"headsman" poems
Ötzi
Even in my long sleep,
I dreamed of this.
A waking by strangers
A grasping of my wrist
And I wrench it back from them!
My dreams beneath the ice
Were warm, in summer vales,
Where children played
Under my watch, old but hale.
An easy thing, my guard was then.
I tend sore limbs as supper warms,
And aching joints inflamed,
And muscles tough as ibex horn;
For a while I can be lame.
And see my copper ax in the red-gold flame.
I dream of how it came to me,
After vanquishing a headsman.
Intruders fell before me!
And I earned this talisman.
Weapon, scepter, power of my clan!
Then I was sent across the mountain,
A lone journey I knew well.
To trade with kinsmen in a the northern glen,
With gifts, arrow shafts and tales to tell,
Never guessing betrayal that walked behind.
Alone upon the highest peak
I ate my last meal by the fire.
To me the gods seemed trying to speak,
As men I knew climbed higher.
We had words, but they were my kin!
In my long sleep I wonder why
These false friends turned to hate.
I’d watched over them, yet they cried
That my rule was done, and it was too late,
So I turned from them and faced my doom.
I crossed the last protruding rock
And now felt safe from them.
But then a blow, beneath my heart: a shock!
I fell in a soft, snowy glen,
And then a dull pain in my skull…and black.
Beneath me, I can feel the ax;
They’d never take that from me!
Nor my arrows, quivers and packs;
And risk the fury of the gods.
They’d taken my power and left a naked soul.
Five-thousand years I spent beneath the frost,
Until I was found and freed.
My scattered ions watched, angry and lost.
They dragged my body from its bed
And my soul from another life.
Now part of me lies in a crypt
Another frozen tomb.
If only I hadn’t run and slipped,
All those ages ago,
I would now lie in sacred ground,
Back in the earth to which all are bound.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 10:16 AM UTC
If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.
To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.
Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly
of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.
You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.
Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.
But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.
To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.
That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.
He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.
He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.
For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.
And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.
But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.
And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Heavy-handed-slit-lidded, I’m casting those bones
- didn’t play my game as close-chested as I should have, though –
And now I’m throwing with higher stakes than I’d known prior,
starting to regret the forced nonchalance of trying to “keep cool.”
Cast and weighted as I could,
but don’t watch: I’m blind to the hustling pit and
eyes-dimmed of hope-glimmer, I’m resigned against
double-sevens and sacred fourteens, anticipating instead
the triple-ones and maybe solo-fours of feigned failure
- they’re the usual roll, anyway, but I’m standing, moving, gone –
I can’t watch this.
Black/whites give rise to new metrics of haste,
the cubes bouncing and dancing on damnation,
and as the headsman’s axe falls, the die settle:
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
I dream of living to see the next revolution,
And of the men who will not live through that revolution,
Of the air humming electric static heat in anticipation of the inevitable riot,
Of the holy barricades standing in defiance of Heaven,
Of the enlightened kicking down the doors with guns and masks, asking;
"ARE YOU GONNA BE A PART OF THE PROBLEM OR ARE YOU GONNA BE A PART OF THE SOLUTION?"
Of gallows for the dogs of war,
Of guillotines for the capitalist pigs,
Of a firing squad for every reactionary content to oppose the wheel of history even as it crushes their bones down to nothing,
Of the end which justifies the blood staining the cities red as the hammer and sickle cells that divide and multiply fevered in the streets,
Of the ghosts of iron men long dead still insisting that we take not one step back,
Because men get arrested, animals get put down
And God,
God made them as stubble to our swords, boys
And with blades clenched between their teeth so climb the dregs of the Earth to the surface to taste the apples they shook from the trees,
In 24 hour news cycles the slogans repeat to infinity:
"NOT RESISTING ARREST"
"NOT COMMITTING A CRIME"
"I WAS NOT A THREAT, WHY DID YOU TRY TO **** ME"
You can only force people to paint the smallest target possible on their own backs for so long before you end up in the crosshairs
I have seen the faces of my saints painted on the walls of eternity -
Of Trotsky, million headed proletariat staring daggers through the hearts of the tsars,
Of Cromwell, crusader for the ungovernable force of will,
Of Robespierre, headsman of divine terror riding on the wings of the Angel of Death,
I have seen the end and the means played out in countless dramas across millennia,
And the only question that remains unanswered is this:
Are you gonna be a part of the problem or are you gonna be a part of the solution?
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
The drummers play a muffled beat
As I climb the scaffold stairs.
A long faced priest awaits me there
to say my final prayers.
Maternal blood has been my curse;
I ‘m Edmund De La Pole.
A Yorkist and Plantagenet
By the emperor bought and sold.
My head will never wear the crown
To which it was entitled.
The headsman whets his cold French steel
And fat Henry is delighted.
I kneel before a block of wood
A heart fit for a throne.
Now and at the hour meet:
For ambition I atone.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
The queen toward above me
In her high and mighty chair
"Off with his head, I want him dead"!
I had but a moment to spare
Charm can save a man in distress
A smile can win a fray
I spoke words so sweet they hurt my teeth
But the queen wasn't listening that day.
And in walked the smiling headsman
He raised his axe so high
He let it drop and I heard a chop
I bid the world goodbye
But something strange did happen then
As my head rolled on the the floor
It did not stop, I kid you not!
It rolled right out the door
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 11:49 PM UTC
What shall it be this time, m'lady?
Another turn upon the rack?
Tie me to four horses?
Lay stones upon my chest?
I can see your king wickedly
smiling as I gasp for air.
With each bark of laughter
he lunges for you and begins
to plant drunken kisses all
over your sweet, perfumed body.
And I am forced to watch.
Is that not torture in itself?
Ask yourself if the punishment
actually fits the crime.
I made the wrong decision, my queen.
I forsook your beauty for a
***** barmaid's.
By your tears, I know you feel
my great wound just as much.
So as the headsman places
the great singing axe upon the
base of my neck, where I often
dreamed of you kissing me
so tenderly, I want you to
know that I will always--
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
They lead her out in irons
Like butchers lead a sheep
The screaming of the sirens
Awakes the town from sleep
On one arm walks an elder
On the opposite a priest
Behind, an executioner
His eyes raised to the east
Is this not what He wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as Our Father promised
We'll see His enemy die
Around the grim procession
The people come in crowds
To see the wrathful session
Beneath the darkening clouds
Awaiting her arrival
At a place arrayed with skulls
For the sake of their survival
The congregation culls
Is this not what we wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as Our Father promised
We'll see our enemy die
They hold her in position
Her face against a wall
Expecting some contrition
Expecting her to stall
But though her eyes show terror
They also show resolve
No apology for error
No need to be absolved
Is this not all they wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as my father promised
They'll see his enemy die
His weapon at the ready
The headsman heaves a sigh
A lengthy hesitation
That makes her wonder why
She glances past her shoulder
At the killer in his place
And suddenly goes cold
As she sees her father's face
Is this not what you wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as your Father promised
You'll see the enemy die
[Her] Coward!
[Executioner] *******
[Elders] Demon ****
[Crowd] **** **** ****
×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××
The old man holds a grimace
And tightly shuts his eyes
His soul he sees as sinless
As fast his weapon flies
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 7:25 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
Warm waters ripple underneath my feet,
Mist softly caresses my surroundings like a fuzzy blanket,
Nothing but a warm wrap on a deathbed.
I'm flying.
The sea beneath my feet freezes as I descend upon it.
A catwalk to my judging headsman.
I refuse to walk.
I fly.
Without destination.
Without meaning.
Until you touched my hand and I turned around.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 5:21 PM UTC
On days with no work
It dripped not a drop
of spectral blood
It didn't drink
Light like a
Demons eye
If I held my ear
To the blade
I couldn't hear penitent pleas
I was rather disappointed
With the headsman ax
It could've been
A lumberjack's ax.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
The Problem with the Vertical Morality of our Staatskirche
The problem with vertical morality
Is that it falls straight down like a headsman’s axe
And we live beneath its arc of vengefulness
Oct 8, 2025
Oct 8, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
On the bridge before these walls
stood the spears with the heads
of all who were in the way
cut off on the block, with ravels
if the convicted refused
to pay the headsman
for a quick death, the heads
with holes where the blackbirds pick
the holes where the eyes were
The parishioners wore shawls
over their noses and mouths
during the Sunday service
in the church of the chains
because it reeked from the vault
full of beheaded bodies
oh, history lessons
don't make anyone happy
at best our children
if we don't let us be tied down
by complicity in injustice
lifelong guilt and shame
if we dare to count on each other
and rise up against tyranny
Jun 18, 2023
Jun 18, 2023 at 3:55 AM UTC