DON'T LET ME DOWN

I'm out here waiting,
waiting and passing time
for you to reply with words
once meant for one who offered
his heart, only to have it handed back
along with his head, and so,
I wait. Not that I hang on your every word,
or every other word for that matter,
I just wish you can verbalize your
desires before I grow tired and let myself
off the hook. Instead, you leave me
twisting in the wind.

Roots Make Cracks in the Sidewalk

I took my wagon
to the end of the block
knowing I could not
go any further.

Standing there
I waited
for my mother
to bring me home.

It felt forever
till she came
gathering me
into her arms,
pulling my wagon
home.

It is further to our forevers now,
but I am not ready
to let you go.

If you could only tell me
what street to cross
to the corner
of Cancer and You,
I will bring
my wagon.

Ride home with me.
Hang on tight.

It's going to be
a bumpy ride.

Hanging on to Shadows of Yesterday


Hanging on to shadows of yesterday...

time creeps
whispering secrets
that you keep.

time escapes
todays memories
are erased.

today becomes yesterday
tomorrow becomes today.

Natural Selection

Turning toward others,
living with an open heart.
Peace hangs out with love.

THE FOOL ON THE HILL

Shadow silhouetted against
the sky-blue pink of a dusky evening,
a solitary figure, alone in thoughts
that return him to a former life,
before a wife could sap his strength
and leave his lifeless form for the
scavengers to pick his carcass clean.
A melody looms in the soundtrack of his mind,
and endless dirge of forgotten friends
longing for a chance to rediscover the
him he used to be, and change him with
his learned knowledge. The air is cool
and fills his lungs with the breath
of a merciful God, who offers the gift
of renewal and placation. He welcomes it,
for it gives him hope for a new tomorrow,
never doubtful of its possibilities.

This is a poem about faith and hanging on...

~Miracles Happen~

I remember the look on your face when I told you they

said I might die, you held me tightly in your grief and let

the tears fall from your eyes

But I said I wanted a chance to carry this life inside me,

the one that was made from our love, just as meant to be

How could I give up on our child, we had waited for so

long, I said to just pray to God that nothing would

go wrong

You placed a hand on me gently, and looked into my

eyes, then you prayed to heaven above, your face turned

to the sky

As the time went on our baby boy continued inside me to

grow, some days were better, some worse especially

when we didn't know

One day I felt a pain such as never experienced before, I

cried out to you and felt the world grow dark as I

stumbled for the door

I remember waking in the hospital to see your face awash

with tears, your eyes were relieved as I awoke you said it

had felt like years

The doctor came in then, said there would have to be a

choice, I looked to you, you looked to me, and I shook my

head no, not able to find my voice

You begged me then to change my mind, I said I couldn't

give up now, I'd have to walk that line

You held me softly in your arms and cried more tears for

me, I carressed your face, said I loved you and what was

meant to be would be

On the day the labor started you rushed to be by my side,

I was so glad to see you as you took my hands, and

helped the pain for me to abide

After hours of endless struggle the doctor said it was all

in vain, I had lost my strength, felt barely alive, if they

didn't operate soon I would not survive

Your stricken gaze fell to mine and I gave you a tired nod,

but I whispered not to blame our son if something went wrong

When the surgery was complete our baby boy was born,

but they told you I was dying and might not see the morn

All night long I felt you there, you kissed my face and

caressed my hair, but I couldn't open my eyes to see in

the darkness of this place

Then a light came and I heard you praying to God not to

take me but you instead, I looked back to see us below

and wondered if I was really dead

The light shone brighter still but then I heard a new cry,

my baby boy needed me, so did you, and I asked God

"Why?"

I requested more time then from the Lord, to see my child

grow, then when he became a man I'd be free to go

With mercy it was granted and I went back as I wished to

do, I opened my eyes then, smiled, and reached out my

hand for you

You raised your head and looked up slowly, I'd never

seen you look so drawn, but your eyes filled with wonder

and you half cried half laughed that I'd been gone too long

The doctor came in and was amazed at the change in me,

I had proven him wrong, that he could definitely see

As you held me close in your embrace you asked them to

bring our son, our child I had never given up on, his life

I had won

As they placed him in my arms I marveled at his softness,

the perfect number of fingers and toes, I looked up to you

then with a smile and said he has your nose

You laughed then, tears in your eyes, shining with pride

and joy, as you gazed down lovingly at your wife and

newborn baby boy

I wouldn't have gone back and changed a thing, I

whispered softly to you, I knew God would give me a

chance, I knew what I had to do

You thanked me then and said you were glad, to have

this chance to have me and and still become a dad

So we gathered close and kissed each other, holding on

tight, thanking the Lord for our son, my life, and seeing

us through the night.

---

Hanging together?

You!
No you!
No You!
You!

OK...
Both together;
Three!
Two!
One!

You didn't!
Neither did you!

Well someone has to.
Yes - or we'll be here forever.

You!
No you!
No you!
You!

We might be here for quite a -
Oh - you hung up!
You!

PIÑADA


your pink paper horse
hangs in mid-air,
swaying impatiently
from the rafters of your
living room.

it awaits the piñada horseman
in ruffled red-paper
who will mount it
and gallop into the brightly colored
paper sunset.

or it awaits the piñada diablo
with cardboard pitchfork
who will pierce its underbelly,
deliver a bittersweet birthing
of a demon's candy manna.

#

Left Hanging

We pay to be suspended
in our seats at the theatre,
or, at the movies, popcorn
frozen in our fingers,
inches from our dropped jaws.
Or we quickly turn the pages
of a brilliant junky novel,
anxious to find out who,
or what, or why, or when.
And when it’s over we so wish
it were still there, that anticipation,
that wonderful, plotted invention
that has stirred our sense of wonder.
But sometimes not knowing
is a painful, awkward burden,
like days when death is coming,
and families live in cities far away,
and they want to come and say goodbye,
then stay long enough to meet
with all the family, and share
in all those remembered times,
hear all those stories, new and old,
and it’s up to you to call them home.
The act of dying can be a slow burn
a gentle fading of a dimming light.
There is seldom a long drop,
the sudden, instantaneous fade to black.
You can only provide the best seats
and await the final resolution
of life’s ultimate, and most dreaded plot.
And they can choose to stop and watch a while,
or stay until the final credit rolls.

Tibetan Prayer Flags

She receives another set
of paper prayer flags
from a relief group.

The small rough squares
are red, blue, green, gold and cream,
stamped with Tibetan
letters and symbols, linked
in a chain by twisted string.

Before, she always threw them away,
just one more piece of junk mail.

Then she visited a writer friend
and saw six sets of prayer flags
draped on her walls.

Now home, she unwraps the newest set,
studies intriguing messages.
She gets out the box of push pins,
loops paper prayer flags
across her bookcase.

She figures prayers
in any language
can only help.

"A Lack of Silence"

Glass sparkles
light and tinkles
chiming bells
sway and the baby
watches light eyes
focused perfect
on the gentle glass
music.

The phone is off the hook.
The tree sways in the storm.
Fruit falls, ripe, to the
muddy earth.
Wind roars but
not here.

The silence presses
on the woman in
the bathroom knees
up on the toiliet.

She cannot hear
the bells or the
wind or
anything but
his voice.
The blinking red
light.
"Call me. Tell me.
Do you still love me?"

Writer's (head on the) Block

The writer pauses on the page
what should her heroine do next?
give the man an honest wage
or stand her ground and make him vexed?
He's dug the grave as she requested
with each spadeful she has wept.
Upon the hearse, the coffins wrested
from the crypt where they have slept.
The worker's waiting for his coins
should she ask a lighter price
or offer him her naked loins
or with her dagger slice and dice?

should the writer leave the banging
or end the verse and leave them

Rope

Because I imagine your heart
swings one way to another
(comraderie of the slackened ropes)
and your words are kinder
lighter and weightier to another
(you wouldn't hear of it)
(in each cellar a rope)
(in these, ropes that have been used)
(the accomplishment - witnessed)
(you wouldn't hear of it)
(words penned to keep that rope,
now slack, there, coiled)
(to keep the field birds' song - consoling)
(you don't understand)
(would not ask)
(or listen)

Because you loved me
(I did) and you hurt me
(I did)
I'll hang you now
from a rope of silence

I am holding on with both hands
though others (mine) dangle there too
and my bitterness must double
to hold you all.

I am strong.
I have grown strong from all this weight.
Decades of it.
Don't imagine, I will ever let go.

my, my, Rachel, every one is better than the last...and the last was mighty fine, as well

So Where Do You Hang?
By: Meena Rose

Hate,
Fear,
Jealousy,
Murderous rage,
And misery;
Life’s lower lines one can hang on to.

Love,
Comfort,
Friendship,
Peace,
And joy;
Life’s higher lines one can hang on to.

To move to a higher line,
You need Faith to fuel your courageous flight.

Which line are you planning to hang on to?

Lana Turner Dreams

I keep a sheer red robe hanging
in my closet. If I wore it, it would cover
nothing, would just surround my body in a haze
of passion-pressed color. I found this beauty, rummaging
around an antique store that smelled of lost
dreams, faded lavender, and dust. I knew it silly
to waste money on something too sexy
for my empty world, but I bought it, took it home, and washed
it with a touch as gentle as I imagined a lover once used
to slide this see-through covering off a woman who knew desire
before her enticing night-time mist found itself living
behind old gray suits and clip-on earrings.

Hang in There

Funny how a chad
Left hanging, had the power
To alter the vote.

“Hanging”


Obsessive pollutants, to minute to filter,
Air free of allergens, discovered somewhere?

We migrated to Arizona, seeking cleeanerair,
Expedient city growth, made less favor there.

