"gallow" poems
A horse and a saddle
Cold wind at the gallow
Emotions are mellow
No hi and no héllo
His face is so sullen
The land is so barren
He stole for his child
Her reaction is mild
She recognises not the man hanging so high.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
i look out into dark, savoring the quiet, the stillness of new dawn, wondering who die today, whose life will end and whose will change forever, sending a shock of wave of pain and grief from an epicenter of a dead soldier
who will die today, whose mother wife daughter will cry today, whose father son brother will fall today
the sun has risen, reality has set in, its time to ride, its time for some to die, we roll the dice, who will land snake eyes
to sit in the humvee, knowing you are playing russian roulette, you can’t have hope, no inkling of a dream, lose the desire, it is the only way to survive, knowing you may die, give up all hope, consider yourself dead, be grateful at the end of the day when you are not. the drive down suicide alley, like the walk up gallow’s stairs. now i know how they felt. you surrender to fate. you stop thinking, you stop feeling, you go numb.
no longer in control, my life is no longer mine to live or die
i don’t believe in You, not since i was a boy, but i pray, that if we hit an IED, that i die instantaneously. i don’t want to lay on the ground, feeling the horror of dying, crying that i want to live, screaming out for my mother like i’ve seen happen to other guys
there are things worse than death, the living hell of coming home in pieces, physically damaged, emotionally traumatized, spiritually disillusioned, which slowly erodes and destroys your life. a new war, another battle, this time at home, fought in your head. the cycle of trauma 6-9-12, addiction, depression, how long do you let yourself free fall till you hit rock bottom
i am a man, i am not suppose to be afraid, but i am, i can’t show or say, not to them, especially not to you. i am not allowed to show fear, be vulnerable, you will lose respect, stop loving me, tell me to man up, in some subtle way
when everyone has left, everything lost, when the pain is greater than the fear. you must, you will, reach out, or die in combat, killed in action, in the war fought in your mind.
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 5:13 PM UTC
Sad, mooning morning
Lost beasts and time
Disgust for machine lust overwhelming
It's not that I don't love you
That you don't love me enough
To sinfully and wantonly **** me
After all it's my birthday
Cause I'm old and you've lost interest
in being the man I loved
That's why our children tricked you
into writing and sending your confession
Stand up and take a bow
we learned your lessons well
who to trust, how to trust, and when
Turned us kids into your spies,
your lies, your alibis
to get us to create the software to do it
So you could **** your mystic **** genie
please know our kindness as hatred
All access passes to dumb *********
This memeallscene is a gallery crawl,
a gallow's walk of perps,
who should have known better
Just a thanks for clogging
the artists' ether with kiddy ****
much love for Kate Torn
we used your magick
to put us back together
Your address is on the ticket,
the reddress that you bought her.
Tap lightly, tap lively not,
the tuoche of Jack Frost is upon you.
All the best and much kindness.
Perfection is a trick of the mind.
This poem will change and tighten
the ties that bind us together
From the women and men of Bandahache.
for the women who sign away the right
to tell their stories
I hear you Anita Hill
But we've been stalked and stifled long enough
Yes, that's what prayer can do
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 2:12 PM UTC
Before I knocked and flesh let enter,
With liquid hands tapped on the womb,
I who was as shapeless as the water
That shaped the Jordan near my home
Was brother to Mnetha's daughter
And sister to the fathering worm.
I who was deaf to spring and summer,
Who knew not sun nor moon by name,
Felt thud beneath my flesh's armour,
As yet was in a molten form
The leaden stars, the rainy hammer
Swung by my father from his dome.
I knew the message of the winter,
The darted hail, the childish snow,
And the wind was my sister suitor;
Wind in me leaped, the hellborn dew;
My veins flowed with the Eastern weather;
Ungotten I knew night and day.
As yet ungotten, I did suffer;
The rack of dreams my lily bones
Did twist into a living cipher,
And flesh was snipped to cross the lines
Of gallow crosses on the liver
And brambles in the wringing brains.
My throat knew thirst before the structure
Of skin and vein around the well
Where words and water make a mixture
Unfailing till the blood runs foul;
My heart knew love, my belly hunger;
I smelt the maggot in my stool.
And time cast forth my mortal creature
To drift or drown upon the seas
Acquainted with the salt adventure
Of tides that never touch the shores.
I who was rich was made the richer
By sipping at the vine of days.
I, born of flesh and ghost, was neither
A ghost nor man, but mortal ghost.
And I was struck down by death's feather.
I was a mortal to the last
Long breath that carried to my father
The message of his dying christ.
You who bow down at cross and altar,
Remember me and pity Him
Who took my flesh and bone for armour
And doublecrossed my mother's womb.
1.9k
I fell in love with a young man so perfect he only lived in my dreams.
