sympathetic twinge
At glints of sun on growing rifts
I long to hear her sing

My fingers itch to hold the mallet
Molded to her brazen form
A tongue, once ripped from quiet lips
It rests, with ears, unworn

If treasured glance is counted higher
Than the purest ringing note
Then may she hang still, gagged in silence
“To Liberty!”, I quote
Moth Dec 2019
A rope swings gently in the wind
hanging from an elevated stage
an audience mills below the steps

From a gleaming metal bared window
a young women in plain clothes watches
she sits proper and straight before her fate

They come at dawn clacking with her chains
she holds her head high down the hall
as tears stream down her petite face

The steps are high as they hoist her up
ringing the rope around her fragile neck
the roughness is a promise of darkness

In the crowd she sees her children mourning
Not yet dead she smile at them sadly
and mouths “I’ll always love you”

There is an ominous thump from below
and she struggles in the air hands grasping
too light for the rope to snap her neck

Hours and hours later the crowd gone
she breathes her last breath alone
hanging for something she didn’t do
Proctor Ehrling Nov 2019
Belltowers chariot signalling distance
Towering gallows where I've been sentenced
The iridescence of coming doom
Graveyard daisies are in bloom
Their season is unusually sober
They've been growing whole October
So I got high and the next morning found this in my notebook.
Anna Jan 2019
How long would it take for people to hear
My gallows soundtrack?
The rhythmic thud of my leg
Hitting the desk every 3 seconds
The friction of the rope on the unstable hook
That could give out any minute
Under the weight of my palid corpse
They'll probably only hear it
When the hook comes loose from the plaster
And my body thumps on the floor
They only ever hear the fortissimo
Never the piano
No one ever really cares about the cries for help
Samuel Canerday Nov 2018
I walked this morning to the gallows
My father there awaited me
He told me, son, that graves are shallow
The moon is gone, though still she calls my name

So tread ye' not in darkest hollows
For she is there and knows your pain
Beware the day, beware what follows
Obscuring fog and shrouding rain

The sun is hanging ever higher
The shadows grow as daylight wanes
The hangman's noose has stole my father
And gilded green with shades of gray

Now day is gone, and spring is over
A silent world where memory fades
Sleep ye' well as the snow falls
Slumber deep, and sing my name

I walked this morning to the gallows
Where long ago my father hung
In bare earth, his body swallowed
To sing my song once more to his grave
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Promise me, my flesh you'll place
'neath a fledgling willow tree.
And as it grows toward blue sky,
It's in its grace you'll hear me cry.
Laden with the heaviest fears,
resembling, reflecting
my darkest years.

A fragile bone was once my arm,
so likened to the willows charm.
It's branches delicate,
could ne'er do harm.
It's soft and fluffy hand like bud,
encased in skin, the willow's wood.

Hold its hand at branches end.
My message, a vibration,
to you I'll send.
Until the death of said willow tree,
reminding you . . . . .
. . . . . . always of me.

Poetry by Kaydee.
The tired and deathly willow tree with stories to tell of debutantes, swinging
before entering hell.
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