This Poem was Submitted By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2010-02-21 22:50:21 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!

Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!


“By the time of the reports,  the police had already swept  every room of the science building,  finding nothing but a 9-millimeter handgun  in the second-floor restroom.” For Every Marksman Oh, and look at the time, it’s only one. Sit, sit down, Ms. Bishop I see you’re tired. All of this must be taking its toll on you. Can I get you something to drink? Water? I have water to offer - or nothing. You remember Mr. Stevens’ nothing, The nothing that isn’t and that that is? Well, he’s dead, like your colleagues back up there On campus â€“ what do you â€“ water? Of course. Has anyone shown you this picture? I assume you know these people pretty well. I mean â€“ you were in a meeting with them all, All of you were sitting, I presume, there â€“  around the table where we found the three â€“  the three who died.  That’s right, they’re not all dead. In due time the story will come out, It always does.  One can never be clever Enough to evade the consequences Of our perverse and diabolical minds. What quarter do you think we’re in here, ma’m? How the earth moves under our feet this year Has nothing to do with the last or next; More to today’s bow governing tomorrow’s Sorrows, would you not agree, Ms. Bishop. Bishop: I remember my First Communion, How the host felt on my tongue, waiting for Saliva to melt the wafer, the faint  Sweetness of unleavened bread, the Bishop â€“  No, Ms. Bishop, it was the priest, the Bishop Was at my Confirmation â€“ are you a Practicing Catholic? â€“ of course not, sorry, A murderess wouldn’t profess to have Faith in God, would have faith in herself, Would see herself as a god â€“ or goddess â€“  The priest’s fingers stained by cigarette smoke Curled around the cup of the gold chalice, A stack of wafers, like coins or poker chips Held gently between his thumb and forefinger With each communicant he’d slip one into His right hand and drolly â€œBody of Christ” us; We’d reply â€œA-men” with that American Long â€œa” like you say in â€œapron” not â€œapple” â€“  Did you ever bake a green apple pie? â€“  Hot in here.  Sorry, Ms. Bishop, but I have To ask you a few questions about what Happened today.  It strikes me as rather Odd that you’re the only neuroscientist That I’ve ever met and yet you don’t seem To be that different from anyone else. Anyway, the Bishop was there for our Confirmation, arrived in a big black Cadillac like a celebrity, hell â€“ Did you say anything before you pulled the trigger? â€“  Sorry.  I was saying he arrived and we  Knew something big was about to happen. Did you feel that sense of control today, too? The light in the room, the sound of the wind? How did you decide who gets it first? Does death taste any different after The sulfur odor of gunpowder is Suddenly in your face, the panicked look Of people who trusted you, dear madam, What does that sensation remind you of most? Is it orgasmic, Ms. Bishop?  Do you  Love the way you felt as the nine millimeter Slugs ripped open folks you’d mailed Christmas cards? I don’t remember my Confirmation. I remember taking another name, Wondering where or how I’d use that Extra initial; thought about the three Initial â€˜first name’ with only my surname Coming along at the end like a caboose. You see, Ms. Bishop, my mother insisted That I sit and kneel all prim and proper, Never allowing the buttocks to touch The pew while on the kneeler, praying, Of course, that mother might die and leave Us to decide whether we’d go, Us an inheritance so we could buy  Any style and brand of bicycle We might like â€“ certainly not a Schwinn. Did you learn to ride at an early age? (There is a knock on the door at this point.) She made us ride Schwinns, of course, Ms. Bishop. I take it you had parent troubles, as well. We’ll get into all of that in due time. Such silly thoughts we have as children, eh? Here’s Inspector Anderson, Ms. Bishop. I will take my leave of you now â€“ a pleasure. Mark the way he carries himself, Ms. Bishop. Remind you of anyone?  Well, of course he does. He’s a cop, too.  Yes.  We’re all brothers, no? Good day, Ms. Bishop.  Carry on then, Anderson. It’s the waiting that kills you, wouldn’t you agree? God, look at the time, Sheila’s gonna kill me.

Copyright © February 2010 Thomas Edward Wright

This Poem was Critiqued By: James C. Horak On Date: 2010-03-06 00:55:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
I saw a movie once, a man unceremoniously screwed a woman on a rooftop in an iron bed almost imported, it looked to be there. It was all done to the imposed imagery of some idea of devotion to the Holy Mother. And left at that. Ceremony is the ideal. Death the practice. JCH

This Poem was Critiqued By: Duane J Jackson On Date: 2010-03-05 23:25:46
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Tom, When I began reading this, it fell very much like prose but the true artistry behind this becomes apparent once the subtle rhyme and inner meaning begins to flower. I liked this...very original. Duane.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Terry A On Date: 2010-02-25 14:28:25
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
She said: "It didn't happen. There's no way...they are still alive." Guns and Dragons
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2010-02-22 11:32:33
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
TEW, Having a bird's eye perch from which to judge this, I affirm it as a brilliant satire, incredibly rich in all the resources of the satirist, leaping off with puns galore from the title to the dedication. The satirist has created a poem, a brilliant satire, which deserves its due. The satirist's own eye perch, constricted like a hole in a cave, or a crack in a rock, is not of the artifact, and somewhat immune, anyway, from censure, being extremely dark to sight, and more darkened by the satirical mode of presentation, for anyone not in the same hole, or crack - such as I. But the satirical wit of the bird in the other perch is, as I say, deliciously noted. This poem would have been even more delicious under a pseudonym, such as Minnesota Snow Blower, or something. Not being as wittily satirical, my wits fail me . . . "and not for the first time, Inspector Anderson," I hear faintly retreating into the blizzardous night of Minnetonka. MSS
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2010-02-22 10:24:57
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Yes. this is the "banality of evil. Every day details and shared histories coupled with an inexplicable jolt from of a shadowy madness. Carry on then Thomas. Amen (short a). Great piece.
This Poem was Critiqued By: DeniMari Z. On Date: 2010-02-22 00:32:43
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Captive poem, great interjections placed, to enhance this very sad piece. Naturally the title is fitting with the event; and the focus of time, is an added point that stands out in this write. Unfortunately, no one knows what runs through the minds of others - and others do "snap", for whatever reason it's never fair to those they leave dead in their paths. Impressive, stark and intensely written piece. blessings, Deni
Poetry Contests Online at The Poetic Link

Click HERE to return to Database Page!