I became consumed by him.
The dimple on his left cheek, the patch of blue in his green eyes.
Sleeping my life away, hour by hour.
Awakening only to eat and yet it was still too much time wasted.
Too much time spent not with my young man.
So, one night he told me where he had been buried, underneath an enormous birch tree, far to the west he said.
I traveled to the enormous birch tree, far to the west and prepared myself.
I peeled away the skin on my wrists, ankles and throat and before I slipped into my beloved world of unconsciousness, I tied myself to the enormous birch tree.
With each blink I felt the tree absorbing my blood.
I opened my eyes to see the young man in front of me.
He said, "Well done." as he pulled my heart from my cold chest and placed it into his.
He kissed my cheeks and whispered into my ear,
"This, is what love feels like." and walked away.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
The probity of paraclete malafide
By crocodile tears smithed
Thrawing the wand whilst green
As the chime child of the
Passing bell trips the light fantastic
By hook or by crook in best bib
And tucker igniting corpse candles
Travelling along the soul road
Shroved by guardian crosses made
Of that fatal tree, the gallow of knowledge
Hung by familiar elders
Taking back the breath of life.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:52 AM UTC
Hello
said the jester with skin coated in yellow
he forgot to bow
to ghastly twist his body
for head to kiss to toe
the king began to snarl
the jester began to tremble
the guards gazed at the gallow tree
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 3:32 PM UTC
earlyish
in the mourning
the moon
begins to rise
to the
dirtiest
consorting
in the room
between the thighs
forbidden fruit
from a filthy city
that ruins lives
so the troupe
snipped ribbons
ripped ties
flew the coupe
and found suit
elsewhere
Hell
thought it was provoking
when they
caught em
smoking loosies &
tagging in
elementary school
bathrooms &
peeping ****** movies for free
mercy me, a perturbing
flea ridden circus
ballyhoo at
high noon
just
look between
the alleyways
like pearly gates
adjacent to
& facing toward
the gallow stage
saved for traitors
& may I say
these are unhallowed days
triple x files.
furious grady stiles
walked the
daily eighty miles
to the liquor store for
his quick pick or maybe just
a curious
eye sore for bored out tricks
on the nearest corner &
the queerest gory ***** flicks for
a nickel a dime a quarter
&please;
- mind the camera -
hammer
sickle
sanskrit
star
prison bar
stripe
flock stickered on
the flickering light
mock bicker then its
quiet on the farm tonight
doesn't seem right
the sicker sheep seek
sleepless nights
in the street
took Darwinian flight &
a diving leap
to diamond minds
thicker fleece &
meaner teeth
drinking on cheap forties
sneakin up on sweet
***** mother glory
lordy.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
Soul o' thy chirpin' melodies,
Ink o' thy timid symphonies,
Collects me, t'se calmeth tranquilities,
Requiem t'en pierceth my heart,
Blameth me, she, consumed h've I,
The light, b'low the gallow t'at lie,
Blameth me, she, stolen h've I,
The sound, droppeth o'er her lip,
Enigmatic melancholy, me,
Serenely, thou, me h've dippeth,
Solemn agony, fragnance o' thee,
Silent solace, dream o' me,
L'ft shadows o' my licketh be,
Eternal soul, weepeth un'r thy tree,
Why? Trappeth my soul thou,
Why? Not it flow an' fly free,
Bitter wine t'en, show color o' thee.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
The hangman
Riding town to town
In his creaky dusty black buggy
Sleepy eyed old mule pulling
Long-tailed fat round pet rat
Riding beside him
Both dressed all in dusty black
Neither smiling or frowning
From Tennesse to Missouri
Oklahoma then to Texas
Back again across the Mississippi
To Alabama or wherever called
Tools of his trade neatly bound
In back of the black buggy
A cheap hotel and clean black suit
Bow Tie tied neatly
A perfect knot and long coat tail
Takes the tools he needs for day's task
From black bag beside sweaty bed
Heads downstairs for another day
Just another job
Humming a sweet hymnal
As he climbs gallow stairs
Loops the noose tight 'round
Poor neck and offers cigarette
Politely as expected
Pulls black hood if requested
Awaits the nod and drops the trap
To cheers and jeers and sobs
Collects his bits of silver
Packs his gear and bags
And long-tailed pet rat
Has buggy hitched and hits the road
Dusty, humming hymnals
In his creaky old black buggy
Without a thought to next job
Down Georgia way
The hangman and his gear
Long-tailed rat and sleepy mule
Another day another dollar
r
6 Sept 13
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Webbing boney nubbed fingers through the bitter photos she flees,
A witch! A harlot! Absconding of these.
Passing through the cauldron she stirs,
A life with a family was never granted hers,
Slithering through her nails she picks,
A knife to her victims across their throat it sticks!
