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The crime challenge (1 Viewer)

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Olly Buckle

Our new laureate has come back promptly with a subject for your new poetry challenge, this is to write a poem on the subject of "Crime".

Poems for the challenge should be posted in this thread in the next two weeks and should not be altered after they are posted.

Posts in this thread should only be poems, comments either in the Bard's Bistro, or in the voting thread after entries have closed please.

Closing date for submissions - 14th February.

Congratulations to Celeste and thank you for our new challenge, it looks like an interesting one.
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My Precious Land

In my garden,
Arrived a man,
Clad in black,
Wielding a pan.

He stole my rocks,
That lined the ground,
Which were so pretty,
And spread all around.

He pilfered my friends,
my poor garden gnomes,
Who I loved so much,
And would be sold to new homes.

I could find only pity,
No anger or hate,
For the man was desperate,
And treated badly by fate.

But then the man produced a shovel,
And turned his eyes to my tree,
Trying to dig it up,
And ruin the memory of me.

This I could not allow,
He had crossed the line in the sand,
I dragged him to hell,
And my memorial would continue to stand.

With two names instead of one,
Remembered on my slab of precious land.
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WF Veterans

Can you see the children’s tears that fall,
Stain the pavement with despair?
Taste the hatred on that wrinkled scrawl,
Of the ones that caged them there?

Sir, the tears will drop no matter what,
And the sadness spreads through fear.
They will soon come to know the sound of the shot,
And how they’re not a part of the cheer.

Can you smell the evil in the air?
Touch the static of shaking skin?
Feel the heat from the fires of burning hair,
Or catch the snowflakes of your kin?

Sir, the clouds still roost in a midday sky,
and the trees still breathe in the wind.
But a smile in the sun’s perpetual eye,
Is a pardon to those who have sinned.

What do you see in your son’s face
When you tell him it isn’t snow?
Does he still hold you in a kiss, or soft embrace,
When you claim that you ‘didn’t know’?

The winds do indeed still breathe the trees,
And the sun glares it’s judging rays.
The gunshot you hear is stillness through pleas,
And the fires grow hotter through days.

Guilt is the child that grips your leg
And begs you let his innocence free.
Place the barrel, Commander, to the little one’s head,
pray your ignorance doesn’t flee.


Shadow of St. Paul’s

Saints and apostles watch
over the city; look stonily from lifeless walls
at the man sleeping in the doorway,
who receives no pity from those
who pass him by in the shadow
of St. Paul’s.

provide a slight escape for a homeless soul
who had great ambitions
but reality always lays in wait,
snares him once more
when he awakes
to find rejection
and derision served as breakfast
on his plate
of fragile china hope.

Night people laugh –
walk on by, oblivious
to the derelict life
as they look up at those saints
positioned high on the cathedral walls.

Big Ben is heard to call the hour
and one dour face looks down
upon the sleeper,
wakes him and then moves him on.

City mire draws
the poor man deeper,
to penetrate pores, irritate sores,
while still he remains invisible
to the passers by,
as saints and apostles look on
from way up high,
to see no mercy shown,
beneath the vaulted walls,
towards the man who made his bed
there in the shadow
of St. Paul’s.


Senior Member

A slight to one is a slight to many,
and justice must be done.
I direct myself with sweaty fear
and blood on the tip of my tongue.

And justice must be done;
correct, set examples, protect; punish.
And blood on the tip of my tongue
drips onto every sentence.

Correct, set examples, protect? Punish
as desire and protocol. Revenge
drips onto every sentence,
with all-too-human wrath.

As desire and protocol, revenge
my compass is set before me,
with all-too-human wrath
belching into my sails.

My compass is set before me;
I direct myself with sweaty fear
belching into my sails.
A slight to one is a slight to many.

Lady S

Freedom Writer
Senior Member
A Voice in My Head

End the world’s poverty;
make starvation history,
see all those stars who give their time,
so they no longer share the guilt -
or have a part with those who still
commit the crime.
Another truth is what I see
when I decide to glance at my t.v.
and still find those starving faces
staring back at me.

We’ll never feed the world on Beverley Hills charity –
or save a single soul by listening
to Hollywood ministers preaching prosperity.
Did I hear someone say, “Sell what you have,
give to the poor and follow me”?
I’m sure those words were not imaginary –
in L.A. it’s so very hard to see.



Staff member

Clipped coupon's crinkle with crisp sounds
wrinkled hands, sort each stack
she licks her leaded pencil
tallies the total, of being old.

Her mind drifts back to the time
when life was Choice, and Prime;
the man she loved, the child they made-
though gone, still feeds her soul.

She will join them soon...
for now, she feeds her body
with the choices she has left;
Friskies or Fancy Feast?

Chesters Daughter

Staff member
Global Moderator
Coddling the Warden

Deeming me unfit,
with a flush you offered
my tiny gold shackle
to the sewer rats
years ago,
but the digit still peels
shedding flesh like tears.
What an ingenious way
to brand your prisoner.

The barred windows
have the inspector's greedy paw
begging for grease again.
I wonder if you'll remit
or resort to brick
denying me the sunlight,
sullied by striped shadow,
that assures me
the world still exists.

Your key violates the padlock
and I jump to attention,
waiting for inspection,
ready to pipe up
"Prisoner number one
reporting for orders, sir!",
as number two
resumes her shrieking
from the basement.

Just a corner crack whore
incarcerated without a rite;
she's no hope of a gold shackle
but still bound to wear your brand.
Singing the chorus of Disco Inferno,
you stoke the fire
and then simply stare
until the poker assumes the shades
of an African sunset.

"Bath then dinner!" you bark
before descending the stairs.
I lean upon the wall
toeing an idle jack,
making a note to dust it
before it results in attack,
when the screams
of a million demons
come barreling from below
and a hint of singed skin
seasons the breeze.

Shocked into action
I bustle to the bathroom
to entreat the tap to exact
the perfect temperature
then hustle to the kitchen
to guard the roast.
Bloody rare is a must
or it's another piercing
by a needle dressed in rust.

Silence abounds
as prisoner two's pitiful pleas
are thwarted by adhesive.
(gotta love that Crazy Glue)
I arrange your plates with a smug smile,
almost slaphappy
at the new inmate's induction.
Perhaps she'll replace me
as your prized plaything.

I pull out your chair
as you run twisted fingers
through still damp hair.
I place a napkin upon your lap
and then curtsy with care
so as not to bare scars.
With bowed head, I giddily whisper,
"So good of you to throw a party
most wonderful Warden,
it's a joy to have some company."
and I spy a glint of gloat
in the flint of your eyes.

I offer you a bite
with a silver fork
so far beneath your grasp
as a dirty little ditty
bounces about my brain:
Please spare her the boneyard
beneath the basement floor,
unlike the whores
who came before,
let this one be a keeper.

Olly Buckle

We wield power with solemn simony
Glory and splendour
Over the poor and pestilent,
They who harbour horrifying heresies
They are
Carnal sons of Adam, rutting
and wallowing with daughters of Eve
They are
Incorrigible, unrepentant, reprobates
and feckless fun seeking fools.
Who must pay!

"Bleedin' criminal how they go on innit?"
"Lesson learnt, don't get caught"
"We was only havin' a laugh innit."


Senior Member
Apathy, Not Ignorance

It is often said that evil prevails when good men fail to act.
Every day, there is death, famine, oppression and war.
This is not just in Egypt, North Korea, Afghanistan, or Iraq.
It’s here in our local school, bank, or convenience store.
I read about these things in newspapers, and yet I fail to react.
Does this make me evil, or is there more I can ignore?


To find the girl

He waits, patiently.
He waits until the sun sets.
She sees him coming
and run till she runs out of breath.

Then she knows, it is her end.

She wakes next morrow
surprised that next day follows
'I am still alive?'
She asks not knowing to whom.

He's contented. "She's mine."

"Hello?" She calls in.
nothing but echo replies.
He does not reply.
He is contented staring

Tomorrow we meet my love.

Finally they met.
"What do you want" She asks him.
"Be mine." He tells her.
“I want to be home”

“You are already home, love”

He touches her arms.
“Get your filthy hands off me!”
“Patience.” He whispers.
“I will die first!” she replies.

His patience is running out.

The next headline says.
was strangled to death
and raped after her last breath.

Now he patiently lurks in the dark, to find his next girl.

Squalid Glass

WF Veterans
From Sandman

I like to do it
at night, for starters,
when darkness touches things
as the moon hangs slippery above.

I’m not picky though –
I like maidens, and children, and men.
Variety, you see, like when hard posts
feel soft pillows.

But really, the trick is
to make it feel good
while I steal. You won’t say no –
in fact you’ll ask for more –

because I take you places
you couldn’t go alone.
You’ll pulse along with me
while I steal all you thought was real.


Senior Member

As evening neared, I found myself
Near Story Street, and close to home;
The dimness of the lamps now veiled
Most sights that day would show.

The air still held a winter's chill,
Though spring was close at hand,
And I had just come out from having
A cozy meal, well planned.

Just up ahead, still bustling,
And long a favorite stop of mine -
Cook's bakery, with luscious treats
And shoppers milling round.

I stopped to savor tempting scents
That wafted down the way
When all at once, time seemed to slow -

A trespass would unfold.

A little way across the street
With hungry eyes and naught to eat
Were huddled children, all entranced
By the cheery window scene.

One tiny waif would face his fright -
With shaking limbs, he moved apart
And stepped into the slowing street,
Hard focused on a tart.

I wondered then how long between
Each meal they had to wait;
Visions of these lovely lures
Would taunt even one who just ate!

Against the window, lightly pressed
His nose now rested on the pane;
What does he want? I asked myself,
And felt my coat for change.

But ere I moved too close, I saw
The desperation in his eyes,
Hunger is excruciate -
And thought gave way to deed.

For me, time stopped, but as I watched,
He scurried through the door
And snatched up what would seem to him
A gracious meal, and more!

He must have felt such great distress -
As a skinless form exposed
For just a moment - then he rushed
Back outside, to the cold.

He did not look, but lurched across
The street, this child without a name;
Midst ragged breath, I saw him eat
His treasure with no shame.

Still I stood where I had stopped,
Not feeling now the cold or dark;
Revisiting what I had seen,
Examining my heart.

Fools we are, in mortal coils,
As life plays out each part;
The crime is not the action, see,
But human disregard.


Senior Member

My heart pounds fast, eratic and uncontrolled
yet my mind is calm and thinking bold

I am poor, living like a dog on the streets so cold
shall I give in to my conditions
Let the hopelesness of my situation cast assunder any fleeting glance of optomism

I will take my destiny in my own hands
I will expropriate the rich man who passes the street where I slumber and beg
This man of greed, fine cloth on his back and paper in his pocket
Has such a man ever given me a second of his thoughts or a dime of his money

They will call me a thief, a robber and a scoundrel
They shall damn me to hell
Society and all those of property do this already, so what will a few more words do
Better to be a scoundrel with bread than a saint without
If I take this rich mans ill gotten gold, which he made off an honest mans brow am I guilty


WF Veterans
Transcending Apathy

Beyond shade trees
the old house peels
like sun hurt skin;
but love stares
from windows
as walls slant
and separate
to release caught laughter.

He creaks in his tatters;
dreams inside his cardboard tunnels
where past is vibrant,
and reality is shades of gray.
This old abandoned mansion smiles
into his bleeding feet.

Remember, remember
perfumes, piano tunes,
and Mary who loved me;
a child’s voice,
a pink room
like a womb.
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Olly Buckle

We are now closed for submissions to the challenge, a terrific entry this time round, thank you for submitting your efforts everyone. Don't forget to go to the voting thread when you have read through and vote for your three favourites.
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