Her Beheading by Anne Graue

April is Poetry Month, so every Sunday this month we will be featuring a poem about crime from Gerald So's 5-2 blog. This week's poem is called Her Beheading and it was written by Anne Graue.

HER BEHEADING

sordid garments laced

with brazen-faced

dishonesty

her convicted eye

her heart

her little neck

she shed her self

the germ of her

on peaceful knees

her folded hands

on white ermine

the red skirt

her throated falcon

ladies waiting

a crucifix for her waist

her gaze

a disturbance then

the gleaming descent

Persona by Karen Petersen

April is Poetry Month, so every Sunday this month we will be featuring a poem about crime from Gerald So's 5-2 blog. This week's poem is called Persona and it was written by Karen Petersen. 

PERSONA

Dead male body in hotel room

age 23, overdose

with yesterday's tan.

Cheerful coroner,

little black bag,

"This one’s easy."

Hot sun melting

the weeping needle

Parking lot tar,

footprint by the door

the last evidence of life.

This kid was no one

but he had a past,

and dreams

The ticking clock...

all gone by the stillness of noon.

Here Karen Petersen reads her poem:

To Be A Woman in American Society by Josephine Napiore

April is Poetry Month, so every Sunday this month we will be featuring a poem about crime from Gerald So's 5-2 blog. This week's poem is called "To Be a Woman in American Society" and it was written by Josephine Napiore.

TO BE A WOMAN IN AMERICAN SOCIETY

She says words that fall from lips bitter

with experience. "Women," she says, "see violence

enacted on other women." "Women,"

she says, "are always aware of a constant threat."

My ears ring with memories of "sweetheart"

from a man on the bus. I just looked away.

If I had responded at all, would he have followed me

off at my stop? Of "smile" from the man

on the sidewalk who blocked my path until I did.

If I had got around him, would he have followed me,

yelling "smile"? I imagine him screaming, "Smile,

you bitch, and make ME happy!"

We are controlled—we can't go out at night

alone. We cannot go THERE at all—in that skirt.

When we are sent home from school to change clothes

because our yoga pants distract the boys from their

education, we are being told ours

doesn't matter.

We are fat-shamed, slut-shamed, frigid-shamed.

Accused of "Friend zoning," which blames us

for not wanting the one who wants us. For having

our own feelings, desires, preferences. We are bullied

—by other women—online, to our faces, behind our backs.

We are told that we asked for it when we dress sexy.

We are raped and/or murdered when we say, "No."

We have to fight for the rights to control our own bodies

—over and over. Even once we have them.

We are made to feel stupid, worthless, unfeminine,

"bossy" when we stand up for ourselves. We are "crazy"

when men don't want to deal with our anger, even

when they are the ones who treated us badly

and made us angry. We should just take it

and shut up.

I fear for my daughter in this world—her lips

are still sweet. They still smile on their own.

To be a woman is limiting—in movement,

in careers, in income, in even our own facial

expressions. To be a woman is frightening,

dangerous. There are too many words

to be used against us.

Here is the poem read by the author.

Confidence Man by Peter M. Gordon

April is Poetry Month, so every Sunday this month we will be featuring a poem about crime from Gerald So's 5-2 blog. This week's poem is called Confidence Man and is written by Peter M. Gordon.

CONFIDENCE MAN

I met Bill in a bar on the lower East Side.

He liked to drink and I liked to listen.

After one martini Bill shared his secret:

"Always tell the mark what he wants to hear."

Bill made good money on the grift, as he

liked to call it. Now in his sixties, hands

no longer steady enough to deal off the

bottom of the deck or switch two-dollar

bills with twenties, he reminisced about

how he roped marks like a rodeo champ.

Ponzi schemes, wire cons, badger games,

the Iraqi dinar, the Spanish Prisoner.

He played them all in his heyday. Lived

high. When drunk, Bill could still give a

cold reading to raise the hair on your

neck. I wondered why such an artist

sat on a stool night after night swapping

stories, caging free drinks. After I paid the

tab Bill snapped, "Give me a fin."

I passed him a fiver. "Come back

tomorrow," Bill said. "I’ll bilk you again."

Here is the author reading his poem:

Vineland by Robert Weibezahl

April is Poetry Month, so every Sunday this month we will be featuring a poem about crime from Gerald So's 5-2 blog. This week's poem is called Vineland was written by Robert Weibezahl.

VINELAND

In a box of old photos

a woman I never knew

murdered

my grandmother claimed

by a husband who would marry his mistress

He is in the photo, too

and neither looks the part

lothario or jilted wife

in fading black and white

she, solid and stolid and dowdy of dress

he, white-haired, mustached

On the back of the photo

scrawled in Grandma's broad hand

Vineland

the Pine Barrens, Grandma said

which sounded at once exotic and arid and green

Burned down the house with her inside

Was she already dead?

I failed to ask, and now will never know

every witness long gone

all from that time long dead

or past caring

Thus family history fades

as vulnerable as

photographs

neglected in an old shirt box

from some department store long gone, too

How was this woman, this shadow

related to us

or was it the man who shared our blood?

More consolation in being related to the victim

than her cold-blooded killer

but cold comfort all the same

Here's the author reading it aloud:

Crime Poetry - Fair Housing

Every Saturday this month we are running a poem about crime from Gerald So's excellent blog, The Five-Two. Today were featuring a poem called "Fair Housing" by Charles Rammelkamp. You can find one of last year's selections here.

FAIR HOUSING

by Charles Rammelkamp

Lynette and the kids lived

in a public housing unit,

electrical sockets hanging from exposed wires

as in some demented sci-fi film,

windows loose in their frames,

leaking cold air like sieves,

a broken stove that sparked and smoked.

But when Lynette called for repairs,

the workmen who came grabbed her breasts,

demanded she suck their dicks

if she wanted the repairs.

Cocky young guys in cheap uniforms.

She complained to the housing authority staff,

but they only promised

to "look into the matter."

Went on like that for three years. 

Finally Lynette and some other women

who’d suffered the same harassment

filed a class-action lawsuit under the Fair Housing Act,

HUD and the city housing authority forced

to shell out eight million,

fifty maintenance workers losing their jobs.

"Justice, right?" Lynette told the reporter,

without a trace of triumph.

Here is the poem being read aloud:

Here is Charles' bio:

CHARLES RAMMELKAMP edits The Potomac, an online literary journal, and is the Prose Editor for BrickHouse Books in Baltimore, Maryland, where he lives. His latest book is a poetry collection called Mata Hari: Eye of the Day, published by Apprentice House (Loyola University).

Crime Poetry - Is It So Hard?

April is poetry month, so at Mystery Playground we're making it crime poetry month every single Saturday with delicious delights from Gerald So's blog The Five-Two. Today we have a haunting piece from Craig Faustus Buck. 

Is It So Hard

By Craig Faustus Buck

Is it so hard to pass up the wedding ring

she left by the soap dish in the bathroom?

Is it so hard to pass up the opportunity?

Is it so hard to avoid lifting it? Slipping it in my pocket?

Is it so hard to act like a loving newlywed instead of

working the angle against my wife of two days?

Is it so hard to say Dear,

you left your ring on the sink instead of

making her feel like shit for losing it

so I can pawn it?

Is it so hard to make love to her instead of

smacking her around

to teach her not to lose what I give her?

Why does she have to make it so hard?

Here is the author reading his poem:

Author/screenwriter CRAIG FAUSTUS BUCK's debut noir novel, Go Down Hard, was published by Brash Books in 2015. His short stories have won a Macavity Award and been nominated for two Anthonys and the Derringer. He is president of Mystery Writers of America SoCal chapter. You can find out more at CraigFaustusBuck.com

Crime Poetry - Miscalculated

April is poetry month, so we are celebrating by featuring a crime-themed poem each Saturday this month from Gerald So's excellent blog, The Five-Two. 

MISCALCULATED

by Michael A. Arnzen

Math is an accessory

to my murder—

I know, because I committed

the perfectly calculated crime:

I timed the death stroke

by positioning the

rope and rifle, rigged

precisely with pulleys so that

when he swung open the door

its arc drew an imaginary

semicircle—

pi*r-squaring the tension

to perfectly pull the trigger

and send a bullet

to complete the equation

in his brain at exactly the moment

he realizes my revenge was in his face.

But I hadn't figured

the cops were already

surrounding the area,

manning the entire circumference

as they encircled me

with fourteen, maybe thirty

more, uniforms. But no matter

how I ran the numbers,

I still couldn't solve

the primary problem:

whichever way I ran,

they had me in their scopes,

the shot range always already

triangulated.

Here is the author reading his poem:

Here is Michael's bio:

MICHAEL A. ARNZEN has won four Bram Stoker Awards for his often funny, always disturbing horror fiction and poetry. He teaches full-time in the MFA in Writing Popular Fiction program at Seton Hill University, and lives near Pittsburgh with his wife and cats. His award-winning "best of" collection, Proverbs for Monsters, is soon to be re-released by Dark Regions Press in ebook format, and a non-fiction study, The Popular Uncanny, is coming soon from Guide Dog Books, too. To keep up with his madness and receive new weird poetry in your inbox, sign up for The Goreletter at his website, http://gorelets.com.

Crime Poetry - Testimony

April is Poetry month so at Mystery Playground we are helping celebrate by running poems about crime from The Five-Two, that fabulous weekly poetry blog run by Gerald So. Gerald runs a 30 Days of the Five Two blog tour every April, and you can follow all of the action on Twitter at #30ofthe52. Today were celebrating with Lida Bushloper's excellent poem, "Testimony".

TESTIMONY

by Lida Bushloper

When I called the cops,
I said he had a gun.
It wasn't true.
I thought it would make them hurry,
and it did.
When they asked for ID and he
reached into his back pocket
(where he kept his wallet, after all)
they thought he was going for a gun.
They killed him in that ol' "hail of bullets" you hear about.

I know I said he had a gun,
but it's not my fault
they believed me.

Here is poet Sarah Stockton reading "Testimony".

Here is Lida's bio:

LIDA BUSHLOPER writes short mysteries and poetry. Her work has appeared in The Lyric, The Formalist, Kings River Life, Mysterical-E, and Flash Bang Mysteries. Visit her website at http://lidabushloper.wordpress.com.

Crime Poetry - Grandiflora

April is poetry month and to celebrate we are featuring one of our favorite poems from the fabulous crime poetry blog, The Five-Two, run by Gerald So. Today's poem is "Grandiflora" by Rosemarie Keenan.

GRANDIFLORA

by Rosemarie Keenan

He wasn't all mine
no matter what he said.

I saw him tending to them,
pretty things
just blooming.

Spending my money
to water
them with wine.

I’ve learned pruning is essential
for maintaining roses' health,
with shears or sometimes saws.
While wearing gloves, of course.

He wasn't all mine
no matter what he said.
He spread himself around
like ashes on this flower bed.

Here's the poem being read aloud:

Here's Rosemary's bio:

ROSEMARIE KEENAN, with her husband Vince Keenan, writes as Renee Patrick. Their debut novel, the classic Hollywood mystery, Design for Dying was published by Forge books in April 2016. Rosemarie's poetry has been featured at The Five-Two and in Silver Birch Press's anthology Noir Erasure Poetry.

Come back next week for more fabulous crime poetry from The Five-Two. In the meantime, check out the anthologies and swag over on the site.

Crime Poetry: "Facts" by Robert Cooperman

                                                                   

April is Poetry Month, and to celebrate, every Saturday this month, we will be featuring a poem focused on crime or love of crime fiction from the fabulous crime poetry blog, THE FIVE-TWO, run by Gerald So. 

Today's poem is called, "Facts," and it was written by Robert Cooperman.

FACTS

Facts are such painful, inconvenient things

when weighed against what we want to believe;

as if wishing were enough to give us wings

to deny science's theorizing,

when the Bible pronounces, "Adam and Eve."

Facts are such painful, inconvenient things.

Evolution trudges through Time's yawning,

dull compared to the Conjurer's crammed sleeve

of Six Magician Days, that gave us wings

to know the divine wand made everything:

or so creationists would smile and deceive.

Yes, facts are nasty, inconvenient things.

Take climate change, when folks are shivering

on the East Coast in a snowbound deep-freeze:

forget worldwide temperatures have taken wing.

All of science's laws arrive with strings;

it's all shifting, revised hypotheses

to fit the evidence, not the phony thing

of forgetting the facts, for wishful wings.

ROBERT COOPERMAN's fifteenth collection is Just Drive (Brick Road Poetry Press). His manuscript, Draft Board Blues, is seeking a home. Cooperman is a past winner of the Colorado Book Award for Poetry.

You can follow The Five-Two on Twitter @PoemsonCrime The site also sells their anthologies of crime poetry. 

Crime Poetry: "Elegy For A Small Town" by Johnny Longfellow

                                                                     

April is Poetry Month, and to celebrate, every Saturday this month, we will be featuring a poem focused on crime or love of crime fiction from the fabulous crime poetry blog, THE FIVE-TWO, run by Gerald So. 

Today's poem is called, "Elegy For A Small Town," and it was written by Johnny Longfellow.

ELEGY FOR A SMALL TOWN

When geese fly south across the sky

Aroun’ this time each year,

Ain’t nothin’ much to see some guy

Go out ‘n’ dress a deer.

Fact is, it ain’t the slightest bit

Unusual ‘roun here

To see some game hung up ‘n’ split

Wide open, ‘til it’s bled.

O’ course, it’s somethin’ to admit

How when they called on Ed,

That’s jus’ the scene them po-lice foun’

Outside there, in ‘is shed.

I guess that’s why when rifles soun’

An’ skies grow thick with geese,

There ain’t a soul in this whole town

Who won’t recall Bernice.

JOHNNY LONGFELLOW has served for nearly two decades as a mentor to Newburyport, MA high school students through the Poetry Soupreading program and print journal. His poetry has been previously featured at The Five-Two, and can also be found at other online venues such as The Barefoot Muse, Ppigpenn, and The Rotary Dial.

Johnny matched his poem, "True Romance" with the perfect drink for our Drinks with Reads feature. 

You can follow The Five-Two on Twitter @PoemsonCrime The site also sells their anthologies of crime poetry. 

Crime Poetry "We Didn't Know" by Bill Baber

                                                                   


April is Poetry Month, and to celebrate, every Saturday this month, we will be featuring a poem focused on crime or love of crime fiction from the fabulous crime poetry blog, THE FIVE-TWO, run by Gerald So. 

Today's poem is called We Didn't Know and it was written by Bill Baber.

WE DIDN'T KNOW

Danny was so sure

of his carefully drawn plan.

And even though I had doubts

since he had been away once before

I let him talk me into it.

He promised, "Nothing can go wrong

there's just one kid working

from six until they close."

He didn't know while that kid

was filling a bag with cash

the owner would come

from the backroom

pointing a double-barreled shotgun at us

or that I would shoot him dead.

We didn't know that a sheriff's deputy

would drive by at the exact moment

we ran into the night with

masks still covering our faces,

guns clutched in our hands.

I didn't know Danny would roll on me,

and I sure as hell didn't know

I'd land on death row for it.

Don't forget to check out another poem by Bill Baber and find out which drink he matched it with on Drinks with Reads. 

BILL BABER has had over two dozen crime stories published and his stories have recently appeared in Rogue from Near to the Knuckle, Hardboiled Crime Scene from Dead Guns Press and Locked & Loaded from One Eye Press. He has also had a number of poems published online – one of which is being considered for a Best of the Net Award- and in the occasional literary journal. A book of his poetry, Where the Wind Comes to Play was published by Berberis Press in 2011. He lives in Tucson with his wife and a spoiled dog and has been known to cross the border for a cold beer. He is working on his first novel.

You can follow The Five-Two on Twitter @PoemsonCrime The site also sells their anthologies of crime poetry.