Flesh from the bodies hit the gurney like bricks,
like the clock hanging above the shelves as it tick, tick, ticks!
The ember, oh the ember of my darling december,
the witch of which I had to switch the blood from her veins.
My heart it shakes,
it shatters and breaks!
As for you a harlot it takes,
My fair share of my pocket you snare,
If I had any brains I'd relinquish these pains.
The smoldering smoke from your *** as you rot,
as for the cauldron of the witch being strikingly hot.
Death of myself comes to being,
as for the hanging of a witch I've grown to be seeing.
Death on the gallows!
Death for all to be!
For the ones with the cauldron,
and the ones to be.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
I can feel the rough rope
Gently caressing my neck
Embracing it like an old friend
I'm not afraid, I'm just tired
So very tired of everything
So I take a deep breath, 1, 2, 3...
And in a passionless swift move
I kick the bench under my feet
Dance in the air for a little while
Until I finally find my peace
Jan 13, 2025
Jan 13, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC
a curious pallor
in the tallow beneath my skin
strained of nutrients
drained of nerve signals
a cold dough of bruise yellow
expanding in blottings
spending
into a skimmed milk white
weened hollow in my desperate fasting
put myself into a 'gallow gasp'
heartbeat ? Quite undetectable
feigning death to evade a debt
but 'Shh !...'
(i'm just in a pale hibernation)
Jul 24, 2022
Jul 24, 2022 at 9:30 PM UTC
I write for my strange obsession for the darkness that lingers from the Gallow of my mind.
I write for me, I write for you.
I write for the comfort it gives me, like a soft velvety hand but instead... A pen.
I write to see the night threw.
I write for the thoughts which would classify me mad in daily conversation but when it's poetry...... It's nothing but a poem.
I write to express my feelings when I'm longing for love or fear.
I write to hide from reality
I write to stay real.
For those who ask why I write I'll probably just say, I like to,
But for those who want to know the truth... I'll write it for you.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
Winter is up to my ears
Water's in my eyes, the dull chanting squeaks of
Frollicking field mice, dark hungry souls eat dark hungry shrubs
They tear apart the grass until the dirt is overturned. The ministry is dead, into the shapes they throw, weapons in the syllables where voices dear to go. The Spring is hazing the moon, and the gallow falls, the Pines of Rome are just a symptom of autumn's calls. The mouse while he saunters in, gives no notice to the gray wolf's evil grin. Panting the tousle takes them both, no insides give, into the night I sit and stare from my window's ledge.
No apothecary seems to work, all the medicines they give like names, until the doctor fools the patient she's well again. Cloaking in the shadowy stirs of the wicked herbs we picked from our garden and yard. Mellow to the taste, cold to the face, and stings like the tantrum does when the pain is just too much too much.
Have you seen the stirring woes of the frogs, stuck to the cement, thrown from the heavens by so many angry gods. Children hated for their voice, their skins and arms and legs dispersed, any dolt can name a common cure. Sicker than the pain it shoves, while the mood settles into to a rain water bath. In a crevice their may be some thought, but it doesn't even help at all, then the cold comes in and shucks awe and feeling where the aches and screams haunt the unhealthy whims.
After Easter and beyond each birth, no one calls and everything's inert, in the desert we call to the stars, but the birds return to us and make us stop asking for cause. Misunderstanding takes its awful view, and the children stop asking too. The events of hatred unfold weirdly, broken glass bottles splinter on the ears, even blood runs warm, we run hot, and shake our chills through the spine until stranger's call us out on our eyes. Even the wanting can't, and no one can. But the help makes the worst of it even more wrong. Until they can't speak or sing to themselves, whispers on the night break the shapes on the shores.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 12:44 AM UTC
This was the tree I first slept beneath.
It was summertime then, when
nights were warmed by hot breezes
and spritzing sodas were the drink of choice.
She could overthrow a king with the fall of her leaves.
These leaves fallin’ a’briskin’ the air
hung-hangin’ leaves in air cold and frozen—
iced off leaves hangin’ a’swayin’ like a gallow’d man.
Now she is gold and old and losing leaves.
These leaves crinkle like foil
snap, crunch, crinkle
Oh I do hope they are ok.
I pray that Winter will be good to her.
They say it will be a cold one,
I think to myself as I rest against her.
The air smells spiced and dry.
I hope she will be ok.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 3:59 AM UTC
white snakes the gallow
perdurance // a mottled core
three hundred galloped
tocsin! klaxon!
adorned with horns of yesteryear
tar and lynching rope.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC
It must be the future where
in a deranged technological vision
I see her first cigarette, smoke
overflowing, eyes of perception peer
toward the doors
appearing as though they are closing.
Even if they were open, she would
not see me. How I feel? Nothing,
nothing, I’d rather not speak.
Like Monica Vitta in L’eclisse
the little caress of the wind
on her gallow-bangs; I hang
too by a tickling strand of her hair.
“I get it now. It used to be called poetry.
They think it holds secrets,
but there’s nothing in it really.”
Yeah, well, there’s nothing in beauty,
either! Or to it. If there is,
I should know it is only there temporarily
and always seen fleeing, tied to a string,
hating to talk, only able to mutter-drone:
“Je ne sais pas. Je ne comprends pas."
"I cannot speak any language.”
What purpose is caution
in the impossible assassination attempt
finding oneself caught in the substance of
the Greek labyrinth, the machine?
“We are happiness and that
is where we are heading.”
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 1:07 PM UTC
Silk fabrics, spin words like a black widow.
Observing shapes on the crest through a cracked window.
Faded kinfolk percolate a vicious cycle.
Concede the title, passed from an image spiteful.
Hooded silhouettes cast a shadow in dystopia,
cityscape a gallow the skies hold a rope for ya.
Urban paradigm, tantamount to euthanasia.
Soured fruits bear the hallmarks of human nature.
Twisted labyrinth, apertures soak mundane fragments
innate patterns, ways learned through a stained malice.
Same chalice bequeathed, from a father deceased,
drowned in his sleep under smeared linen sheets.
In the belly of the beast, waves echoed familiar,
another soul torn in this concrete perimeter.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
Abater, wherein art thou?
Hung in hopeless romantic gallow's?
Stuck in a cloud?
Abdicate this volition repudiate
The time is now;
For the pearlied gate's.
Proliferation's hit mine glut
None staying behind;
No if's, and's, or what's.
Grandiose word's from other's, to much saidst
Guile liar's;
Of unholiness.
Fidelity gone unseen
Lost in the finesse of foment dream's;
Daunting foresight, dearth belief
Snakes with teeth, to slither thine audacity!!!
Abstinent, they locketh their beak's
Their two people by nature, masked freaks;
Giveth thee evidence, of non-concrete
They shuffleth their feet, for defaming fun.
Biographer's, of their own self
Don't careth, for noone else;
Trap us in a wanting hell, wherein croon's art pain, pain is swell..
We fall
We fell
In their devour....... .
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
Often she wondered
Why her life was full of blunders
if ever she conquered the world
would it still matter
They say she botched her very existence
she wept day and night
the dead woke and wept with her
this distant world
this can't be her fate
a belated happiness
a belated life
When desolation
sorrow
and tots of regrets
surrounds, and pierces through her soul!
When she almost gives in to the gallow
a sorrowful Weeping willow
who is a widow
Of silence
creeps in and offers salvation
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
i pick shadow and also the gallow be it shallow,
i, though serene meander in about
unabsolute things, fears and dreams ring out and
fade quietly by, and because of unseen things, shrill
blades ring true, their marks bringing about
unending screams in the dark, a thousand or
so plucks on an ever blood soaked harp.
play is a silly thing so easily given up by those
the best at it. for pleasure to me, seems critical
indeed, like petting a steed before a march or breed.
pain it seems exists in me and though i know
more than a common thief, it surges in me constantly
causing uprisings and uncontrolled jitterings and workings
silent hopings of red streams plague my dreams but
i still sing and hope to see crimson showerings
and lovely ruy coverings up of flowery things needed
by me to smile methodically as you look at me
and see a seed planted by me on your inner
most workings and machinery, ive the passwords
needed indeed for erasing your quelchings and delvings
deep. im still like a tree ready to be, to end or start thee.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
Silent night fills the gallow,
Abyss lurking within the shadow,
Chilling breath decorate the air,
Eyes everywhere,
Blood rush pumping heart,
Adrenaline kicked in,
Anxiety and panic swarming my veins,
They called fear...
Remember remember remember,
Not all lights save lives,
Maybe, waiting for demise,
Nightmare carve a scar in me,
Branded curse haunt for every dream,
Sign of counted breath,
Remember remember remember.
Run and hide,
Leaving trail of prey,
That is my mistake,
Not to be repeat,
But the devil must know,
I'm always here,
And now I'm ready to face fear,
May the hunter become haunted.
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 12:07 AM UTC
This stay of execution is but one more of life's illusions and we fall to be included in the list,I have kissed the Blarney stone and wept by the wailing wall and muttered mass upon the dead along the way,disputed with those executed on old Tyburn's gallow,brought forth the fallow field into the yielding of a crop and never once slowed down or stopped, with the madness of that certainty that there will be much more to see before the guillotine begins its drop.
Before this day and underneath this sky which umbrellas me against the onslaught of the coming night,I have pledged my troth to thee with one madness of that certainty that all will come to me,
the one who waits.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC