I am writing a thrilling murder-mystery novel, and it’s called More Punishment than Crime.  Its villain is a poet.  Each time that this villain commits a murder he writes a terrifying poem.  🙂  This is another of the poems from the book.

Picasso - Melancholy Woman
Pablo Picasso – Melancholy Woman, 1902.

A ball once bounced across the street.
I watched it from the window.
Its parabolas were nice and neat.
A child followed it and was struck by a car.

Once upon the merry-go-round,
Never again into the canary-dead mine.
As youth we slept amongst graveyard stones;
At Christmas we sang “Auld Lang Syne.”

There were dogs and cats,
Animals of all kinds.
We petted their heads;
We twisted their spines.

At school we put on such a façade
That it fooled all the others
Who never knew we were odd;
And at Christmas we sang bright carols.

Life is not more merry, nor a better ride,
If we show our true colors;
We must keep our real selves inside,
Because we are a monster.


The Early Reaper

I am writing a thrilling murder mystery novel, and its villain is a poet.  Each time that this antagonist commits a murder he writes a terrifying poem.  🙂  This is one of the poems from the book.

Philip Galle - 1574 - the Triumph of time Detail
Philip Galle – The Triumph of Time (detail), c. 1574


All men are fields of flowers
Which start from heavy seeds.
In spring, their early buds
Will breast the soil and grow.
In summer, their bright petals
Are upturned before the sun.
In fall the plants are wilting,
Their tender shoots are turned to husks,
And come winter they are withered
As the snow and winds sepulcher stalks.

And I am an early reaper
Who comes as a late frost.
In spring the flowers budding
Are the first of flowers lost.
And in summer I am fire
When the rains have left and gone
I spread amongst the meadows
And leave desert in my trail.
In fall I’m like the wild duck
Consuming every crop
In winter I’m resplendent
In robes of ice and lack and want.