Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TWELVE GOOD MEN AND TRUE, by NANCY BYRD TURNER


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TWELVE GOOD MEN AND TRUE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The rusty key has whined in the lock, the rickety door is fast
Last Line: They're tired, now, and they want their tea, the twelve good men and true!
Subject(s): Capital Punishment; Creation; God; Hanging; Executions; Death Penalty


The rusty key has whined in the lock, the rickety door is fast;
They are shut inside with their irksome job, left to themselves at last.
A dozen chairs, and a rough deal board, and a curtain hung askew --
And here they'll bide till they can decide, the twelve good men and true.

A prisoned bee in the hot sunlight hums on an upper pane,
His low monotonous mumble set to a garrulous grim refrain --
"Guilty or not?" "Guilty or not?" The heavy hours lurch by.
They nick the table with idle knives, and shift their quids and sigh.

AEons gone, when the new-turned world rolled to the brink of space,
Out of a storm of star-dust hurled to its appointed place --
The great Lord God that fashioned it spake in the Trinity.
(Surely a thunder shook the skies.) Let Us make man, said He.

Up in the dusty jury room the frantic bee falls dumb;
A yawning watcher seals its doom with the flick of a calloused thumb.
"Guilty or not?" "Guilty or not?" They fidget with their trust --
A freeman soon, or, in a moon, a dangling sack of dust?

Eleven in line; one lagging back, an old saw in his head,
Let Us make man, let Us make man . . . something the Lord God said.
Scrape of a chair, thump of a boot; he feels for his hat with a frown;
"Have it your way, I've said my say. Look ye, the sun is down!"

AEons gone, with His own strong hands and by His own strange plan,
Back in the red, dim dawn of time, brooding, He made Him man,
In His own splendid image wrought; then, when the frame was whole,
Breathed in his nostrils the breath of life, and lo, a
living soul!

The rusty key has groaned in the lock, a scuffling tread's on the stair;
The wise judge offers his hooded ear. His words drop slow and spare:
"Hanged by the neck till dead," speaks he. Make way and let them through --
They're tired, now, and they want their tea, the twelve good men and true!





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net