Dampness, mold, pollen hang amid the air,
Heavy on passage, relief hard to bare.

Beckons, hang tough, protection accompanies,
Contentment, lying deeply within your lair.

Ninacarole
11/15/09

Pinata

Whack, crack, crash,
the vase fell to the floor.

Smack, swish, bash,
three folks rushed toward the door.

Whish, whish, bang,
the outcome was the same.

Whish, crack, pop,
candy rains from up on top.

Cheers, sqeals, roars,
the pinata hangs no more.

JUDGE ISAAC PARKER

Know as The Hanging Judge
over the Oklahoma Territory;
brought law and order
to an untamed land
a century ago
by swift punishment
of wrong-doers.

Too bad there are no
more Judge Parkers today.

Enjoying everyone's poem today - amazing what is delivered here each day!!



He Waits

I walked after dinner
surprised by slow-rising
globe, swollen golden weight.

Circling the pond once more
I basked in a growing glow.

Moonlight pressing round
inflames my feet, moves me
toward home and he who waits.

Hanging In

Hanging diapers on the clothesline
For the sun to bleach and dry
Oh for those simpler days
With time for hanging diapers
And hanging out
And hanging pictures on the wall
Now the sun sets
I’m just barely hanging on
As I hang up my clothes
To crawl into bed.

LM T. Richardson-Beautiful!

CLOTHESLINE COMEDY

We moved back to the Midwest, determined
to live off the land, be independent.
Washing clothes then drying outdoors became
part of that, with fresh air and exercise.
While the smell of line-dried sheets is Heaven,
the biggest lesson of this exercise:
don't ever stand on the downwind side, of
anything you're hanging in that fresh air,
when the wind's up or it's gusty. You'll get
slapped pretty hard when you least expect it.


W

Shoulder Stand

Whenever the instructor announces the advanced moves like the shoulder stand, I feel like rolling up my mat and sneaking out the door. I do tend to set up near the back of the room, but so far I’ve stayed. The first class, I tried it. My body shaped like an L. My feet straight up but already straining as they hang against the air. I put my hands underneath my buttocks and I tried to push them up. No go. It is supposed to help your abs and your back and you are supposed to be able to do it through the power of your glutes and abs. My muscles are lacking. At home, before bed, I sometimes try it by lying down like a corpse and then trying to just throw my feet over my head. Hoping for momentum. It doesn’t work, but there are times when I feel like maybe my feet got a little bit closer to my head. I can remember when I was in grade school that I could do hand stands, cartwheels, thought – if I’d had the money and parents to drive me to practice – I could have been a gymnast, an Olympic contender. I can’t even picture that girl now. In my memory, she has dark hair, pink camo shorts from Family Dollar but the inscription on her shirt, even the color is like a black hole. She has no face.

The Vineyard at Harvest Time II

Time hangs with the morning
dew. Fall chill hangs in the air,
along with excitement. We grab
our sweaters, stumble outside,
go to work dotting the grape rows
with crates every few feet.
Clippers in hand, we cut and
bend, bend and cut, place each
purple cluster in crates, take care
not to cut the long vines. Others
will come to empty the crates
into vats. When the sun hangs low
in the afternoon sky, we look back
for the first time, see the long empty
rows, feel our sore backs and thumbs,
know we’ve had hints of the taste
our tongues wait for.

Hangman High

Back in school we played hangman on wide-ruled
paper while waiting for lunch or the next class to start.
Always in pencil, never in ink, not even the noose.
I always thought of Western movies and the grim
carpenter who sawed and hammered the squared-off
gallows together. He could have cut corners, after all
the hangee would never know if the trapdoor was plumb.
Like a coffin maker, the man was a perfectionist.
A good job was a good job no matter what the end
intention. It paid well. I drew my platform
with hard, ninety degree angles,
overhead beam sturdy, fresh timbers
parallel to blue ruled lines.
My rope had thirteen scribbled
turns and an extra-wide loop.
I think I hoped my drawn
culprit would wiggle free
at the last moment,
and save me
the painful knowledge
it was my inability
to guess
the right letter
combination
that caused
his untimely
death.

Hang and Eddy

My life so fast like tumbling
rapids, the humbling traps
into which I fall every time—
one more click, another article,
a friend to answer—and hours
gone forever. Where’s the hang
and eddy in the stream, the place
to catch my breath and rest?

Meanwhile, daffodil bulbs begin
their root and sprout, trees pull
themselves deep inside to weather
the harsh season to come, and the last
hummingbird has gone. Maybe I
could take a lesson from the day dark
by five and let in that nap knocking
all afternoon on my office door.

Drama

They both had small parts in a small play
with a small community theater company.

When Drew first came in the door for the audition
both the boys and the girls checked him out
because he was so beautiful
but he had an air of melancholy about him
which was apparently no act.

He’d recently broken up
with his long time girlfriend,
which seemed to answer the question,
but didn’t stop a few of his fellow actors
from at least trying.

Ania was a commitment-phobe
hoping to fall in love
once and for all
so she could put the labels to rest
and prove them all wrong -
an ‘all’ which included herself.

They noticed each other
in a hurried
but exhilarated way
and despite the baggage
they each carried
they connected in corridors
and studio walk-ups
and subway cars
very late at night.

Then Drew didn’t call
or show up
when he said he would.
At rehearsal
he was polite
but distant.

Then the old girlfriend
showed up
and glanced around.
Finding her light,
she smiled broadly
and that too seemed to answer
some more questions.

Ania looked at the old girlfriend
and then at the man
she thought of
as a kind of co-star.
He shrugged his shoulders
in a sort-of European fashion
and then let his hands
hang limply by his sides.

It was showtime.

They both had small parts in a small play
with a small community theater company.

(entitled, perhaps, Prudence and the Peees)

In a document on purple vellum
well-embossed with parallelograms
with a gang of ginger grackles
in a crest at every corner,
Prudence Parmander discovered proof
(if only partial, and a posthumous account)
that her nurse's auntie's grannie had once been royalty.
So the story set on vellum says,
the lady's name was Portia.
She was dainty as a pink sweet pea
and pure as any plaster saint or satin wedding dress.
She ate peaches plums and pints of cream
for breakfast (dressed in puce pajamas,
which she seemed to favor over all the rest).
It was said she had no patience
with processionals and platitudes.
And the plethora of points of order,
rules and oughts, ought-nots, and other
princess-regulating prickles all combined
to give her hives and hiccups.
The day's pernicious rumor-mongers had it that she died of poison
pricked her palm, procrastinated (she'd a poor opinion of court physicians).
The truth beneath prevarication is
that bored with hives and hiccups
she set about indulging in a taste
for porous morals,
pleasant peasants
and the polyglot.
She simply sashayed out of castle life and said it could go hang.

Hanging

Because my hair was not hanging and swinging
past my shoulders like my godsister's,
I was willing to sit in a chair
as my mother or hairdresser
eased a steaming,sizzling comb through my hair
trying their best to shield my ears
as my tresses were stretched past the nape
of my neck, made thick and rich,
but vulnerable to rain,hot showers, and humid days.

A lecturer called we sisters out about why
we denied our natural textures, and once I knew
shame was underneath my protestations,
I let go.

Love and respect to all--
relaxed, pressed, locked.
Nineteen years later my hair is like the rest of me,
upright, strong, obstinate, beautiful.

Hanging Up

Twelve days before Thanksgiving,
yesterday, in fact,
we decided the kitchen needed sprucing up.
So, today we painted the walls,
from the molding to the soffit to the floor.
This week, I’ll refinish the cabinets,
all of them,
first coat, second coat, third coat.
I’ll spend one of my days tearing up
whatever linoleum my eight-month old black Lab
hasn’t torn up already,
so that come next weekend,
we can lay down the new flooring.
We did the same thing last Christmas.
New paint to the living room and hallway.
Just before Easter, we decided to redo the dining room.
Now, for Thanksgiving, the kitchen.
If anyone calls to invite themselves over
for the upcoming yuletide season,
I’m hanging up the phone.

I would hold you totally above the earth
if the beauty that is your feminine form
ever tires and desires to seek calm rest
in the soft touch of my threading fingers

and I would ease the stress out of your body
pressing tender again your day weary muscles
smelling scents of your hair as we gently rock
hanging in the net of our love woven embrace

Jealous of the Hammock

HANGINGS OF AN OLDER TIME

Here, the walls of the old town hall are hung
with horseshoes – calling cards
of everyone of title passing through – a museum
of iron souvenirs.

And here’s a relic of the grand old banquets
hanging from the door, a pair of rusty
handcuffs where a man must stand on tiptoes
if he wouldn’t drain his wine-cup.

Here hangs the general’s broad-
brimmed hat beside his sword of battle,
above a leather war-drum, silent
on this peaceful day.

In any country you might find
such hangings of history. If only they
were all that Mankind used to hang
in his less enlightened times.

Hangings’

There is a man,
with a diploma hanging upon his wall
It makes him feel superior
to one and all

True he has some right
to show it in the morning light
But, to by day
he needs to find a humbler way

There is another man
with medals hanging upon his chest
you understand
he too, feels superior to the rest

True he fought in some war
long forgotten, remembered no more
But, he too must put it all aside
while learning what to feel inside

There is yet another man
With bills hanging upon his wall
He you understand
show’s compassion for one and all. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, November 15, 2009, hanging poem.

Reversal of Fortune

Hanging upside down in the cab,
the seat belt jammed,
fuel gurgling from underneath the truck,
she waited.

Broken left arm, three ribs, ankle,
punctured lung,
consciousness coming and going,
she waited.

The air was thick with regrets,
broken promises,
and misplaced integrity.
She prayed

for life to make amends
restore faith,
be a worthy example.
She did.

The Future

Teetering
On the precipice
Of indecision
Which love
Will sustain me?

April walk

I walked outdoors upon an April day
when all the world was bright and warm sun shone,
chickadees fought for twigs, the snow was gone,
daffodils bloomed and spring was underway.

Cramped far too long in winter’s chrysalis,
I longed to open up, my only goal
to soak in sun, unfurl the wings of soul,
when nature threw me one small piece of bliss:

I saw four red-tail hawks hang in the sky,
soaring the airy thermals, far apart
against a heaven so blue it hurt my heart
to think that such a day could ever die.

Jenny Doughty

The Journey: Day Fifteen: a hanging poem


The bones will never be identified,
reburied as they were beneath rock and time.
The barbed wire noose
still coiled around vertebrae
told a tragic tale of western mores.
The aged rancher reminisces,
his teen years spent working
for a trail boss, a ranch foreman, a mail delivery route.
Back then, when he found the skeleton, he was told
“put it back the way you found it.” No one wanted to dig up
the past, put a name to weathered bones. Folks, back then,
could deny the truth.

A revenue man, up from Cheyenne, came looking for moonshine,
looked the wrong way, never went back. Sheep came to cattle country
and two shepherds became lost, a mysterious disappearance
but their story ended here.
There would be others, if truth be told:
the lone rider ambushed—
retribution for a bunkhouse brawl;
an Indian passing through—
sought a meal at the wrong table;
a homesteader, new from the east—
mistakenly fenced his neighbor’s land;
a ranch wife returned to the city—
her husband told that story, dug a new well.

No one can recite the story of those bones,
the who, what, when, or where, but the how—
that we know, a narrative of barbed wire rope
and a noose of thorns.

Maril Crabtree, lovely to come across your excellent work again after being in two of your books with you.

I can't believe we're halfway there!

Well, after leaving me hanging all day, this turned out to be a prompt that prompted a poem I have been meaning to write since the first week of school. It’s yet another pantoum. I really am addicted to them.

HANGING UP

I staple papers onto the bulletin board.
Jamel looks carefully, "Where’s mine? I did good work."
Their accomplishments hanging up for all to see,
I am surprised that this boy wants to see his hung.

Jamel looks carefully, "Where’s mine? I did good work."
I make excuses, "I didn’t have enough room."
I am surprised that this boy wants to see his hung,
a “bad boy” with low rider pants, always a hat.

I make excuses, I didn’t have enough room.
He’s right, his work excellent. "I’ll hang yours this time."
A bad boy with low rider pants, always a hat,
signs his work large and proudly, gives me a hard look,

He’s right, his work excellent. "I’ll hang yours this time."
"You’d better", his visage threatening, full of hurt,
signs his work large and proudly, gives me a hard look.
I decided to hang it there for all to see.

"You’d better", his visage threatening, full of hurt.
It’s funny. I was incredibly wary when
I decided to hang it there for all to see,
thought the kids would think it babyish, grade school stuff.

It’s funny. I was incredibly wary when
I showed them I care with this gesture of love, work,
thought the kids would think it babyish, grade school stuff.
I wish I could show more, wish I could hug them all.

I showed them I care with this gesture of love, work.
Their accomplishments hanging up for all to see
I wish I could show more, wish I could hug them all.
I staple papers onto the bulletin board.

Oh, Hang it All!

Oh...

There is nothing grander
(or, at most...is)
than the place as described
by good ol’ Berossus

as the Hanging Gardens
of Sweet Babylon,
but you are more lovely
and so whereupon

as Herodotus could wax
seriously rhapsodic
he never had seen
someone quite so melodic

as you. And I know
I mix metaphor gaily
but you really shine
on a basis that’s daily.

And though you might think
I hang words on my lines,
like those gardens,
your beauty sunbakes and defines

the standard, the norm
of what’s customary.
My words to describe you
just seem ancillary.

So...there’s nothing that’s grander
than Babylon blossoms
but babe, you’re the grandest,
the best! You’re so awesome.

What’s that? You don’t buy it?
I know not whence I speak?
Well...then I won’t hang around you.
I’ll find someone more chic.

Someone who’ll appreciate
and will not critique
when I compare her to a summer’s day
or the charmed Mozambique.

I saved my best words
to try and to woo you.
Oh hang it all, honey ~
I guess that we’re through!

Robert, will you gather the poems you have written this month and let your mortal readers have them as a collection, perhaps an e-book? As I've commented twice before, the themes you are writing about this month draw me. Today's poem from you is another excellent one, and I would like to read it--and others-- again all together in a collection.

jb

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

FLIGHT OF THE BUMBLEBEE

In our dream, a bumblebee floats
above a pomegranate,
broken open and shining.

I sleep naked, a bayonet pointed
at my throat and a tiger
about to tear my body apart.

The impossible elephant,
the spectre of the past,
walks on spindly stilts--

above the moon
upon the water
about to fall.

If I turn toward you,
I will open my eyes,
and you will see me.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Great prompt today, Robert! I've been a bit behind this month, and I will post a new poem here soon, but in the meantime here's an old one that fits - this was a runner-up last year in a contest sponsored by the journal Mad Poets Review:


THE JENA 6

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root….
- Lewis Allen, as sung by Billie Holiday

When three black kids crossed
an imaginary line in schoolyard,
someone hung three warnings
from an oak tree,
stems without fruit.

The culprits weren’t prosecuted,
but six black kids who tried
to mete out their own justice
got trumped-up charges and no bail,
today’s version of the noose.

Justice is blind, they say,
but not color-blind.
Nothing hangs from the oak tree now,
no “fruit”, or suggestion of it,
yet the ground still smells of rot.

Hanging

When things go awry
and life gets crazy,
It’s hard to stay steady
and hang in there.

Sometimes I’m barely
clinging to the rope,
I’m ready to let go,
but I hang in there.

Once in a while someone
comes to my rescue,
helps me to keep going,
to hang in there.

When I’m at the end
of my rope and disaster
looms around the corner,
I still hang in there.

I’m a survivor; I just grit
my teeth, brace myself
against the attacking enemy,
and keep hanging in there.

Family Portrait

The plaque adorned with flowers and birds
surrounding “Bless this family” hangs on
the living room wall next to our family
portrait. I remember distinctly how we
all piled into the van and drove to the
beach for the picture; how the children
only wanted to build sand castles and
chase seagulls into the splashing waves
beckoning them to take a dip. You corralled
the kids together as I tried to smooth away
the sand on their clothes and comb hair
that looked like a rumpled bird’s nest.
We pecked each other on the lips as we
laughed at the silliness of this impulsive
idea to take the family picture at the
beach. We were happy on that day so long
ago; a family unit never to be broken.
I wish I knew what happened.

laurie k.

Betrayal

I
hang
because
I lack trust
I cannot believe
I can ever be forgiven
for my heinous crime
silver coins
sold out
God's
Son

Mister . . . .

Mister-

I’m the little girl whose father found
You after you put that noose around your neck and
Jumped
He found you
Heavy, thick,
Dead
Hanging from a branch of one of our favorite trees
A few feet from the entrance to our
Family business

Mister-

He called 911 as fast as his fumbling fingers could match digits to
Incoherent thought
He noticed one of your shoes was untied and he swore he could still feel the heat of
Your life but he was too late to save you,
We were all too late
Why?
Why there?

Mister-

My father was a bad, bad man and I wish to God the right thing could have been done as far as he was concerned.
I ‘m not trying to beat a dead horse, you obviously have your own battles but you need to Know that after you took your life,
My father took his.

Mister-

Just so that you know,
I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Hanging Up my Towel

Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.

We are opponents,
equal in the fight,
yet I have no desire
to play your game.

Rocks will wear
and erode away.
Paper will dissolve
till sludge is left.
Scissors will rust
to cut no more.

No other tactic
is equal to your tears.
I don't play with water.

Water always wins.

Walt, loved your poem. Especially the line about having your heart handed back with your head. Very descriptive.

Did you make a suggestion the other day to make this thing load on the first time?

Maril, nice image.

END OF THE DAY

She hung up her apron on its hook
in the pantry, put away the spotless glasses,
wiped the counter; signed the letter
and sealed the envelope, leaving
it on the table by the door. She set the book
back on the shelf, the ink-pen in its holder;
locked the top desk drawer and slipped
the key into her purse. She turned
out every lamp, switched on the porch light
to greet her husband when he came
back home from work.

This as evidence. Her purse on the chair
by the couch. The tidy kitchen
in a dark house. Car still parked in front.
Silent woods on every side. Nothing
out of place or missing, except her,
and the pistol, and one shell.

Ghosts Almost

Coming back to the empty house
where are you not, where you
will never be, the clothes left
hanging on the line—your shirts,
your jeans—waved to me, long arms
flapping in the breeze, legs
like ghosts, almost walking.
I couldn’t tell, though: Were you
waving hello or goodbye?

15 Hanging Decorations

When I was a child
Many, many, many moons ago
February was President’s month
honoring good George Washington
and Honest Abe Lincoln
We got a week off to sled
If we weren’t snowed in

Easter week could fall in March or April
Memorial Day and July the 4th
were not as important as
Bunker Hill Day
when you lived in Charlestown, MA
in the shadow of the monument
The patriotism and red, white and blue
didn’t come near to our parades
and free ice-cream for the kiddies
on the 17th of June

September - reserved for Labor Day
and back-to-school ads
Jack-o-lanterns and scary faces
only on Halloween
Turkeys and pilgrims for November
and
as soon as the leftovers were in the fridge
Woolworth’s might hang some tinsel-covered trees
but
because Christmas could only
happen in December
We never got sick of the music
the garish hoopla
We only saw the lights and silver finery
Listened to "Rudolph" and "Silent Night"
For one very short month

HOW WE BREATHE

She hung her coat on the brass hook
inside the front door. Aromas floated
from the kitchen: brownies, coffee,
chicken soup that simmered on a back
burner. She inhaled deeply.
As she stepped into the bright light
of the overhead kitchen lamp, he
turned, kissed her, fingered the diamond
that dangled from the fine chain
around her neck, then ran his hand
over the air that fell past her
shoulders. They stood for a moment,
greetings as yet unspoken.
Later, over bowls of steaming
broth, they interlaced their fingers
in the air over the table, a perfect
suspension bridge of love.

Choices: Day 15: Hanging


Royal Right

As mistress of this castle
I assert my prerogative to
extend and retract its drawbridge
as I see fit.

Possessing no control over who
phones my home, requesting entry,
I answer said phone, or don’t,
as I see fit.

When telemarketers breach
the sanctity of my domain,
I wait, with admirable restraint,
for them to draw a breath, then firmly,
politely, pronounce my truth:
Thanks but no thanks, and please
remove me from your call list. Then,
without hesitation or remorse,
I hang up.

Marie Elizabeth Mali-liked the lines "let in that nap knocking all faternoon on my office door"
Barbara_Y- What Alliteration!
Barbara Mayer-Glad you hang in there.
Teresa C, taylor, Nancy Posey-Powerful!

Hanging Indentation

To a great extent
____ the hanging indent
_________ seems quite content
______________ to circumvent
___________________ the paragraph, in its descent.

Hanging

Your words
hang in the air
like water freezing
in to an icicle.
Glistening
in the sun.
There it is
for all to see,
“I love you.”




Mesa Verde

Mud homes
hang from
cliffs like
wasp nest
off eaves.
How did
Moms raise
children, calmly
doing chores
such as
grinding corn
knowing their
back yard
was a
thousand foot
drop off?

#1

Hang on to me, and I will hang on to you.
Though the path may be steep and rugged,
together we will find our way. First, you
lead; then let me. We CAN find our way
together. And we WILL.

#2

Hanging onto dreams is better
than letting them fly away. At least
there is good to contemplate
when all is dark within and without.
With no dreams, the furies shriek,
flap their wings, disrupt the night
Bring on dreams and restful sleep.

I posted this once but it disappeared. I read through yesterday and will do today tomorrow.
All of yesterday was good stuff, but I must hail the return of the weasel. Bartholomew is one of my favorite characters. I think a collection of his tales with fabulous illustrations would be a treasure. Are you an artist Iain? Do you know any artists of the appropriate type--detail oriented and representational with a great sense of fun?
I'd buy it.
Quit laughing, I'm serious

SECURITY
(Damocles)

He's cautious, not paranoid:
chauffeur to get from penthouse to skyscraper,
bodyguard for dinners at French restaurants,
and personal physician on call twenty-four seven.

He has to be careful:
sometimes he'll pass his face in the newsstands,
glaring back at himself from the latest Newsweek.
Every next moment
could bring the kidnappers with black canvas bags,
deranged employees from the last round of layoffs,
paparazzi armed with flashbulbs.

He feels suspended in mid-air:

He could snap at any moment,
shatter like pottery, a heap of nervous shards
on the sidewalk, and who would put him back
together then?
He wakes up at every noise in the night,
and he is grateful for those gaps in his dreams.

His fortifications are a mahogany desk and
the wealth of nations.
He has the tension of a spider in its web.
He sleeps with a gun under the pillow.

Dressing Down

All I want, is to redefine
bare essentials. Devise
ingenious classic pieces
since I stalled, mid-life.

Spent time, but failed
to pay attention. As life
wore on, I grew comfortable.
But you grew distressed.

How weird: an anagram
of defection. No part of
it did I intuit. In hindsight,
clues: silence, elusiveness.

Discernment hangs
like a "little black dress"
in my closet of skeletons.
I'm wearing it out.

Left this morning for an all-day hike before the prompt was posted, so my poem is off-topic, written over the day in Point Reyes. It was nice to find my own prompt, which is related to gratitude and reminds me to say thanks to Faerie Robert for nearly a year of creative inspiration and the support of the discipline. Raw as it is, here’s my flower:


Were you aware that faeries use the dew as fuel?
Their wands atomize wet sun gleams into magic.
My daughter teaches me this as we hike the trail,
her eyes scanning the forest for their heart-shaped jots.
(Our hiking friends, on ahead, place them impishly.)

One letter even holds a box of Jujubees!
“Faeries are everywhere because flowers grow there.”
This world’s kind surprisers are a menagerie
sprouting from the wet earth, born throughout the damp air
to meet us with their sweetness anywhere we walk.

After our mountaintop banquet, The Farallons
come clear. “The Faerie-lands,” drawls Blythe, who brought the brie
to share. As we grow older, who will care for us,
witnessing and rewarding as though magically?
There are sprites, pixies, leprechauns, elves and djinnis.

It’s not just the way children see. Do you believe?
I believe! They’re part of us in the tapestry.


DA

Day 15

If I look hard enough
I just may locate the place where
I put it so long ago so I wouldn’t lose it
I stood on the ladder between
The bay windows
and I looked out at the field between the trees
I watched you run around with the kids
playing football or tag or some other summer games
I unscrewed the hanger from the ceiling
surprised to find a large hole and a screw.
I had the perfect plant ready to hand in the window
Facing west where the afternoon sunlight would allow it to thrive
However I lost the hanging part that fit on the screw
And covered the hole in the ceiling
The afternoon sun still shines
the bare screw continues to hangs
from the ceiling waiting for the piece
I placed somewhere it would not get lost.

Hang your head low and they’ll not see your eyes
Or the pain that is hiding behind, or surprise
Or the joy that is waiting to rise, or despise
You for secrets.

Hang your head low and they’ll think that you know
And you’re sorry, so maybe forgive you and so
You can hide all the dreams that have made your eyes glow
Make them secret.

Hang your head low and the world will forgive
And forget that you’re different maybe let you live
Hang it lower, the answer, the anger still lives
In your secrets.

Hang your head low but you’ll rise at the last
And they’ll see what you’ve promised and future is past
Then the stranger that watches will save and you’re cast
Out of secrets.

Hang your head low then they string you up high
And the promise you longed for was only a lie.
You kept your eyes down and you missed on the light
Of my secrets.

Hung on Love's Hook

Hung by love’s noose
One step at a time
I met you and our eyes met
The head
You love the things I do
The body
You are kind and gentle to me
One arm
You really listen to me
The other arm
You love my poetry and inspire me to write
One leg
You hugged and kissed me
I am hung
Hung on the hook of love

Hanging Around

If I had to hang a name
on you, it might be Shorty,
but no, you are not short
in the sense of height, you
are simply short-tempered.

If I had to hang you on a wall,
sideways would be a change
of pace, a new outlook, unfamiliar,
for the room from all points of view.

We hang out together far too often
to keep the peace between us,
so we pick up the pieces instead.

Just Hanging Around

I like to hang up in the tree,
eat leaves and sometimes bees.
I sometimes hang from my tail,
but not during a really strong gale.
I like to move very slow,
and very seldom go below.
Do you know who I am?
I am the Sloth, eating that stem.

Finally had some time for reading tonight. Everyone is doing excellent work here.
some favorites of mine tonight:
Patricia Hawkenson-"corner of Cancer and you; ride home with me/Hang on tight"-beautiful
Debra - Hanging onto Shadows - Great image of time's fleeting nature
Walt - (of course) Fool on the Hill-"endless dirge of forgotten friends"-love it.
Salvatore-Pinada-"deliver a bitter sweet birthing of a demon's candy Mama"-Wow!!
Rachel-Love your ending
Jane P. Hoover-"slow rising globe/swollen golden weight"-breathtaking
Marie-Elizabeth Mali-love the image of "nap knocking on afternoon"
Taylor-Hangings of an Older Time-The settings were framed wonderfully.
Bruce-I'm so glad you shared your older poem; it is amazing.

Unspoken Vows

Anxiously she waits
as disappointment strangles
alone at alter


November 15th, 2009
(prompt-hanging)
(c) Rose Marie Streeter

CONCEDING

Rain has ceased
yet drips persist;
gripping slick
dark branches.
Hanging in mid-
air, gravity
defying; crisp,
clear spheres.
Moisture laden
air lies as a
smoky back-
drop for layers
of muted color.
Only droplets
of water claim
a precise form
in a mesh of
melted earth;
landscape's
an elusive
memory.

Hanging on His Every Word

He walked in,
All in white,
Air of confidence,
All around him,
Reflected in the eyes,
Of all those,
Who were already,
Captivated by his presence.
A sense of reverence was ignited,
Here was someone of merit.
Right before us,
Yet silently humble,
In an unassuming way.

Two old friends,
Having driven up the mountain.
To see the enlightened master speak,
Sat quietly in the back.
Their long and lively discussions about,
Life's true meaning,
Had for years drawn them,
To the questions.
Questions of meaning,
Purpose, higher perspective, consciousness.
He was a physicist and she, the psychic,
Yet with one quest . . .

To really know through understanding
The truth of life.

His Indian accent,
Made the first talk a challenge.
Clearly there were skeptics,
In the crowd.
And an unmistakable,
Golden Light,
That was peaceful,
Deliberate,
Graceful,
And Wise.

He spoke of the soul,
Clearly his goal,
With this small group of maybe fifteen.
And given the western mentality,
Of thinking we have all the answers,
He managed to silence the room.

So moved were the first people,
Present there that night.
That no one knew what to say.
After he exited the room,
The gathering of new seekers,
Silently left for home.

The two old friends,
Drove down the mountain,
With a quiet understanding,
That whether it is science,
Or the psychic mind,
That asks the questions,
It didn't matter now.

No more utterances or questions,
On the long road home were heard.
A dimension of truth,
Was revealed that night,

By hangin on his every word.

Ellen Black, alluring and rich images.

B.C. Strickland, beautiful writing.

Marie Elizabeth Mali, unique wording.

Kathleen, perfect, peace true love.

Enjoyed the writing today everybody!

The hangman’s noose hangs silent now upon the old oak tree
They really should have pulled it down but no one has the heart
It’s ragged now and thread bear, pulled tight in to the branch
And neither snow, nor summer heat could bring that old thing down

Were not quite sure of how it got there but does the old tree know
Do the ghosts of those who tied it upon the old oaks branch
We don’t know who lost their life their or why they paid that price
Some things are lost to history some things well never know
The Hangman's Noose

And so we leave it where it is less we hear the doomed man’s cries
As though his ghost still lies their within that hangman’s noose
We live that long past moment on the screen within our mind
Imagine what occurred their and the ghost cries on and on

We’d like to think our hearts are free of all these sort of things
And hope if we ignore them they might ignore us to
Such pain can not be silenced while the hangman’s noose remains
Until the courage can be found to cut the old thing down
The ghostly pain within our heart will just cry on and on

Tim Snodgrass

Reposting (Came out weird the first time)

Than Hangman's Noose

The hangman’s noose hangs silent now upon the old oak tree
They really should have pulled it down but no one has the heart
It’s ragged now and thread bear, pulled tight in to the branch
And neither snow, nor summer heat could bring that old thing down

Were not quite sure of how it got there but does the old tree know
Do the ghosts of those who tied it upon the old oaks branch
We don’t know who lost their life their or why they paid that price
Some things are lost to history some things well never know

And so we leave it where it is less we hear the doomed man’s cries
As though his ghost still lies their within that hangman’s noose
We live that long past moment on the screen within our mind
Imagine what occurred their and the ghost cries on and on

We’d like to think our hearts are free of all these sort of things
And hope if we ignore them they might ignore us to
Such pain can not be silenced while the hangman’s noose remains
Until the courage can be found to cut the old thing down
The dead man’s ghost within our heart will just cry on and on

Tim Snodgrass

Thank you, Tim Snodgrass . . . for your kind words yesterday! I appreciate your commentary. And yes . . . about those codes!!

.
In St. James park
they hung two men
for kidnapping
the child of a local
businessman. Although
it was never proven
families brought picnic lunches
made a day of it.
.

Possibility

Hanging
low
like ripe fruit

possibility
bids us

“come
and bring me to life.

If you do not
pick me
and give me
purpose

than I might
as well
have never
been born.”

Whatever it is

reach out
take it

and be the cause
of a new world.

Hangout Yarn
Hanging round town with some old friends of mine
Shooting the crap and just wasting time
When a stranger walked in as sore as could be
One could tell he was mean and ornery

He ordered a beer and spat on the floor
Upset a table and turned back facing door
Any one here got something to say
Now is the time or stay out of my way.

We glanced at each other then back at him
Saying pardon me mister but why did you come in
Wearing a chip on those shoulders and a face so long
We’ll listen to your story but don’t start a song’

See friend everyone hear has had their bad days
We are willing to listen but not to be swayed.
So share your story we will all listen friend
Just do not start wrecking the place that we’re in.

He glanced at me with a simple distaste
Sayings are you the proprietor or boss in this place
No sir I am neither I quickly replied
However, if you want trouble please take it outside.

Won't you join me he says with a grin?
Before I could accommodate up jumps my friends
Pick a fight with one you deal with us all
We’re not here for trouble but we’ll supply if you call

Hold it now fellows lets give him a chance
We’re not here to hang him or play his last dance
Come up here fellow have a drink and a laugh
Whiskey beer rum from bottle or glass

We realize you are hurting and that is okay
We are just hanging out a reunion you might say
All friend s are welcomed, new ones too
Enemies can leave so which one are you?

This dear fellow had a change of mind
He square up the table shaking hands down the line
My buddies all greeted him in their own friendly style
Saying welcome friend stay round for a while

Pickup Truck

I stare at the fuzzy blue dice hanging from the
rearview mirror and try to breathe through my
mouth to avoid the sour smell of his sweat. The
sun is hot on my thighs and I wish I hadn't worn
such short shorts.

I pat his arm quickly and sit on my hands to keep
my legs from sticking to the blue vinyl seat. The
radio has gone staticky but I don't dare touch it,
don't dare chance tuning into some honky tonker
moanin' the blues.

I don't know what to say so I keep pretending to
yawn, keep pretending he never said it. Each
time we pass a traffic sign, a whoosh like the
wind being forced out of an air mattress, quick
and all at once.

That Moment
Once the day is over, I slump in the chair
and gaze over the debris of boxes, tinsel
and left over bulbs. The Christmas truck yawns open
wide still and spare tree skirts dangle over the edge. I lift
my eyes to the doorway, the windows and finally the tree, shimmering in glory.
It is all worth it, the urgent, almost frantic activities, and the apprehensive duration
between holidays and this moment of peace, love and serenity, as I hang the last stocking

Now that Grandma’s gone
No more Italian peppers
Hang in the attic

Yikes! SOOOO behind on my reading/commenting. Missing ya'll, and hoping to get back to it tonight.

A hanging Haiku

Tom Dooley
Chad
Babylon

We sort through
the boxes
still cold from
the attic

The highest boughs
unfold with the weight
of our trips—
Vegas, Pittsburgh, Disney
on wire hooks

Angels from childhood,
all torn edges and glitter,
are hung with a hush
next to
the noise of bright birds
that grip the branches

One year
our hands
smelled orangey
from the sap of the tree

My father hung
the tinsel strand
by strand

I took special pride
in how I clumped
the icicles
with abandon

Last year we found
an upholstered bird
still clinging
to the brittle branches
discarded in the snow

Excursion (Amsterdam Zoo)

We have always been good at this
hanging out, eating chocolate,
losing a week here and there when we were students,
now there are 4 kids to consider
(3 mine, 1 yours) who need entertaining.

Later than we meant to the tram
it weaves through the city,
all the things we won’t see.

Queue, turnstile, zoo,
I don’t remember what was in the first house
except the smell, the boys couldn’t stay in there.

Then the reptiles, how proud my kids are
of the frill-necked lizard
‘we see them in our school-yard.’

The most alive lions
I’ve ever seen, pacing the enclosure
breaking into a run.

Lunch at a pirate ship playground
a sea-gull stealing our last sandwich
kids and chips and crying.

Butterfly house slows them to a sleepwalk
butterflies land on outstretched hands
her T-shirt, his hair.

We end with ice-cream and photos
the kids pulling faces, insane,
you and me smiling.

Hanging on the Wall © Richard-Merlin Atwater Nov. 16, 2009

Ancestors, “hanging on the wall”, looking back at me—
From an oval portrait two feet tall;
Behind a glass reflection, I wonder what they see
From their distant ethereal position since “the call”.

Far across the room, “hanging high above” the floor,
“The Resurrected Christ”, one foot stepping from the tomb,
Departure from time into eternity, across the threshold door,
Not “hanging on the cross” of mortal death, larger than LIFE to loom.

“Hanging on her bedroom door”, a banner: “Go Panthers! Go”,
And her name, embroidered in living colors: “VALYA”, my dear girl,
With a colorful montage of teenage super stars from magazines, high and low,
“Hanging to and fro”, as symbols of an active life, yet to unfurl.

“Hanging on the wall”, a clock, tick-tock, time passes—
Quickly on its way, hurry every day, towards the final moments
Of a life well lived, with FAMILY in time, of lads and lasses,
Each a next-of-kin, wonder what will bring, for them, to leave as remnants?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Poet’s Note:
Based on the prompt word “hanging” for 15 Nov (but written 16 Nov, 2009-- 6:10-7:00AM). The view from my living room “home office” as I survey the many objects “hanging on the wall” that surround me. These are but a few that bring to mind “the meaning of life” within the timeframe we are given, to make use of it, as we all prepare for eternity.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

hanging on his
every word,
like he's some
wavy haired
preacher, leading
us to the promised
land.
what he lacked
in bombast he
made up for
in the quiet
certainty of one
who had lived
and done,
while most
had only dreamed.

YOU CAN’T DO THAT

I’m up the wall with things you do,
your obsessive nature kills me,
your ways are set, I do regret,
your routine doesn’t thrill me.

I’m up to here, my darling dear,
with hearing how you nag,
to be here in your presence dear,
is truly just a drag.

Everything has got a place,
in your strange way of thinking,
but we’ve got more stuff than we’ve places,
your hoarding skills are stinking.

You’re saving this for future use,
you think you’ve got a plan.
Why do I take this space abuse?
I’m not a happy man.

To see these four walls close right in,
while I’m getting closed right out,
upsets my sense of fairness,
I’m losing all my clout.

I’m not a crazy germaphobe,
I don’t demand perfection,
but having all this mess around
has bypassed your detection.

So here’s some rules I will enforce,
there’s no “no” for an answer,
I’m doing household surgery
to eradicate this cancer.

For every new thing you bring home,
an old one has to leave,
at least I’ll reach a status quo
to quell me, I believe.

The things around we haven’t used,
we probably do not need them,
abandon these and don’t refuse
these are the rules, so heed them.

All the clothes that were not worn,
since the girls were three,
can be taken to a Goodwill.
Please, set these items free.

And cupboard crap in cardboard boxes
stored for twenty years,
which haven’t seen the light of day
in all that time, I fear

that if we do not just dispose
of clutter we’ve amassed,
we’re going to be obliterated,
God save my sorry ass.

It’s true I’ve got these hang ups,
this rant has been quite rough,
eliminate your excess waste
so I can find MY stuff.

Hang me high for all to see


Bartholomew Foggerty, the brilliant weasel
Had finished the project on his easel
As an avid fan of history
He had painted the Tyburn Hanging Tree
Where once they hanged many a man
Now there the Marble Arch does stand
He’d captured a scene filled with gore
A day when they hanged over a score
The crowd was vast and gathered round
To see the sight on that gruesome ground
He depicted a butcher, a tinker and top-hatted gents
And a little old woman, crooked and bent
And of course the hangman veiled in black
Well, not really a veil, more of a sack
There were market stalls and hot potatoes
And a wagon full of rotten tomatoes
The mob threw them at the swingers
Accompanied by a group of singers
Who made the air light and cheerful
Although they were getting rather fearful
That some might throw the fruit at them
The painting really was a gem
Bart took it at once to a fella
Who as it happened owned a cellar
Of splendid wines and brandies too
Of which Bart liked to share a few
Now this chap was well connected
And had recently detected
A change in the popular style
Of art that really brought a smile
To the faces of the viewers
And caused a buzz amongst the queuers
He’d told Bartholomew to try this form
Something different from the norm
And so it came that the clever weasel
Had now this work in ketchup and diesel
His friend wasn’t one to drop a name
But assured old Bart of renewed fame
He was certain that a certain friend
Would want to buy it and in the end
He’d wager more than his salary
It soon would adorn the National Gallery
Bart was amazed and nearly fainted
Proud of that which he had painted
Bart left the work and took the air
He’d never seen the town so fair
He’d never smelt the air so sweet
Nor felt so light upon his feet
As he passed St James’ Park
He did a dance in the dark
His luck was in he was quite sure
And for the doldrums he had the cure
For sure he’d have to wait a week
And on the subject must not speak
But after a time the truth would out
He’d be acclaimed there was no doubt
Imagine his hanging tree
Hanging in the old NG


Iain.

Lest I Forget

Bulbs and tinsel on the tree,
Happy tidings on marquis,
Christmas carols in the air,
Twinkling lights in public square.
Wee legs swing from Santa’s knee,
Scent of Christmas potpourri,
Wreaths in windows, candles too,
And perhaps a bell or two.
Stockings, lights, Victorian lace,
Dangle from the fireplace.
Mistletoe in entrance hall,
Sure to catch a kiss from all.
All that “hangs” at Christmas time,
Summed up in my little rhyme,
Celebrates the One who came
Down to earth to bear my shame,
Who, for me, would by and by
Hang upon a tree to die.

Wish upon a Star

Behind the cold glass
She looks into the night sky
Gazing at Orion & Taurus
as he lie sleeping
and wonders

Will it last forever?
It seems to fit
He loves her dearly
she feels it

She turns to him
and watches him sleeping
A strong, strong man
yet when he sleeps
a child

She tenderly strokes his cheek
he moans softly and
leans to her touch
She smiles as he settles back
in to slumber

Returning to the window,
she hangs her wish upon a star
she doesn't wake from this dream
and he'll be around
to love her at least
a little while longer.

Didn't read day 15 yet, and here it is almost time for 16, but since it's right above I did squeeze in Bartholomew, and you guys--give me some support here. Iain must be convinced to collect his biographical works on the brilliant weasel.

Taylor--really liked your "Bird Friend of Tregedna" in Bellowing Ark. I also plan to buy Leslie Goerner's "Practicing Forever" from B.A. Press, and thoroughly enjoyed Jim Hobbs' collection of poems celebrating August in Colorado and Nebraska, also in that publication.

Okay, so now you know why I haven't caught up here yet--so much mail to read :)


Hanging Herbs in the Back Shed

Sweet scents of summer
mingle in the air.
Basil, I know, will
be slow to dry out,
and save its flavor
better if frozen.
But I want it here
amid the others,
lending pungency.
Not that Rosemary,
Thyme, and Sage have lack
of savory tang.
But here, amongst
pink Celosia,
Sweet Annie, cockscomb
and stiff strawflowers,
Basil is welcome-
richly swelling souls
as they delight eyes.

Graduation Day

I hung them in the upstairs closet today
Up where the grandchildren like to play
They are growing up so fast
And they have always liked the fancy fabrics

So fast that they could wear those dresses now
Without them dragging in the dirt
It’s been almost eighteen years
Since their aunties left them behind

They don’t need them where they are. That’s for sure.
Della would have graduated high school in hers.
They took pictures ahead of time.
Sisters with their fashion shows. Practicing.

The young ones will love the pretty satin pink.
I’ll hang their mom’s flashy red satin one there too.
She got to wear hers. She wore Della’s too.
One night. It’s all there in pictures.

No grade 12 grad dress yet prepared for Carla.
We remember her in her grade 7 grad dress.
It was nice but not so fancy. She was tall.
It was long. She liked it.

The little ones were not born yet when their aunties-to-be
graduated. Or almost graduated.

Or when they did.

Summer hangs around

I won't yet pick
the final three tomatoes
on the volunteer vine
by the fence post,

When I do, I fear
that this will signal
the first frost
to finally come

Just like the cricket
still singing
a frantic solo
in our basement

And the last robin
who can't find
his way out
of our yard

These last tomatoes
may help an overripe
summer hang around
just one more day

Sara McNulty,
Thank you. I have found myself writing a lot about growing old. It helps to write about it!

Stalactites and Stalagmites (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater (C) Nov. 16 2009

Beneath the surface of south-central Kentucky lies another world,
Virtually unparalleled in time, and place, and circumstance,
A labyrinth of endless passageways that meander in the dark, as if hurled
From Satan's domain "center-of-the-earth", towards the surface in a dance.

Lime-stone floored valleys, covered with sinkholes, beyond Chester Escarpment bluffs;
Underground rivers, and rock formations that underscore the beauty of it all,
Here in mammoth cave: stalactites hanging, and stalagmites as turned up cuffs,
Have me looking at then wonder of nature’s beauty, glory, from a crystal ball.

“Grand, gloomy, and peculiar place”, a national park, preserved in time.
Filled with bats, yet eerie silence looms within these mystic caves,
Surveyed within the Green River Valley, formed by solid fixtures of lime,
Hide-out for “the trek to freedom” on the Underground Railroad, for southern slaves.

Hanging as a massive wonder, like the rushing water plunging from a waterfall,
Stalactites in “the Frozen Niagara section” froze in time, like mammoth ice.
350 miles in length, 379 feet deep, towards the Echo River in its call,
With translucent blindfish within, Mammoth Dome, and Snowball Room, Oh, so nice!

But the Mammoth Cave I’ve never seen, except for pictures in a book,
Yet I remember frozen icicles hanging out my window sill in Maine,
Crystal beauty, sun reflecting, sparkles across asymmetrical design, I look,
And see, the glory of God in creation, as he sets in motion evolution’s gain!
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Poet’s Note:
From the prompt word “hanging” the thought of “icicles” came to mind, a common view of my youth in Maine. Then I recalled from geology book learning “stalactites and stalagmites”, and thus a search on Google internet “crystal ball” brought to my view the Mammoth Caves National Park of Kentucky. I guess I have my next road trip cut out for me—The Great Smoky Mountains, then mammoth Caves. Pack up the car, here we come!
_++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Waiting

Hanging
Like the bed sheet
Out on the line
Longer than necessary to
Dry in the summer breeze
Flailing on the line
Day turning to twilight
Twilight to night
Waiting for dawn

on the ropes

everyone thinks his hanging
killed him

actually
ovarian cancer
just took an extra week
to stop his heart
too

"For Debbie"

What kind of sorrow
and darkest despair
gripped your heart and soul
that you would wear
a silken noose
wrapped around your neck

What were your thoughts
as you slipped it on
and climbed up on the chair
what were your thoughts
as you suddenly
hung there in the air

Did you not consider
those you'd leave behind
the pain, the torment
you would inflict
by swinging in the air

What happened to your inner light
that always seemed to shine
that you would plunge
into the night
hanging in mid-air
with nothing but a silken noose
wrapped around your neck

Hanging the muse

Forgotten
hung on a peg
in the back of a closed mind

she listened, she heard
impractical, insecure

an amusement
taken out at intervals,

dusted off, toyed with
hung away again

this pursuit of the poetic

but the muse chooses
her time and place

not content to hang back
when it is her time

the words will flow
the poet has no choice
hangs on the words of Calliope

Carol A. Stephen
November 15, 2009
PAD Chapbook Challenge

Hanging On His Every Word

I watch
fascinated
by my friend's reaction
to every word her husband utters
she is totally engrossed
in seeing the words
form on his lips
tilting her head
to listen better
over the noise of others
I watch her
absolutely fascinated
by her total devotion
and love

Day 15 – Hanging

Hanging by a thread
Nearly dead
Newly wed
Hanging dread

Hanging by your nails
Spotted pails
Wagging tails
Hanging frails

Hanging by a song
Winding strong
Getting on
Hanging long

Hanging by my words
Verdant earth
Love’s absurd
Hanging verse

Hanging by design
So sublime
Twisted rhyme
Hanging sign

Hanging upside down
Smile’s a frown
Head to crown
Hanging clown

Hanging on the line

T’was Katy O’Riley from next door
Watching her new neighbor hang out clothes
And when the line came tumbling down, she
Hurried to her side, comforted the weeping
Bride and showed how t’was done. Her
Husband was an only son – his Mam and
Three sisters waiting on him hand and foot-
And the girl, my English mother, raised.
In a house of servants- her own mother
having passed – barely knew how to
Boil water to make a cup of tea.

Katy showed her how to cook meals that
Himself would eat (and how to bury what
Couldn’t be saved) and how to squeeze
The pennies when she took her to the store..
Over cups of tea and scones Katy taught
The bride (my mother, who passed her
Wisdom on to me) all she knew about
How to keep a man content as well as

How to clean a house and wash and
Iron his shirts and underwear so
Smoothly that when his oldest sister
Came to call, she chided my mother
For spending good money on a laundry
Service that she could learn herself…
And shocked when mother burst into
Laughter instead of tears, coaxed
Her into giving her secret life away..

Hanging me out to dry
Blowing in the wind
Letting my brain flap
Waiting for my day
Watching the sun
Rise and set
Listening to the coyote’s

Getting restless
Ready to leave
Ready to run

Hanging


By a thread
up ahead
pounding
pulse
in the throat
Is not good
Should could
would
tension
mounts
pulse a-banging
as cresendoed
terror
leaves
calm breath
hanging

Hanging on their every word

There were five of them all together
Both sides of a gang fight
That ended up in our ER
We left the cops and security to chase out
Those who could still walk
While we surrounded the ones who were fighting
To breathe and remember that Febjanvember is not a month
I was elected to accompany them to xray
Standing just out of reach of the radiation
To watch their chests go up and down
And ask them questions in between tests
Just to make sure they were still with us
One at a time, Same care on both sides
But wondering why people think its ok
To do this to each other.

They hung him in the square,
right in front of everyone. A
fitting punishment for the
murder of the sweet,
innocent brother of
our city's leader. Now his
body sways with the wind,
face purple, eyes bulging.
Let this be a lesson to any
possible detractors in
the future.

HANGING

It's cold outside.
Shoving our hands deep
into hidden pockets,
we avoid each other's gazes
as our breath hangs
in the brittle air.

I don't remember who started it.
I don't care.
I only wish we could take back
those silver bullets:
each accusation drifting
in the white silence,
knife-edged,
frozen.

On the iron railing, the alamo vine
hangs summer heavy with small white flowers,

while the withered stars of last week's blooms
rattle husk-brown, whispering to the wind.

When the snow drifts deep, will we still twine,
white heads nodding, whispering secrets?

(sijo)

Kudos to Marian Veverka, Marie Elena, Christina Hile and Marie Elizabeth Mali on your hanging poems. Linda Voit

I take it as a compliment
They want to hang out
With me, as if I’ve been
Granted a very high level
Form of security clearance.

I get to hear all about
What’s going on with the
“Who, where and when,”
A true glimpse into the
Underbelly of the Tween and
Teen Social Life,
Late breaking news of a very
Critical nature, of course.

Their friends talk, they talk,
And I listen because if I talk,
Hanging out with me
Wouldn’t be so cool anymore.

And this Mom knows that it’s
Best just to be the eyes and ears
Because I can always talk later,
You know, when I’m with my friends,
i.e. their Moms … um yeah,

Security!

Contradiction 11-15-09

Greenery draped over the stately mansion’s double doors,
the ends of the garland hanging gracefully over each doorpost,
the Hunter invites you, beckons you to enter and partake
of a holiday feast for
the eyes.
But it’s a faux entrance, it
leaves you hanging.
You sigh,
shrug down the steps,
and head right to the attached mass of
glass and angular steel
so you can see the decked halls
and ornaments hanging from myriad trees
by local artists,
each Christmas tree,
like the architecture of the three sections of this art museum,
unique.
If you view the river from the galleries and courtyards,
your mouth hangs agape at the river panorama.
If you glimpse the museum from the North Shore,
you wonder why the two wings that flank the antebellum house
obscure it
and have not a thing in common
with Southern grace and beauty,
except the views you saw while there across the river—
the outside hodge-podgy,
the inside Hunter hung, hinged, and heady with
order, light, and wonder.

Hanging in the Dark

His body spoke an eloquent message
His lips would not confirm
Leaving her hanging in the dark

Clean Laundry


The clothesline is square,
an upside-down four cornered pyramid.
My sister is hanging the wash.

Sheets first, one on each side,
she pins them up neatly,
tugs the basket inside the linen walls.

Hidden from passing cars, she lifts
the rest of the laundry: the unassuming towels,
my father’s shirts, my mother’s aprons.

Finally, underwear—briefs, panties, bras—
are tightly secured to the innermost lines,
safely hidden from her classmates’ eyes.

Penny - thank you so much... I chose BF as my theme for the month so I could reach book quantity on the theme. My best friend is a wild life artist but I'm not sure this is uo her street, also she is studying for Masters in Infant Education so very busy but it is something to be talked about...

Thanks again to you and all who like my character...and don't worry...Ringo will be back, he's still drunk after BRONXVII!!!!!


Iain

Hanging down


I used to hang
upside down
from the tree
outside my
window.
Hair hid
my face.
Arms hung
straight down,
like those
Muppets
in reverse,
reaching
toward the
ground
instead
of up to
the sky.
Now my
body hangs
heavy as
gravity pulls
me down.
I am unable
fights it's
effects. But
my partner
is there with
an apple to
my lips to
help me
stave off
starvation.

Left Hanging

They left Mayme-San hanging nearly
seventy years for a college diploma,
World War Two interrupting as it did
and all fates hanging.

From college to internment camp
she wore the mask of an enemy,
faced fear in her own country
but was left enough time to fall in love.

Mayme hung her dreams on the taste of his
imprisoned lips, his struggles and passions.
Both fought for a taste
of the American Dream.

He could not hang on to see the day
Mayme received her diploma, after nearly
seventy years and a life fully lived,
while left hanging for the respect due her.

Two Births

Umbilical cords
untangled three newborn lives
love never severed

Pendulum

The
words
sway
there
between
them
each held fast
by delicate thread
the lies
he told
the truths
they’ve said
the masks
she’s shed
all
hang
there
in
the
balance
waiting for someone to give them a push.

:What we kept of our lost jungle:

The grasses dangle from our windows, holding back the night.
Each blade gives us shade, a twist of light to trace our way
through this room. We linger, hiding from the shadow
of the wind that paints a façade on our days. Let it blow fresh
scents to our marrow through the glass. We stay lonely. Our bones
refuse to wake and rise. Only our daydreams walk and wander,
roaming the woodlands we moved outside.

Finally got a new "hanging" poem:


Aliens in the Closet

There’s an old science fiction story
“Or All the Seas with Oysters”,
I think it’s called – where this guy
has a crazy theory that aliens are among us,
disguised as everyday objects.
Safety pins, he says, are the pupae stage,
then as larva they resemble clothes hangers,
and finally, as adults, they are bicycles.
I’m inclined to believe him –
it would explain how wire hangers
seem to reproduce – I mean, you always
have more then you seem to need.
They’re more numerous and troublesome
than gypsy moth caterpillars.
And after wrestling with a tangled batch
of them in my closet, I really believe
they have minds of their own.
I try to yank them apart, but they only
cluster closer together, or if they do separate,
they clang and bounce defiantly on the floor.
Then I start to wonder about all the times
I’ve been pricked by a safety pin, or the time
when I was seven, and my bike threw me,
skinned both my knees and chipped my tooth.
Did I mention the guy in the story
was found in his closet with a wire hanger
wrapped around his neck?

Hung up

Maybe I’m hanging on to a love that never started
Maybe I want you to be someone else
Maybe your heart was never open
To loving who I am
Maybe I look in your eyes and see tenderness
Maybe I long for your touch
Maybe there’s a coldness that exists
Maybe I wished these feelings would stay long enough to know
Maybe I don’t miss you when we’re apart
Maybe I don’t really care
Maybe there’s something elusive haunting me
Maybe I’m hung up on a word.
Maybe I’ll feel what I think it should be
But then again maybe I won’t
Maybe love is only a word
Maybe love is much more?

Getting the hang of life

Sometimes it seems my mind
Dangles from a meat hook
In a dimly-lit locker
Somewhere inside my head.

Physical movements of my cranial case
Cause my suspended mind to sway
To and fro’ and round and round,
In one direction and then another.

Images from the sensible world
Flash and dance
Across the locker walls:
Evidence that something must be out there.

My mind, dizzily swinging, catches glimpses
Of this representation of the play of life
And creates a world that the self my mind imagines is me
Blithely calls reality.

The Hanging

He tried to hang himself last month.
It was his third attempt to kill himself.
“I won the scholarship, you know, the Bill
Gates one that only a thousand kids get.
But at the white school, it was too hard.”
He doesn’t say what exactly was too hard.

His body was too heavy for the rope,
the line,
the tube of plastic he climbed
up to the rafters of the attic to hang
himself from.

He broke death.
He still lives.

“Pick it up. Pick it up.”
she chants into the phone.

Her eyes, focused on his photo
hanging on the wall,
skip to the calendar
hung on the fridge,
prenatal appointment
circled in red.

Breath catching at the click,
she’s poised to give her greeting,
until his flat voice drones
the now-familiar phrase:
“You know the drill”.

She bites her lip at
“Leave your name and number “,
tears up over “I’ll get back to you
at my earliest convenience”.

Hanging up the phone,
she figures
it just wasn’t
convenient.

Beauty from today
tomorrow and tomorrow
hung on past pains

JUST HANGIN’ AROUND

I awaken every morning
encircled with wisdom and creativity,
the sun streaming through the window,
gentle breezes fluttering the leaves
in the silver ash trees in my back yard.

The sweet melodies of songbirds
waft in
with the soft smells of a new day –
a new challenge to behold.

Gathering myself up
to ready for whatever this day will bring,
I walk through my house,
checking each room
to make sure everything is all right with the world…
and it is.

Once the morning chores are done,
I am ready for my daily routine.

I sit at my computer,
hands on keyboard,
awaiting the muses. . .
just hangin’ around!

Heather, I hope this is a work of fiction and not a memoir - I would hate to think you were a witness to this. Your "Mister" is an incredible piece, touching all hearts who have lost someone to suicide. Beautiful, amazing prose!!! You have found a new fan! Always, Linda Robertson

I don’t own a clothesline; I haven’t since the 80’s
But I still long for the smell of line dried clothes
the looks of the whites bright from the natural
bleach the sun provided.

I enjoyed hanging the wet clothes on the line,
stood back to look at the picture of our lives
hung out to dry for the world to see in neat
orderly rows and colorful visions.

I miss the kids playing around the hanging
wardrobe and the slap they’d give them
as they passed by, they seemed to love
the wet cleanness against their skin.

I miss that feel of the clothes as I pinned them
to the line and later when I took down fragrant
dried laundry and folded them into the basket
before I took them inside.

I loved the smell of my crisp fresh sheets when
I’d crawl into bed at night and my husband’s white
t-shirt that I’d snuggle up too as he held his
arms out to me.

I don’t want to go back there to all the work
for after wash day came ironing day
in addition to the other tasks. I’m just so
glad I have those memories though.

Judy Roney
November 15, 2009

The Hem

Although I rest in the palm
Of my Father’s hand
Still I cling to the hem
Of the One who
Hung for me.

It All Hangs on Me

He plans the route.
He draws the map.
He gathers the tools.
He gave me a husband
Who can
Choose our stops,
Make the map interactive,
Use the tools
To design the sites.

He gave us the concepts,
He provided the means,
He gathered the followers,
He gave me a gift
That can
Impact lives,
Make the path purposeful,
Using my words
On all of the sites.

Making it happen?
Making it real?
Making it right?
That all hangs on me.

Old Lovers

I am the big old oak tree
in the clearing,
with the acorns
the squirrels fight over.

Bitterly, they fight.

I leave my lovers changed,
indelibly marked with my initials
hard to forget, though I’m tall
and remote in the autumn air.

Bitterly, they hold on.

Like squirrels waiting
for those last acorns to fall,
my old lovers hover nearby
just as I expect them to.

Bitterly, they wait.

There is one set of initials
carved into my trunk
of the one who got away
because I let him.

Bitterly, I regret my foolishness.

Sullen gloomy clouds
Loom ominous overhead
Dangle promised rain

Hung Up on Clotheslines

Hanging clothes out on the line
is oft considered green
but laws are being written now
to make it non-routine

because some neighbors do not like
to see folks’ underwear
waving gently in the breeze.
They do not like it there.

So legislators are at work
to pen new legislation
to keep the clothesline from becoming
backyard decoration.

Debate on this appears to stem
from factions in pursuit
on things like the environment
v. trailer trash repute.

The outcome is still pending
but who knows which side will win?
It seems to be all hung up on
the whim of one clothes pin.

(based on a Reuters' news story about the battle between lawmakers and activists [and their opposing neighbors] on the topic of hanging clothing out to dry.)

Crow Hanging Around

What is more emblematic
than a huge crow
slouched on the topmost
branch of a dead tree?
I clap my hands, he flies
away. I feel better.
The tree’s branches
lightning up to sky
from where—ironic—
lightning came and killed it
(the tree, not the bird).

This landscape—
Wind from the west
fading light
path into the woods
another trail
to a lake—
all routine. On the walk back
gnats hover
remind us we are mortal.
In the meadow
sun hung at just the right angle
exposes delicate
weavings, draped like a surprise,
always a surprise, on tall grasses.

Hang


One moonbeam, and Bat
Unfolds like an umbrella,
Shoots himself nightward.

Hanging the Christmas Lights

Tis the season to hang the lights,
hang the tinsel and see the sights.
Ornaments hanging from every branch,
at my parents' homey ranch.
It's the time of year that means so much,
spending time with family, keeping in touch.
Smiling as Junior shouts with glee,
saying, "Wow, is this for me?"
Taking in all the wonderful smells;
cookies baking, the bread is swelling.
Hanging mistletoe where you are sure
that special someone who you adore
will briefly stop for a kiss
and you will not be remiss.
Hanging the wreath upon the door,
knowing that it means much more
than just a holiday decor.

“Hanging offense”

The dead raven
hanging in the tree,
shocks only us, it seems,
to faze no one else at the local dump.
Why?
“It keeps the rest of them out of the garbage,”
the pleased attendant states;
and besides, she crows,
Fish and Game approved of her mad method.
Choking back tears, our trash is dumped with averted eyes,
and Raven, bringer of warmth and light to the People,
silent in death
says nothing.

November Poetry Challenge day 15 Hanging

The Lost Art of Clothes Hanging

When I was a graduate student, poor
As could be, I bundled as much laundry as
Possible into the coin-worked washer at
My apartment complex but never spent
Money on drying—they had lines, I had time,
And clothespins, and I loved to pin it all up on
A fine day and let the sun and wind dry my things.
No, the towels weren’t fluffy and soft with a hint
Of lavender, dryer sheets don’t work
On clotheslines, but they smelled
Like fresh air and sunshine and that was
A pretty good scent for a bargain.

Trees as bare as a dry creek,
everything as scrubbed and scoured
as crime scene,
the silhouettes in relief against
a pale orange sky slowly coming
into focus
when enough light
hits the retina.
The sterile whiffling
of a bag hanging
in the ash, weak in the dying
wind, hard to tell what color
it is, if any, and impossible
to figure whose hand put there--
not like God is tired of winter.

The marketplace buzzes with activity
as the women hang their wares from
rafters under the awnings of buildings -
baskets of sisal in colors that attract
the eye, shawls with patterns found in the
dreams and hills of this land and mats
crafted of raffia. Each piece is a testament
to the independence of the women
who have drawn from their lives,
to create the designs woven in the cloth.

Hanging

Don't leave me hanging!
Please tell me right now,
we can make this work
the question is how.
Don't leave me hanging!
Swung free in the breeze
waiting for answers
tied up to this tree.
Don't leave me hanging!
My mind soon will drift
to sunnier spots
before this dumb rift.
Don't leave me hanging!
please dear, let me down
we'll talk it over
ourselves again found.
Don't leave me hanging!
I want to be near
to love you always
of that much I'm clear.

Hanging Memories

Precious moments that I want
to last forever, will last as long
as I frame them and hang them
on the walls of my mind where I can
see them and always remember.

Hang in there

Hang in there
It is almost the weekend
Hang in there
Payday is 2 days a way
Hang in there
Only 22 months and the car is yours
Hang in there
Coming are the holidays

Hang in there
There’ll be time after diner and homework
Hang in there
Just one more hour till the kids go to bed
Hang in there
Maybe take that vacation next year
Hang in there
It’s ok, there is good stuff ahead

Left Hanging

I saw him today
Older now, of course
But with the same
De rigueur
Expressionless face

Even as his eyes -
Icy blue,the colour
Of haughty
Siamese cat-eyes -
Met mine;
No sign of
Recognition showed

Never mind
That I sat
Across a desk
From him
For almost
A year
Twice a week

Paralyzed by
A depression
So deep
I was rendered
Mute, voiceless

Never mind
Throughout it all
The only words
He spoke
And begrudgingly
At that, were,
“Time’s up.”

His longest
Sentence to me
Announced his
Vacation and I
Realized he was
Going away
Leaving me hanging
As it were.

It wasn’t
Until then that
I grasped how ill
How desperate
How much
I hated him
But needed him still

That those
Twice weekly
Monk-like
Silent entombments
Were actually
A sort of
Macabre life-line

As soon as they
Were removed
I was left hanging
Literally...

Profoundly suicidal
Unable to articulate
Such unimaginable pain
All I knew was I
Needed to die

Luckily, someone
Heard my
Silent screams
Rescued me
From myself
Led me from the
Edge of the abyss

Helped me navigate
The darkness repeatedly
Would not let go
Of the real
Life-line they’d
Fashioned ‘round
My waist, my soul

I saw him today
And it frightened
Me anew
How much I
Still care
That he practises
His witchcraft

Oh - I know -
There are others
Who swear
He helped them
Maybe so -
I find it
Difficult to believe

I saw him today
And felt him walk
With heavy boots
Upon my grave

S.E.Ingraham
11.25.09

A Hanging in Deadwood
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

“They hang horse thieves, don’t they?”
said the Barber to the Sheriff,
and the Sheriff to the Judge
who looked the mop-haired boy
right square in the eye and asked
“how old are you son?”
to which he replied,
“sixteen, Sir”
his hands shaking.

“Old enough to know better,”
protested the Sheriff, spitting
overtop his ward’s shoes for luck,
“you’re in a heap of hot water boy--”
but the sight of the judge’s raised hand
stopped the train cold in his mouth.

“You stand accused, of thievery
& abduction in the first degree,”
said the judge as he tamped tobacco in his pipe,
“a horse as well as a man’s first-born daughter,
how do you plead?”

“Guilty on the first count I suppose,”
the young Irish lad answered, “as I
did take the horse, but the daughter
she came along of her own free will.”

“I see,” said the Judge, now lighting his pipe,
“but there’s still a little matter of the Law.
Last time I checked, stealing’s still a crime
and you committed a big one, for which both
Mr. Massey and the Law demands restitution.
Either you pay him handsomely for the value
of the horse, or hang for it, as is OUR custom,
simple as that. Do you understand, Son?”

“Yes Sir,” the boy choked back a reply.

“Now, as for the young lady in question,”
finished the judge, puffing between words,
“her virtue is now compromised, therefore
you must marry her and thus provide Mr. Massey
with as many grandsons in which to work off your debt,
as is YOUR people‘s customs. Are we agreed then?”

“Think I’d rather hang if it‘s all the same, Sir,”
the boy replied, his hands clasped behind him, at the ready.

© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder