NaPM April 25 2016

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 


Topic 25: Write a poem inspired by a a murder

Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[QDeathstar]

I Do This For You

You are warmth, red gushing-
I control your breath and can feel
your fear pulse inside me.

This is truth, raw and powerful.
Your emotion is real, your faith
unbroken, "Please God!"

I am the answer, The Savior.
Your guide to eternal light
stabbing you away to a better place.

[NobodyNothing]

This should be right up Keith's alley.

[just mercedes]

I longed to be you, Nancy Drew


Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew
I so admired you
for making sure that the Government’s plans
stayed out of the spies and agents’ hands
and you caught murderers too.

You had a boyfriend or two
Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew
but some had sinister thoughts in mind.
If his kiss was of the open-mouthed kind
you very quickly withdrew.

The Fascists, the Nazis too
were always after you
Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew. Each time you’d find
the clues and blueprints they left behind
but they still captured you.

You were so modern too
with radio in your shoe.
I know the murders left you subdued.
Your Mom and Dad couldn’t know, Nancy Drew,
all that you’d been through.

The bravest spy was you
and the prettiest, too.
So sensitive, caring,
brave, bold and daring;
I longed to be you, Nancy Drew.

[Tiger the Lion]

Clarion

you cannot kill me
 
i could rent my robes
expose my chest
and let you plunge
your best blade
into my flesh
 
i will cauterize
by Christ.

[Achebe]

nice one, Qdeath

Murder advice

To differentiate a perfect murder
from random homicide, its motive must be plain.
Perfection must vest in the alibi
otherwise you've killed in vain.
Now forensics will try unweave the rainbow
so the body should be found quite late in the day
barbecued by a bushfire where lain so
no trace remains of incriminating DNA.
Ideally, the victim should be landed
with a family crest, and an African past
in diamond mines, or Kalgoorlie branded –
black sheep grown wealthy, yet bitter outcaste,
and you the nephew or wastrel relation.
All at the party in his manor the minute
his lordship went missing from his usual station
in the study, are suspects to the police by rotation –
the thief, his wife, the butler, could have done it.
But if you should choose to make your plan effective
stay well out of reach of some Belgian detectives.

[Tracy Mitchell]

That Was Then

Feathered heads slide forward and back
smooth, lubricated, bolt action-style.
Wild turkeys two-by and single file
cross the highway.

The trees in the grove at the bend in the road
give home to hawk families and eagles –
the alluring sound of river water concertos
sluiced across keys of stones and gravel  
bestowing harmony to the trim of life.

That was all before the body was found,
a young man’s carcass in the river,
ensnared in limbs of a fallen tree –
eight days bloated and well wedged.

Predator birds patrol this area, and turkeys
cross the road. But there is no longer music
and certainly not Rachmaninoff in the rapids.
Nothing that I can hear.

[bedeep]

Teagan that's beautiful.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Teagan that's beautiful.

Thanks, bedeep, very kind of you.

[REW]

A Restraining Order Couldn’t Keep Him

There was that scary night a giant SUV sped the wrong way
roaring alongside us several times, threatening menace.
You thought it looked like your dad’s,
but it couldn’t be and so we floored it.

Next day you heard the news,
your father had kicked in the door to his wife’s,
shot her with an antique pistol, then himself—
murder suicide.

When you dealt with his things
you found a cassette in Dad’s tape deck:
Jimmy Hendrix, worn out over Hey Joe,
“Where you gonna go with that gun in your hands.”
It was him that night on the road. You were freaking out
that he needed you and you didn’t stop;
I handed you a paper bag.
Chills took me because I knew enough;
he didn’t want to talk.

Then it was you cycling over and over,
weakening until the clog and tear,
then unraveled until there was no sorting you out.
Goodbye,
then me sleeping with a knife in my hand.
You wasted into indecipherable magnetic mylar,
like father like son,
some recordings can’t be changed;
sometimes things become garbage.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Casey - awesome blending of threads in this, and the intensity and drama - well modulated.

[Keith]

This should be right up Keith's alley.

ha Ha thanks very much !!! No pressure

[LunaDeLore]

Found on the kitchen floor
 

There was something
Different in the morning
Something strange
In the sparrow’s song
As if it came from calamity
Like an alarm waking tomorrow
 
Looking out the kitchen window
Nothing seemed out of place
No unwanted strains of elastic
Breaking loose at the open mouth
Of a sweat sock
 
Turning away from the window
A sudden rush of cold
Overpowered existence
Like a finger on the tiger of goodbye
 
With a sound familiar as fireworks
The final fall to the parquet floor
Came suddenly as blood spatter
Decorated the oak cabinets
In death

[Todd]

The Mask Beneath the Makeup
 
Pogo never caressed the dead boy
in the coffin, that was someone else
beneath the makeup. He won't bend
balloons into giraffes; he practices magic.

Under the popping heat, the fluorescent bulb
will float above you like an angel,
like an unspoken prayer. He will handcuff

you to a chair to see if you can escape,
and place a gag so that you cannot
call out to the crowd, who has seen this trick
thirty-two times before.

If he likes you, he will bend down
with pointed lips to give you a kiss,
uncuff your raw wrists, and you will lie
with him forever, beneath the floorboards,
your chest rising in shallow breaths.

[REW]

That Was Then



Predator birds patrol this area, and turkeys
cross the road. But there is no longer music
and certainly not Rachmaninoff in the rapids.
Nothing that I can hear.

Teagan this one is really strong, a poetic death poem.  
I like your profile picture too.

---

Found on the kitchen floor
 

I like this one, very atmospheric.

[Keith]

A simple contract

I trail a white gloved finger along the mantle piece
and blow the dust into sunlight,
plump and straighten the cushions on his settee.
I strip and stand naked in empty bedrooms
wrap myself in the cold plastic of the shower curtain.
Now I feel I know him.

He asked me to help him
of course I agreed with one condition
and my usual up-front expenses,
my only request was his memory.

Yet even now small things
appear to have bled through,
the mind is a marvellous creature
it tries to control even when it's
lifted from its bowl,
scooped by strong fingers.

The crime must fit the victim
so here I am in free verse,
sure, I could lament on how
I will mourn his demise with a bottle
of brandy and some sincere lies
but I won't.

I feel at this point,
I should offer a Veruca Salt warning.
Stop, stop please don't read on,
ah well.

My Volta to his unwritten sonnet,
who is he? you're afraid to ask.
He's nobody,
nothing for us to worry about
and the word
that will push his own knife
through his eye, is Sicarius
contract closed.

---

The Mask Beneath the Makeup
 
Pogo never caressed the dead boy
in the coffin, that was someone else
beneath the makeup. He won't bend
balloons into giraffes; he practices magic.

Under the popping heat, the fluorescent bulb
will float above you like an angel,
like an unspoken prayer. He will handcuff

you to a chair to see if you can escape,
and place a gag so that you cannot
call out to the crowd, who has seen this trick
thirty-two times before.

If he likes you, he will bend down
with pointed lips to give you a kiss,
uncuff your raw wrists, and you will lie
with him forever, beneath the floorboards,
your chest rising in shallow breaths.

Fuck me Todd Killer clowns, can someone please come round and turn a light on?

[bedeep]

You guys are killing me.

Also Teagan's avatar keeps adding features most spookily.

I may fail to come up with a poem for this prompt but I am enjoying the ride.

---

"Write a poem about murder."

my cat is on strike for tuna

all day a headache chased me

dinner of fish (mediocre, bones), mashed potatoes (boring), grilled asparagus (excellent)

good company though

friend from years ago from out of town on her way through

I don't know any murders

there was that time I went on a wildflower walk

new in the town where I met that same friend

looking over a little bridge into a creek

there was a dead deer and next to her a dead dog

somebody got tired of hunting I guess

shot the dog too and left the both of them

to rot

close as I ever got to murder

was close enough

no more wildflower walks either

not in that county.

[just mercedes]

Doubled up.


Surely I’m not a suspect?


Sunday was the last time I saw Jim,
under a sun umbrella with the liberated
penguins from the dawn parade. Fellow
escapees from captivity, we shared
reminiscences, tears, and sardines, as
clever disguises were handed around
and we helped them to change, become
lions, elephants, anything at all except
insects, because of the number of legs.
Far too many peacocks, though, I thought.
Really, they needed a peahen or two for
authenticity. Their strident challenges
grated. Soon a fight started, and Jim
insisted on being named referee and
legislator. He knew nothing about
icebound courtship rituals, or who
sat the longest on eggs. The peacocks,
talking among themselves, knew it was
insane to go from one form of human
control straight into another. Refusing
emphatically to listen, they formed
X Penguins Rool OK, or XPRO,
pronounced ‘Shaypro’ and soon made
illegal any trade in feathers. Jim,
almost speechless, fingered the plume
lengthening his Robin Hood cap.
‘I will never give this up’ he blustered.
Down swooped a flock of peacocks,
obscuring Jim and his hat. All quite
chaotic for a while. When the dust settled,
instead of Jim sitting where he’d been,
opposite me, he’d totally vanished.
Under the table, only his broken spectacles
showed he’d ever even really existed.




An acrostic with Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

[QDeathstar]

^nice

[billy]

Death of a Cockroach.

I caught you in the bedroom draws
rifling knickers, scarves, and bras.
the Knife fit well within my grip
but like the moment, let it slip
instead I grabbed the lava lamp,
But no, if caught i'd look too camp.
My rage was war, my fear was strife.
I sat and waited for the wife.