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On a twisting, winding, rutted track
That weaved from under the pines,
A figure came in a burlap sack
Where the crossroad intertwines,
I could only see the bleeding feet
As they peeped from under the sack,
And the hood hid every feature that
Would deem it a Jill or Jack.

There was purpose in that stolid walk,
And determination fixed,
I thought to offer a helping hand
But my feelings there were mixed,
There were leaves and twigs on the figure’s back
And a slime that looked like mud,
I thought that it might have been attacked
When I saw that the slime was blood.

Nothing could stop its slow advance
As it plodded into the street,
I reached on out but it just walked by
So I thought I’d be discreet,
The day was settling into dusk
As it reached the village square,
And just as the ancient gas lamps lit
It gave a cry of despair.

The cry was that of a woman lost,
Was more of a hell-fire screech,
It echoed up to the steepletop
And I thought of Caroline Beech,
The girl who’d gone to the woods one day
For a picnic of pies and mince,
The basket lay for a week and a day,
She hasn’t been heard of since.

The figure stopped and its arm flew out
To point at the Baker’s door,
I saw his face at the window lace
As pale as a painted *****,
The sweat stood out on his beady brow
As he hurried from room to room,
Locking each door and window now,
And shivering there in the gloom.

A crowd was gathering in the square
Surrounding the baker’s house,
‘You’d better come out and show yourself!’
But he was quiet as a mouse.
The men of the village burst right in
And they ****** him down on his knees,
She put one ****** foot on his head
And he squealed, ‘God help me… Please!’

‘I only wanted some love,’ he said,
‘But you just pushed me away,
I’d never have hurt a hair of your head
If you’d loved me once that day.’
And that was enough for the surly crowd
Who called on Oliver Beech,
To bring a rope from the stableyard
For a lesson they had to teach.

Her father fastened the rope around
The cringing baker’s neck,
Just as the daughter’s burlap sack
Collapsed to a heap on the deck.
There was nothing inside the hood or sack
As it lay there on the street,
Only the footmark stains of blood
From the murdered woman’s feet.

They dragged him down to the wood of pines
And he showed them where she lay,
Under a pile of autumn leaves
He’d covered her with that day,
They left him hanging above the spot
As they bore her gently home,
Now there is no baker in Warley Copse
So the villagers bake their own.

David Lewis Paget
hami Oct 2017
Every maiden should severe their wrist
to taste the blood of supremacy that obscure
by the darkened green of connecting veins
like a circled labyrinth that blended with lies—
and hiding the things that they should know.

The reason why they are still living with fear;
fear of touching the grayish blade of the sword
fear of seeing Hades or the gloomy underworld
fear of wearing metallic suit from head to toe
fear of showing braveness and fight like a girl.

Are they afraid to die and meet the hell?
the hell— what's the comparison and contrast
of their living world from the underworld?

I, Athene, the Goddess of Intelligence
can able to answer it with my ruthless words;
nothing—there's no difference between the two
due of their world that filled with darkness too.

So you, mortal, listen to the words of wisdom
it's not bad to taste the red liquid of the art
in your personify that pumped by your heart
telling you to craft it into phrases in your skin
so that you'll know the importance of the pain.

Stand up, use your voice and rule your city
girls are not just girls, would you believe me?
if you don't trust me then learn how I fight
for a resplendent city that named after me
feminism is not a bad thing, young lady—
it's your voice to have freedom and equality.

I''ll end this message with a simple question
would you mind to stick with my footmark
or you'll just go and follow the wrong path?
Mythology inspired! My fourth poem <3 Hope you'll like it yay
When the evening wind whispers
And the flowers sing melancholy
when the ocean sees the nakedness of the moon
And the crickets on the hill top whistles
when the earth soldiers build their tents
behind the pillars of men

When the ocean waves inflict cold
to the lonely corners of the Earth
When the feet of troop travellers
leave their footmark upon the sands of time
When the stars of Heaven holds
their night shining feast

When the eyes takes their pleasure cover
And the body rests from the day battle
When nose of men sings horrible tunes
my ogle resign not from you
You are my little Angel.
Ralph Akintan Nov 2019
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo

Gaiting out of the prescient of
      the stable with pride.
Galloping for space on the polo course.
Hooves trotting on the footmark
      of strength.
Now cantering for span with the
      shield of victory.
White tail of strength flapping
      the cognomen of success.

Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo

Immaculate white mane arrays
      against the ants of winds,
Absorbing the residuum of the
      hardened breeze with relish.
Whitening coloured cresty neck,
White head, brown eyes,
White legs, blackened hooves,
Colourless long shaft holding the
      ***** of procreation.
Swinging like pendulum of nature.

Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo.

Submissive strength clocked under
      the apron of the stableman.
Cantering with honour.
Galloping  in royalty.
Head collar rope ordering the
      pace of strength.
Hostler tightly chained on the
      tray of stableman.

Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo
Kutupa kutupa
Eshin dodo.
Tom McCone May 2015
[i.]

as if slowly lowered back into the tongues of dreams,
in mahogany halls, between stone and glass, between a blink and your thought,
sung out, in the silences laid adrift, before and outside of words,
said all sentiments, patterns refused to belie:

a flurry of days,
offerance in as many hours,
what was found in a cascade of minutes,
later on in the light:
no second thought or first thought.
no gain or loss, no momentum,
save spinning breath, in
hurried paces.

colours of the sky, leaves, sea, all things passed or known; these sit in no compare to lakes, lain, steady under your wavering eyelids. as small wings fluster through limbs and heat, passages become tracts, patchwork, spread and turned fibre, glowing all the while.

no question, plain or perturbed,
where the lights of our lives hide.
just struggle on, in some semblance of consistency,
vacuous and shimmering.
out on the plains.

[ii.]

gold, was each fleck, sent from strand to
strand, to clustering distance;

i, traversing, footmark in sand in moss over
stone under branch & root system:

alive was more than a word.
how much more, was a better question.

but, what quantity counts? anything more than a palm's worth?
more than the passing strangers velocities?
more than the earth spins; what's worth counting?
all is no less or more than one fixed, glimmering
aspect of a dizzying world.

you, standing still, in between moments,
neither recognisable as stranger, or lifeline.
neither hurried nor fretted.
this is why you linger: for that off-moment, i could almost
summarise all i was not looking for, but had found;
to craft twisting afternoons, out on arid lines, through
dense brush, in between columns of oaken air,
and bark,
and low whispers,
and, sung out:

[iii.]

on some further day,
we'll crawl away,
apart or entwined, to
find some open scenery or,
at least, to escape the
concrete and dropped names,

but, steady on, for life
is just
a game
we play,
with little time to waste
on second takes,
or to hide away from the
breathlessnesses we lose,
or give escape,

and, later on, down the
beaten trail, we sing our
separate songs at the
same time, but,
harmonious we,
harmoniously,
end up singin'
all the same lines, anyway,

so, here i stand, and sway,
and disseminate
my fear and doubt,
which look so small,
so far away,
so far, i've taken
small measure to
put down what i
couldn't say
.
almost the closer
On the floor mat stains of blood are still not dry
The hole at back of head now clogged with blood clot
The body lies on its face the room is filled with her cry
The sleuth is hot on the trail to unravel the plot.

In solving such crimes the sleuth has spent a long stint
He has been through cases simple and macabre
Now as he examines on the windowsill a footprint
His lips break into a faint smile noticing the odd affair.

He moves to her saying I know how shattering your pain is
And I’ll not add to it by questions that at this moment hurt
Please be composed and point out when something I miss
I’ll recount the events as told by you from the start.

Last night your husband had come back unusually late
From your room you had drowsily heard his movement
He hadn’t come to you and his room too was soon quiet
Found him dead next morn as I gather from your statement.

You say ma'am you remember having closed that window
After you had your dinner and retired for the night
Someone got access through it and delivered him the blow
With the flower vase on the showcase with all his might.

So an outsider must have entered in the cover of the dark
Some enemy business rival that would love to see him dead
Only thing remaining unexplained is the windowsill’s footmark
Pointing the intruder had gone out through it and not entered.

It points too ma'am the culprit if entered from outside
Came not through the window but came in by the door
Even the worst of murderers their trails cannot hide
They leave some clue as visible as this body on the floor.

What happened is when last night he came home late drunk out
Poured on you his hatred’s venom you couldn’t stand anymore
I had enquired from your neighbor who had heard you shout
Go back and spend the night with that ******* *****.

She breaks down and her sobbing face is now ashen white
I hate to tell you the ******* was never a loving husband
In drunken brawl when he called me a **** on last night
I banged his head with the vase with full might of my hand.

I stole out of the window to leave thereupon a foot mark
Got in through the door feeling unburdened and light
No trace of guilt touched me as I lay in the dark
Dialed the police when ended my happiest night.

You can now give me up to the law having known the fact
I am ready for it in the delight that I did grab the chance
To let myself free from that devil and his wedlock’s pact
I won’t mind if I die now having achieved this great riddance.

The sleuth’s lip broke in smile as he gave her a knowing wink
I too ma'am am delighted to rightly track and follow the clue
But let me tell you I’m yet to discover this case’s missing link

Since your hand’s print is not on the vase
who was it that did it for you!

— The End —