"gaol" poems
Your apodyopsis
Is enticing
And
Every single part of me
Is entangling
In this gaol
Of carnal insecurities
And fervent longings.
S.N
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
Under silver wing
San Francisco's towers sprouting
thru thin gas clouds,
Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure
Berkeley hills pine-covered below--
Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence
Declaration
typewriter at window
silver panorama in natural eyeball--
Sacramento valley rivercourse's Chinese
dragonflames licking green flats north-hazed
State Capitol metallic rubble, dry checkered fields
to Sierras- past Reno, Pyramid Lake's
blue Altar, pure water in Nevada sands'
brown wasteland scratched by tires
Jerry Rubin arrested! Beaten, jailed,
coccyx broken--
Leary out of action--"a public menace...
persons of tender years...immature
judgement...pyschiatric examination..."
i.e. Shut up or Else Loonybin or Slam
Leroi on *** gun rap, $7,000
lawyer fees, years' negotiations--
SPOCK GUILTY headlined temporary, Joan Baez'
paramour husband Dave Harris to Gaol
Dylan silent on politics, & safe--
having a baby, a man--
Cleaver shot at, jail'd, maddened, parole revoked,
Vietnam War flesh-heap grows higher,
blood splashing down the mountains of bodies
on to Cholon's sidewalks--
Blond boys in airplane seats fed technicolor
Murderers advance w/ Death-chords
Earplugs in, steak on plastic
served--Eyes up to the Image--
What do I have to lose if America falls?
my body? my neck? my personality?
June 19, 1968
4.5k
At that moment in time
my heart was beating to loud to hear anything else
my tears were falling so fast
the rain could not compare
the look in my eyes gave it all away
the look in your eyes told me you were ready to let me in
could that have been your gaol?
reaching for the last thing that put me in control.
****
I just want you t know
that I can never let you go
If i could set flames to flowers
and if I could burn the memories
I would fly away with the ashes in the breeze
and i'll stare in to your bruised eyes from a distance
like two moons staring back at me
and I'll try not to listen
because every I love you was lie
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
In early eighteen-forty-four,
In Cornwall’s heart; on Bodmin Moor,
Charlotte Dymond, a young farm maid,
Had her throat slit with a steel blade,
She crossed fast streams and deadly bogs,
Found her way through mists and fogs,
But couldn’t stop that fatal blow,
That stole her life and laid her low,
She walked to meet someone that day,
Just who that was ... no one would say,
Found days later beside a track,
Laid on a cart; her shroud a sack,
The surgeon, Thomas Good, was fetched,
Had in his mind, her white face etched,
Charlotte untouched by fox or crow,
Had she been moved ... he did not know,
No evidence was ever found,
But her young boyfriend had gone to ground,
Fingers so quick to point his way,
Matthew Weeks panicked; ran away,
The hapless ******* was soon caught,
No other culprit was ever sought,
The judge was just a rubber-stamp,
Bodmin Gaol was dark and damp,
The scaffold built, the crowds arrived,
Matthew swore he had not lied,
The floor gave way, the rope drew tight,
Was justice done ... the verdict right?
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 2:34 AM UTC
How do you dislike me? Let me count the ways.
At least half of what I do and half of what I say
Seems to irritate and frustrate you.
My deeds mistrusted and misunderstood
As something other than selfless good.
Your suspicion steals a narrow view
Of how I would prefer to spend my time.
So the sentence precedes the crime
And love is shackled in its gaol,
A prisoner with no parole,
Once found guilty, condemned for all,
And nothing can now avail.
Imagined crimes will never fade
And penance be ne’er truly paid.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some **** their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
I have a heart
That in my chest
Beats like a madman
’Gainst the bars
Of the gaol cell
That keeps it
Like a bird encaged
From its mate
I wear a heart
Right on my sleeve
That beats towards you
Like a bird
That’s driven south
When winter calls
And knows no
Other destination
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
She cooked the final meals at the gaol,
Collected the hangman’s clothes,
For he inherited everything
Of the hanged man, heaven knows.
She gave the widows the twist of rope
That he’d used to hang their men,
It all came down to the widow Crope
And whether she liked you, then.
She’d interview the widow-to-be
With a questionnairre or two,
About her man, was he handy, and
What did he like to do?
Then later, in the condemned man’s cell
She’d say that she’d cut him free,
‘You’ll never see your woman again,
So all you have left is me.’
Her husband had died on the gallows, so
She’d known of that final *****
A widow Kerr had done it for her
Before she was widow Crope.
Then down beneath that terrible drop
She would wait for him to appear,
Hang on his feet, as well as not
While he kicked at the air in fear.
Then once that the corpse was pale and still
She’d take it down to the morgue,
Lay it out on a slab, and then
She’d borrow the gaoler’s sword.
And while they were pouring the candlewax
For a later hanging in chain,
She’d slice a couple of fingers off
For the rings that were hers to claim.
But then she might, in an act of spite
Cut off a dead man’s hand,
Dip it well in the candlewax
And walk it late through the land.
She’d light the end of the fingertips
And carry it like a torch,
Making her way where the widow lay
And spike it, out on her porch.
And wives would say as their husbands lay,
‘Don’t mess with the widow Crope,
If ever the hangman comes, that day
She may be your final hope.’
And those awaiting a capital case
Would sit with their husbands there,
And tell them that it would be okay
In that final act of despair.
She’d never worn anything else but black,
She called them her widows weeds,
But never, she said, felt safe from attack
For her husband’s evil deeds,
She finally married the hangman, Jed,
And handed the job to her,
An hour since she’d hung on his legs
And made her the widow Claire.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
The bachelor and the spinster
stood together, hand in hand,
before the Priest who’d wed them
in the chapel Kilmainham.
With two prison guards as witnesses
there in Kilmainham gaol,
Joseph Plunkett and Grace Clifford
wed at midnight goes the tale.
At dawn a firing squad awaited
her brave bold ****** man.
She’d remember their one, stolen, kiss
and the ring placed on her hand.
Her Joseph chose a dark way home
when he tweaked the lion’s tail.
In martyrdom he found a way
to rouse the sons of Gael.
Some marriages last many years,
some, a shorter time-
but a love that lasts a lifetime
is truly hard to find.
Joseph, knowing what he was to lose
His love and fate embraced.
He died when bullets pierced his heart
while in a state of grace.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
a prisoner so long
forgetting I was the architect
who built the gaol in the first place
and closed the door behind me
carefully designed for room to stand
just enough light to let the hope in
just enough space to sleep and dream
but no chance to go anywhere
I'd let myself out, but I'm afraid
of what lies on the other side
of what I shut out in the first place
the key long lost, the lock rusted
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 5:18 AM UTC
'The Bohemian Prince, all sad and alone,
Not fit for a Prince, Reading Gaol was his home,
Hard labour and toil, your sentence you earned it,
A painting, a portrait, the importance of earnest
A century later, your pardon is granted,
And your freedom endures in the minds you enchanted,
Your life and your work still thrive on the stage,
For it is personalities- not principles that move the age'
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 7:27 AM UTC
They’re watching in the avenues
They’re watching in the rain,
They’re waiting for the animals
To cause our children pain.
They join in condemnation
They point the finger straight
They single out the people
Who dispense biff and hate.
They stand in haunting fog and mist
Those children who are dead,
They stand and watch in legions
And wait with mounting dread.
For somewhere in this fair green land
An adolescent mum
Is thrashing her young children
Until they’re bruised and numb.
A baby crying in the night
A baby much in need
Of nappies and a tender hand
Than punches and a bleed.
The little ones are dying
Broken & obscene
Their little bodies black and blue
From beatings in between
Collections from the dole queue
**** ups in the shed
Cigarettes and hopelessness
“P” your dull mind dead.
The Moaris say its Pakeha
The cops say crime don’t pay,
The politicians shrug and sigh
And look the other way.
The population wrings it’s hands
And gets on with it’s life
Whist violence and brutality
Still cause our kiddies strife.
No one’s owning up to this
No one’s taking blame,
The ******** flows in rivers
And the world has turned insane.
We must find a leader
To take this thing in hand.
Eradicate the baby bashing
From our PC land.
Fling abusers into gaol
And lose the ****** key
Take the kids & farm them out
To families good & free.
We break the cycle hard & fast
And teach the lesson straight
Abuseing kids will see you GONE
Inside..incarcerate!
Where’s the leader, burning bright,
Where is courage in this fight,
Who will lift the banner high
Who will rise up and defy
The apathy , the poisoned sloth
Indifference of the public cloth.
Who will rise and make a stand
Make us proud to love this land
Who will rid us of this thing
WHO WILL MAKE THE GAUNT GHOSTS SING ?
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
12th August 2007
Nov 22, 2009
Nov 22, 2009 at 8:18 PM UTC
Sadie the crazy lady
Who killed her granny to be close to her mummy
She also killed her grandad
Without lifting a finger when the old guy fell made
It look like an accident
it didn’t stop there she was evil
She showed people about
Her version of death
By burning a candle to a piece of paper
Then Ben who is her desk neighbour
Brought action figures for show and tell
Sadie just burnt them and threatened
Ben by putting the burnt action figure in her locker
That really scared him
He thought Sadie the crazy lady
Should be locked away in Gaol
But Sadie the crazy lady
Killed the mental health workers
By accidently on purpose locks them
In a burning room
Sadie the crazy lady
Drew a picture of Ben being hung
By the neck till he was totally head
But the way Sadie the crazy lady
Could do that is killing her teacher
And made it look like an accident
Yes Sadie the crazy lady
Having fun killing everybody
But she wanted her mummy and daddy
To know nothing about what Sadie was up to
Sadie the crazy lady
Started to figure out a way to **** Ben
But this was going to be hard
Because her house was the only
Place she could do it
And Sadie will be going out
So Sadie the crazy lady
Saw a happy man walking by her
She said to him **** off **** off
Or I will fucken **** you
You don’t know me
I could really harm you
Make you jitter so **** off
Away from me
And let Sadie **** Ben in peace
Sadie the crazy lady
Was killed by Ben in self defence yeah
When her funeral was on
Sadies mother blamed ben
For killing her little girl yeah
And Ben went to court and
Was locked up for 5 years
And Sadie the crazy lady
Was laughing and saying
I am causing earth grief
Sent from my iPhone
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 6:09 PM UTC
there are thousands who know me,
the now me ~
too well…
an idea-phrase that stankles (rankles and stings),
for though my goal is a gaol to hideaway within,
betray myself too oft with my fingerprints upon the
cheeks of all I hold dear…
in that summer breeze you feel
tickling the hairs upon the back of thy neck like a
surprised,
unsirpassed
sunrise,
exactly like a lover who loves reminding you that love is the unexpected kiss upon said neck that weakens
you with pleasuring, and that,
a steady stream of surprises,
is the greatest loving,
treat of all…like that
morning miracle mystery
of a fresh baked
still bakery warm,
croissant
that tickles the taste buds
upon the tongue that tickles the
hairs on the back of your neck..
every croissant kissing butter fragrance,
the aroma of every day for
me knowing,
you moaning
and the fragrance
we together
create
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 7:26 AM UTC
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of musty newspaper
mortared with decades of dust
solidified in grease, cemented in decay.
you constructed an impenetrable fortress.
your storehouse is filled with broken plastic,
moldy photographs, crusty nick-knacks.
here you count worthless tin trophies,
shattered glass and empty bottles.
you're drowning in your treasury.
there was a time i knew that castle well:
palace, gaol, it held me fast.
i could be captive or courtier
but your role never changed:
benevolent or tyrant, king you reigned.
but a castle of refuse cannot stand forever;
an empire built on brutality topples.
subjects eventually revolt
and refugees seek brighter days;
fleeing or fighting, the kingdom falls.
yet you remain, clinging to the rubble:
scraps of paper, broken records.
rusted memories and fossilized mistakes.
wandering towers of unread books,
a broken king repents alone.
and here i am, a knight on a horse
to sweep in and hear you, to dig you out.
but when you cry for help i falter--
cautioned, i yet hold out my hand,
but you can't let go and i'm afraid to go back.
it's gone and we're gone and she's so far away.
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of words you can't take back
mortared with decades of mistrust
solidified in guilt, cemented by hurt.
you're trapped in your pitiful fortress,
and i cannot get you out.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
Watching Homer struggle
to explain how a god wounded by a mortal
cannot die but may hereafter live with minor pain
and the humor when that god
complains to Jove that His supervision of His daughter
is inadequate and His Love too unconditional
while Diomed (or Tydides)
wreaks havoc on the Trojans and Hector
gives it back (in kind)
anatomically correct descriptions
of spears piercing jawbones (and groins)
sons without fathers hunting and fishing thereafter
alone. Written
amazingly presciently!
as a metaphor for Vietnam (our war)
forgotten consensually
as this generation slips lazily away
to Hades (or kayaks to the huckleberries)
where the lights are always blue, gentian actually,
supper's served at 4 and former adversaries
pass the heavy hanging time playing pinochle (and pool).
We're selling the house to pay the taxes.
Pallas Athena wars among the men
from the axle of her chariot
and Venus is injured by Diomed,
standing in the field of battle where she never should have been,
in her adorable hand.
What has this to do with Solomon in jail.
Not the Jewish king, a black American male,
same thing.
Your children can be failed at school and marched to war.
You can be taxed and sent to gaol for the honor of it.
anyone lived in a pretty how town.
We have no obligation
to perform the Iliad or read poems and even Homer
considers Achilles effete (compared to Hector)
and Odysseus is wrong even when he's right.
Therefore, modern man explores
the mathematics of circles in coordinate planes and their tangents
when (sooner or later)
the secret of warp speed is discovered
expansion of the species will be limitless and permanent.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
When the King rode off to the old Crusades
He was leaving his Queen behind,
Safe in the hands of his former aids
He was coy, but he wasn’t blind.
He kept her locked in a chastity belt
And hid the key in his gaol,
Then swore the Gaoler to guard it well
Though the gaoler went quite pale.
How could he give a ‘No’ to a Queen,
Or ‘No’ to her favourite Earl,
So he perspired when the King retired
And travelled half round the world.
The Queen was troubled, she said it chafed
And demanded he give her the key,
‘But no, My Lady, I wouldn’t dare,
It would mean the end for me.’
‘Do you think he’ll even remember your face
By the time that he gets back home?
I’ll have you gutted, and then replaced
While he’s still out there to roam.
I’ll ask the headsman to bring his axe,
The hangman to bring his rope,
And six fine horses to tear you apart
If you think there’s a spark of hope.’
‘Your pardon, Lady, I gave my oath
And am bound by the King’s decree,
He swore I’d burn in a barrel of tar
If ever I give up the key.’
‘Then I shall boil you in oil,’ she said,
‘And strip the skin from your bones,
I’ll feed your fat to the pigs,’ she said,
‘And take delight in your moans.’
He sought protection from higher up,
The Earl had noticed his plight,
And said, ‘I’ll send you my personal guard
If you lend me the key one night.
I’ll guard it well, and you’ll get it back
When the sun comes up at dawn,
Not a word of this shall pass my lips
As I stand, an Earl has sworn.’
The gaoler gibbered in fear and grief
He could see his head on a spike,
‘I can’t conspire with your lord’s desire
No matter how much I’d like.
The key is hid in a secret place
That is only known to the King,
He hid it where there would be no trace,
It’s only a tiny thing.’
The Earl then sent his guards to the gaol
And they tore the place apart,
While searching for the chastity key
To settle his troubled heart.
The Queen sat in her apartments, on
A cushion of fine brocade,
It helped to ease where the belt had teased,
And hid where the Earl had played.
The key they found, hid under a slab
At the base of the dungeon door,
And soon the lovers were lain together
The chastity belt on the floor.
The months went by in a lovers sigh
Til the King and his knights rode back,
Their shields and helmets worn and dented
In Saladin’s fierce attack.
The Queen’s trim figure was rather big
When the key was put to the belt,
It’s hard to know what a King would show,
And harder to know what he felt.
But he burnt the Earl in a barrel of tar
And the gaoler did what he said,
He lowered the Queen in a barrel of oil
Til it bubbled up over her head.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC
I loved you at your darkest
You only loved me at my brightest
Your silent tears were an illusion
As you devoured me until depletion
A thousand curses on the hands which broke me
And a thousand curses on the ones which you see
You will never forsake me again.
Bha gaol agam ort aig an àm as dorcha
Cha robh gaol agad orm ach aig an ìre as soilleire
B 'e manadh a bh' anns an deòir sàmbach agad
Fhad 's a bha thu gam ithe gus an robh mi air falbh
Mìle mallachd air na làmhan a bhuail mi
Agus mìle mallachd air na fheadainn a chi thu
Cha trèig thu mi a-chaoidh truilleadh
May 12, 2020
May 12, 2020 at 10:37 PM UTC
Through contemplation,
the mind leaps to its haven
above reason's gaol
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 4:19 PM UTC
Ebola
Aids
These are now but minor things
There is a cure for these
But
Islamic State
The pandemic is here
Here in your small peaceful American townships
Creeping insidiously into our English villages
And we know not when the disease will strike
Soon, all to soon you will be looking over your shoulder
"Is my Muslim friend of many years
one of them"?
You don't know and I don't know
And so suspicion invaded our minds
Where now is the peace we were promised
Seventy years ago?
Where now can our children, grandchildren walk in safety?
Governments are hamstrung
After all it's against a person's human rights
To arrest and gaol them on suspicion alone
But what about our human rights?
Should we not be free to walk our streets in safety?
The disease is spreading
But the political antidote provides no permanent cure
The good people of the world now must make their voices heard
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
I so love this leisurely life,
hence the disdain for
marriage and wife
but if such calamity were
to befall and I find myself
hungry, sweaty, tired
in a dining hall, while
the guests have a ball,
let it be then, that my
pretty partner has gaol
bird thoughts, who doesn't
stand compromised, sad
imposed nonsense of
any sort, when I take
her hand, ask her if we
can flee, she wouldn't
care a hoot and simply
heed the call, I am
looking for a runaway
then, not a wife, one
who loves the trees,
breeze, road bends,
adventures, loves to
take solitary walks and
may be meet her husband
sometimes, just because
she feels the need, I am
not looking at all, for a
society-accepting, drab,
tradition-obeying being,
I am not looking for a
wife, after all, because I
so love this leisurely life
we could be lovers instead
here's to
streams travels wheel trees
here's to
kettle fumes dunes blues
here's to
hammocks ruffled hair loose clothes
here's to the free ebb
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
CCP Turtles Grassing Line
China’s virtual hotline
Report online remarks
Slander Communist Party history
Crack down “bygone nihilists”
Party’s 100th centenary July
Grass line allows society report
Netizens “twist” Party’s history
Attack governance policies
Denigrate national heroes
Deny superiority radical socialist nation
Clandestine motivations old nihilistic parodies
Malevolently garbling
Denigrating contradicting Party history
Internet operatives administering people
Devotedly report dangerous info
“Historical nothingness” public doubt distrust
Chinese Communist Party’s earlier dealings
China’s net forcefully censored
Overseas social media networks
Search engines news outlets forbidden
Penances persons conveyed
Netizens prison lawful punishments
Placement content acute
Nation’s leadership procedures antiquity
Legal amendments folks
“Slur smear invade on” memorial
China’s national heroes’ martyrs
Face three years gaol
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 4:22 PM UTC
1
The personal is boring
as are my ruminations on the war.
What I need to do I can't try:
wander without shelter in the backcountry.
Or go deeper into the polity,
join a committee or a party.
Minute by minute and season to season
I like my life but what does it add up to, what reason
to go on? No better than a squirrel
or a spider. Spreadsheets, fake books, girls
I want too mildly, modestly or morally to have.
Can the economy and community be called love?
You can be killed and buried in gravel
Your children can be failed at school and marched to war
You can be taxed and sent to gaol for the honor of it
And there's nothing you can do about it.
Will we find the universe not large enough to hold us?
Will planet after planet be too old for us?
If you were president, what would your program be?
What one question is the key
to another's truth. How do you spend your money?
Do you believe in a god who can see
all and understand? Or is he
unable to care, a different species.
2
We take the long view
that as individuals drop
from sight, new enthusiasts
will associate. Legs
give out, lungs collapse,
but we do not let the circle lapse.
For every Aristotle
there are a million toddlers
who will advance no memorable
theories. But the mist
on trees and mountains,
sunrise over desert, are for
every merchant, traveler.
My sons will take on cares,
which toys are theirs,
as their parents grow
older. Slowness brings us
to our goal: do one thing well.
By that what is meant?
Don't be a dilettante.
Not having found the greatness
of a single, clear description,
definition, the greatness comes in
doing everyday what's known.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
The gates of the ancient prison creaked
And the chains clanked in the breeze,
When we pulled in with our caravan,
As we camped among the trees,
The kids went off for a quick explore
And were back before nightfall,
They said, ‘There’s all of this nasty stuff
Leaked out from the old stone wall.’
They said it looked like a yellow moss
But it had a putrid smell,
It clung in lumps to the chains, in clumps
That were hung in every cell,
‘Do you think it grew on the prisoners,’
Said Ted, with his eyes a-glare,
‘I’ve got a terrible feeling from
The damp in the cells in there.’
‘It’s only an empty building,’ said
Darnelle, but her eyes were bright,
‘I heard the prisoners whispering
As they must have done, each night,’
She let her imagination reign
Or that’s what we thought she did,
I learnt to listen more carefully
When she said that she had, our kid!
So later, when they were both abed
I took Clare by the hand,
And led her into the ancient Gaol,
To that misery of man,
Our footsteps echoed on cobblestones,
My voice came back like prayer,
Bouncing back from the old stone walls
In tones of a pure despair.
The moon came filtering down that night
And made patterns through the trees,
While beams shone in to the cells where once
Old men prayed on their knees,
And Clare would shiver where candlelight
Was once the only ray,
To keep the spectres away at night
Until the break of day.
I kept on wandering further in
While Clare would turn around,
‘Let’s go,’ she said, ‘it’s a scary thing,
We walk unhallowed ground,’
But no, I walked to the furthest cell
To the meanest cell of all,
And saw the bones, and the yellow moss
In a pile against the wall.
A beam came down from the rising moon
That lit up the pile of bones,
And there for a moment, all we heard
Was the sound of muffled moans,
A shadow rose by the weeping wall
Of a man who cried ‘I’m free!’
Who dropped the chains of his earthly pains
As he strode away, through me.
And all I felt was a deathly chill
As he passed right through my form,
My mind was frozen, my heart was still
And I felt I was unborn,
But then the morning arrived at last
With a terrible sense of loss,
For all one side of my face was gone,
Covered in yellow moss.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC