Judgment
In his rush to judgment,
He ran headlong into the fire,
As the scales of justice tipped,
His power threw him higher,
He showed his perfect balance,
on walking a quivering tight wire.
So when the Day of Atonement came,
He fancied himself a pioneer,
A person The Maker would want to meet, When he chose to reappear,
Then he donned his robes of reason,
Proclaimed the lightening less than severe
With the good book under arm he went
Clutching a gavel in his hands,
As the trumpets of Heaven sounded,
He pondered each one of his eloquent demands
Judges cannot judge judges, he decreed
His bid to be first admitted, into the Promised Land
His ignorance of true wrath was no excuse,
Moving quickly to put him in his place,
As he argued his right to mercy,
His hand was cut off to spite his face
Compassion tried but his hands were tied
Turned its back on the honor’s disgrace
In Hell there is a trial every hour,
Hangmen sit on the bench,
The judges are brought from jails in chains,
Charged with crimes of holding men in contempt,
The Juries verdict is always the same,
Death to those found guilty of their sins.
Chadwick James (poet, songwriter), Tucson, AZ
Judgement
Hundreds of men have met me only ONCE, I'm a hangman, the Chief
Executioner, don't you know? I'll slip a rope quickly around your silky
neck, chuckling with glee, as in seven magic seconds it's countdown time
to meet your maker, from only humble me.
Then one day to my surprise I saw a face I'd forgotten, from the past, a
trusted friend from old school days, and now to join the 'ghostly'
merry gang of my victims who 'd gone before.
He remembered me too or was it the wart upon my face. He railed and
ranted until we met to talk about his crimes of passion, the women he'd
killed and his line of no regret. The surreal tales from a man once meek
made even tough men cry. I listened poker faced because no mater what he
said it was ME who'd see him die.
He told me tales of bodies stacked up one on on and sometimes even two ,
with arms torn off and naked through and through. Then he shocked with
details of him carving hips and lips , the juicy parts to burn. He told
of things like cut bits of hand he mixed with herbs with the skill of a
Chef, I guess.
Now there before the brightly lit oven, he said it was hot as Hell, he
watched the feet and hands of his victim cook so well.
I said not a thing. Too scared to speak. But I knew when his turn came
I'd launch him into the next world without a second thought. And nobody
else would shed a tear for his death. But would you? Would you? Would
you? Get lost. Get real. Life is tough. Let me judge:I'm a hangman.
-Cleveland W. Gibson, (Author of Billabongo) Faringdon, Oxon, United Kingdom
Judgement
Grandmother always told me about the ways of life. We would sit together playing rock, paper, scissors for hours while she rambled on about how thou shall not kill because in the day of judgment everyone would get what was coming to them. But on one night, as the clouds and lightning came rolling in, Grandmother scurried us down into the cellar. The thunder rolled and with every lightning strike, the skies lit up and I could feel the ground shake beneath us. The skies lit up and I turned to Grandmother. She had this look in her eye behind those broken glasses. I felt scared and I could feel my heart trembling. The skies lit again and Grandmother was gone.
Another flash and I felt a cold blade stabbed into my right shoulder blade. As I fell to my knees, I rolled and saw that look in Grandmother’s eyes.
-Jeffrey Starkey, Rolling Prairie, IN
|
