The day Will Shepard shot my dog
His barn burned to the soil;
The flames licked at the Autumn sky,
The smoke as black as oil.
I dropped the torch onto the earth,
And felt the whole world turn,
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s barn,
I stood and watched it burn.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I set his horses free,
They galloped over grass and sand,
They galloped to the sea;
I dropped my whip onto the floor
And thoughts turned to my gun
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s herd,
I stood and watched them run.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I put him in the ground,
My bullets found his heart and brain,
He fell without a sound;
And as his lifeblood ebbed away
And light fled from his eyes,
I stood and watched Will Shepard leave,
I stood and watched him die.
And now I sit here in my cell
And through the bars I spy
The carpenter with wood and nails,
Who builds my gallows high;
My vengeance has been satisfied
As far as I can see,
For that old dog Will Shepard shot
Meant all the world to me.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2006
We’ve shared the trail, kicked up some dust,
An’ stood a storm or two.
We’ve rode the plains, the wide frontier,
The easy trails were few.
You’ve listened like some wise old sage
To ever thing I’ve said,
An’ as a friend, supported me,
No matter where it led.
I wished I coulda carried you,
The times you were in pain;
Or rustled up some kinda shed
To turn the blowin’ rain.
I’ve come up shy with some your needs,
You gave me more’n you got,
But in your silence, seemed to know,
I needed you a lot.
Compadre, friend, amigo, pard;
I called you all them things,
But there’s been times, I swear to God,
You musta had some wings,
An’ He sent you to care for me
Like no one had before.
If you’as a man an’ not a horse,
I couldn’t a-loved you more.
We gave this ranch our sweat an’ blood,
It’s yours as much as mine,
An’ raised our young’uns through the years,
An’ Lord they’re doin’ fine.
They’re blazin’ trails an’ raisin’ dust,
They’re off an’ runnin’ free.
We’ve taught ‘em well an’ made ‘em strong;
Compadre, you an’ me.
I always knew the day would come
When we would fine’ly ride,
To join the Maker’s round-up time,
Up on the Great Divide.
I sorta hoped we’d share the trail
But this was not to be,
So, you go on, we’ll ride again;
Compadre, you an’ me.
Copyright © Jim Fish | Year Posted 2005
You think you’re alone out on the range
Sittin’ silent under starry sky,
Just a marvelin’ at the universe
And wonderin’ ‘bout that ol’ question: why?
You shake your head at worlds of worry,
Knowin’ it ain’t often that you’ll find,
All the answers to your queries
Beneath the clear black sky and pine.
You wonder if we rose up from mud
And walked straight and tall upon this earth—
Or was it all created in a moment—
A conception that gave us true birth.
Are we all no more than those monkeys
Evolvin’ slowly down life’s long line?
Or is there more to earth and heaven
Touched by something truly sublime?
We keep on punchin’ clocks and cattle
And tryin’ to get through each new morn—
But is there more to life than dyin’
And will we somehow be reborn?
All the cattle know my hard proddin’
As I lead them along time’s sad way—
We live for but a flashin’ moment,
As we watch life go by in one short day.
So make the best of trails you ride, cowboy—
Each tomorrow is both yours and mine—
And gaze long at stars in that vast sky
Placed there by intelligent design.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005
I'm very small
I am called Standing Tall
My story to be read as i live through it all.
Our Dakota lands are forest and vast
Where our ancestors have hunted
From long in the past.
Our tribes are, a confederation of seven
With our language of Lakota, Sioux heaven
We stand proud as we remember our past
And look to our gods, to make it all last.
A silhouette on the prairie hill i see
This shape in the distance is new to me
As we sleep in the night, we hear guns and blows
We arise from our camp, to look for the noise
We creep on the prairie to their surprise
Under the moon, where the land would flow
No longer the Buffalo.
We mount our ponies to challenge these men
What gives them this right to kill and maim
Bodies of beasts, furs cut away
Missing heads, a ghastly slay.
On reaching their camp our bows stretched
Arrows screech, hit the wretched
Watch them fall to the prarie floor
Just like the Buffalo did hours before.
Years have passed as we are moved from our lands
These poisonous men, and their poisonous glands
Bringing illness fever and strife
Ending many a Lakota life.
We reach a point in History
Which made the white man sit up and see
Their Golden Child General George Custer
And the Little Big Horn, my what a disaster.
Arapaho, Cheyenne and us Lakota too
Sliced the Blue Jackets, their Scouts too
The US Cavalry would have their glee
At the Battle Of Wounded Knee
Where Siiting Bull would finally rest
Standing Tall's story last's the test
If we Indians had the same resources
Like the silhouette on the hill
These praries we always had. would be ours still.
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009
I’ll go a ridin’ no more through blue stem or chaparral,
Just lead my horse to pastures of green.
I’ll watch those rose ruby suns ease on past the ol’ corral—
Think back on the things I’ve done and seen.
Oh, you can’t go on a ridin’ for all your livelong days—
You’ve got to know when to settle down.
You’ll gently pet your ol’ horse as you put her out to graze
And soon life won’t seem so bad in town.
But when blue bonnets and the high plains send their callin’ card,
Your restless feet start to feel that itch.
Then it don’t matter if you’re stove-up or your butt is lard—
That feelin’ calls to the poor and rich.
Just once more I’ll go a ridin’ in the sorrel and sage—
Testin’ my ol’ horse for all it’s worth.
And I know that time cannot stop me, even at my age,
From ridin’ free of the reins of earth.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005
A simple man rode into harvest town
Tall, with sharp features, and a gun
No words were spoken when he walked by
Locale folk feared him and his kind
People here were evil
You could see it in their eyes
They despised the stranger
He had a badge, walked with a swagger
Chance and thirst brought him to the saloon
He placed a dollar down for a bottle of booze
No one moved
When he was done he turned and drew his gun
Two punks tried to shoot him in the back
They lacked the proper aptitude
And their attitude was warped
So they bled out quickly on the floor
The law man moseyed out the door and said
I’m Billy Law
And never looked back
Created on 10/17/14
By: Earl Schumacker
for “Sketch A Character” – Poetry Contest
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014
I do not know?
Some folks feel like Jesse James got a raw deal,
just because he had an affinity and liked to rob and kill.
His ended up a tragic story I reluctantly have to relate;
He trusted one of his gang and suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
Jesse was shot in the back by one of his friends Robert Ford,
giving credence to the saying about living and dying by the sword.
Mr. Ford duly received a fatal shotgun blast up in Colorado State
And likewise he also suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
Billy The Kid was a killer who lived a life of crime,
he was shot by Pat Garrett who was his friend at one time
Then Pat himself was gunned down at a later date.
So eventually he too suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
Outlaws who lived by the gun, reaped just what they sowed.
It was their choice to live and die by the gunfighter’s code.
Most of them had no desire to make any effort to go straight
So sooner or later they all suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
Even to survive was a curse, because as the killers grew older.
They spent a lot of time nervously looking back over their shoulder.
Some would even move away to escape the life they learned to hate,
But they were usually recognized and suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
So when a person chose to ride down the lawless outlaw trail
They usually ended hanging from a rope or spending their life in jail.
A lot of them made bad choices and ended up being buzzard bait,
because it was in their destiny to suffer a gunfighter’s fate.
Copyright © harold miller | Year Posted 2007
When the campfire’s out and you try to sleep,
But things don’t seem just right—
You toss and turn on that ol’ hard bedroll
And see faces in the night.
It just may be dreams or a sense of guilt
That now keeps you wide awake—
It may be bad stew or a wrong you did--
A friend you had to forsake.
You shut your eyes tight and let darkness come—
Pray those faces don’t appear—
But they always come and silently speak
To your conscience and your fear.
You see father’s face like it was those days
And wish you’d both had more time—
To ease all the things that then stood between
Before he died in his prime.
And then there’s the face of your bother Tom,
Who worshipped you like a God—
Till he had fever and you laughed if off—
Then buried him in the sod.
But night always brings another dim face
Of the girl that you loved first—
Before she went and married someone else,
And how your heart about burst..
So when the dawn comes to strike you awake,
And with tired relief you rise—
You still see those faces in sun’s red glare
And know part of you yet dies.
Too soon again bright campfires now burn low,
As the sunset still brings fright—
For you know that sleep is not a good friend
And brings faces in the night.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006
To see her blog, adorned with pastel tones
Widens the gap that pervades my bones
For now we eat her passing meal of plain white rice
Leaving us all alone, without much needed fashion advice
The red light district has lost an inductee
For I would have love to be involved in her naked party
Yet for now we must all be content
With the debauched path she hath went.
Sadness invades a binary world
Where tweeters and bloggers hearts have curled
Bringing back memories of Madonna’s ‘Like A Virgin’
Her fashion advice precise like a mastoplexic surgeon
I remember the fervour when you were followed by Kath Kidston
A similar experience when I had my first Jar of Branston
Yet when you found out the intensity with which I was following you
You wanted to change species and become a Gnu
You learnt to accept my frequent outpourings of love
When you finally spoke to me, I felt as free as a pure white dove
But upon your departure I feel pathetic and hollowed
The best I can hope for is the number of one of the hot bloggers you followed
She was always my muse, my intimate inspiration
No-one can cause such an outpouring of personal perspiration
My heart now yearns to see her type a special tweet
One that would make Mr Sexton act like a dog on heat
Now the world mourns the passing of Lily Fulvio-Mason
I can still see her face reflected in my wash basin
With every heart beat, every full blooded pulse
My sadness streaked blood makes my body convulse
But now it’s time to go, my heart says goodbye
The pain eats my nipples like the Syrphid Fly
I can finally see your body laid in an eternal rest
And now I can now finally uncover your breast.
Copyright © Tom Hyam | Year Posted 2013
I feel for the miserable day,
They try to take MY gun away…
Copyright © Tirzah Conway | Year Posted 2013
Sun Furnace desiccating.
Man and Beast moving,
In crazed circles of Corral Mirages
Moisture-less Sky and Land.
Buzzards, certain of,
Meat Jerky repasts.
Timing air currents,
Until the Western Buffet
Is finally stocked.
Copyright © Kieran Pavlick | Year Posted 2012
Watch those buckaroos lose their insides when saddled to a wild one untied it’s fer a sight when they ride . Yiddy –up was the wail when a bull of a devil left his trail some kinda fight on the road to hell.
No wonder I headed for Whiskey Row with some forty drinks down below sure is thunder in your hole will rock your soul as you face the mighty cold.
Strums my guitar and softly singing as the cowboys are around the camp fire ringing as the fire is blazinin another day is hazing. Got the notion for prayin as another cowboy was payin and he was sayin
Lord ya know the deeds I’ve done and in the shadows I have hung I just wanted to be thankful for meeting me on this fateful day and in thy range I will forever stay.
Copyright © Vanita Allgood | Year Posted 2012
Who am I?
Am I defined by what is near in sight?
Am I defined by what I have done,
Or am I defined by what I could become?
Perhaps I'm of no use.
To him, or her, or I, nor you.
Or perhaps I'm too misunderstood to be defined,
And it is something like understanding that comes in time.
And if to the world I'm never shown,
Yet in my own light I've grown and grown,
And so I can know no happiness but my own--
The reason for my smile, to you, will forever be unknown.
I do not pray for the world to know my name.
For it and verse; the letters are the same.
And if a man should find his sorrow in what he reads,
I pray his pain my words to keep.
Should his eyes rain on my page,
Better tears than storms of rage.
And if a man should find his sorrow in what he reads.
I pray his pain my words to keep.
And if to the world you're never shown,
Yet in your own light you've grown and grown,
And so you know no happiness but your own.
Let the reason for your smile, to you, only be known.
Copyright © Kristopher Higgs | Year Posted 2013
Gift from God they called him, tall, lean and proud, the big iron
hanging on his belt, had opened many a shroud. He rode an Apaloosa,
a stallion maned and tailed, and had followed a gang of four outlaws for a month,
from Abilene, all the way down to Laredo. One evening as the sun hit sand and
rabbits stowed away, Jed Seddon, scouting for the gang, saw Mateo on his bay.
He shot him once and hit his hand but Mateo jumped down quickly from
his mount and circled around Jed below.
to his back he pumped
three to go
For Haibun contest 30/7/15
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
they walked along
weathered, carrying their guns;
like the four horsemen…
down to the O.K.
guns blazing, bullets flying;
smoke clears, the strong stand…
Copyright © Tirzah Conway | Year Posted 2011
The summer sun was high. The heat was oppressive.
A whalebone corset dug into my body's tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touches the pane
of dearly brought glass it vibrates with the hoof-beat of riders.
The weak, blue-sky pales, clouding over with the dust.
Children playing hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.
Inside Fort Laramie’s provisioner, Mrs. Dreary's dropped-plate clatters.
Outside, a thunder of hoofs race pell-mell through heat, oppressive.
“Indians!” Children run through the street's miasma of dust.
Folks in wagons and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
The shopkeeper’s wife babe in arms runs up the stairs, baby screams in pain.
Arrow flights buzz by shattering the shop's window panes.
The Indians leap from horse back to tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary reaches for his Sharp shooter and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display, a mundane oppression.
Dreary slams shut the door, shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git away from that window! Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”
My eyes, now black and hollow as a barn owl's, tear, full of dust.
“Damn heathens,” Mr. Dreary cusses as bullets fly through broken panes.
He pulls me behind him and opens the useless glass door. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls back, landing beside me,his spurs clattering.
The baby screams again. I turn to see Mrs. Dreary's oppressive
grip on the child. “He’s dead.” She says grabs the Sharp and kills the next rider.
The soldiers finally arrive and chase the mongrel band of riders.
Mrs. Dreary, babe in one arm, Sharp in the other, kicks the marble in the dust.
She walks through the door, out of one carnage into another type of oppression,
the soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and a soul is parted.
Falling with blind numbness, forward, down, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departing in the day's dust.
My open mouth fills with bile and the rancid taste of pain.
“How improper,” was my last lucid thought, truly oppressive.
A clatter of hoofs rocks my parting.
The oppression, of man against man leaves, with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remain.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
It’s been ‘bout thirty years now, to this Christmas day
And I can still hear those wise words that Dad did say:
“Don’t ever sell your saddle, don’t quit balin’ hay—
When ya give your word, keep it—it’s a real man’s way.”
I wish that I could swear I’ve lived up to his words,
But like the truth sometimes, they’ve flown off with the birds.
It’s not to say I’ve tired, and mostly I’ve been true—
But if I could do things over, there’s some I’d undo.
Well, I’m still balin’ hay and my word I always keep,
I’ve got a good woman and I sing the kids to sleep.
We keep the ranch a goin’ and we’re doin’ just fine,
But I regret sellin’ Dad’s saddle back in ninety-nine.
Times were tough and we scraped every cent that year—
At a Christmas eve auction sold some cows, a steer—
Then it came down to Dad’s saddle and some ol’ tack—
‘Course that saddle brought the most cash and that’s a fact.
Couldn’t figure out who bought it—never seen ‘em before—
When he bought that saddle, he was quick out the door.
One year later, there came a knock on Christmas day—
There stood the stranger with Dad’s saddle and he did say:
“Fixed it up and brought it back—this is where it should be—
Your Dad, me and Zack, used to cowboy and they told me
A man shouldn’t sell his saddle, so here it is again—
Think of it as a gift from someone who was a friend.”
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005
I won't begin to list his jobs
because we’ve heard them all,
from confederate raider to stick
up man, he had a bad man’s gaul
His fame spread with noteriety
across the Yankee plain, but he was
just an outlaw man, he don’t deserve
But in them days, imagination ruled
the newsman’s pen, and outlaws were
the magic, that ruled the why and when
Some said he was a Robin Hood and
helped the wretched poor, there is no
record of this game, Cole Younger
new the score
While home one day in leafy fall
he moved a picture on the wall,
Bob Ford shot Jesse’s 45, trustful
friend did not survive
And for his efforts, Bob “the coward” got
a shotgun to the throat, cos folks were
getting downright tired, of the back-shooter’s
And though we like the stirrin turns we think
a bandits life, give thought to poor Zerelda,
Jesse's sad dear wife
Lost in shame and washing clothes to make
a cent or two, she died in rotten poverty
as Jesse’s legend grew.
But Jesse was an icon, his” adventure” we still crave,
and in today’s confection, still we think him brave.
And now they’re lying side by side, in St Joseph’s
cemetary, and if you mused where they’re took,
their waiting Hades ferry.
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
Oh, your saddle needs a soapin'
And your spurs are flecked with rust--
And there ain't much need for hopin'
'Cause your boots are touched with dust.
The days last a little longer--
There ain't nothin' much to do--
But memories grow stronger
'Cause your ridin' days are through.
You sing in that roan rockin' chair
And you ain't got no regret--
Days go by as you sit and stare
But some things you don't forget.
The West is still within your mind
And you smell the sea and sage--
You never knew the modern grind--
You're young at heart and never age.
Oh, your cowpoke hat's a hangin'
And your fringe of hair is gray--
There's no dinner bells a clangin'
At the end of lonesome day.
Yes, these days aren't meant for moapin'--
In the good Lord you will trust--
For no more you'll go a ropin'--
Now you're ridin' with the dust.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2015
The pain I put in the ground.
For such a precious thing.
The family enjoys their meal.
They plant their leftover kernels.
And wait for me to tend to them.
An endless cycle in which happiness is born.
21 February 2013
Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013
I'm Your Only Sacrifice
You have me live up to your expectation and provide even more,could this be your own private game?
You call me mean,but I can't be nice when there's nothing nice in front of me.
You call me cold,but I can't be warm when the world iced over.
You call me sad,but I can't be happy when all there's is sadness in your own eye's.
You call me jaded,but I ca't reconnect to emotion that died in me upon your very wish.
You tell me over and over to smile,but what the point if I long forgot to smile.
You tell me over and over to be happy,but isn't the point to be thankful to be alive and live the life given to you.
You tell me over and over release those emotion and let other in,but I've seen the broken spirit of letting other near without a thought of the trouble.
You tell me over and over to be less distance and away from the warmth,but all that matter's is that what taken care of is done.
You tell me over and over to not grieve,but who are you to say such words when your the one grieving the most.
Though these be my own childish whim's,I refuse to let my wounds have salt poured into them and you look over me while they burn and slowly disappear.
I want to let go but for all that it worth these weren't your dreams for me,to build that break wall not only to other's but toward you as well.
I will hold your hand even while you cry,I'll hold on until i can't.For you see I am your backbone your my light the reason for my jaded heart.
This is my own sacrifice,I chose this one for myself and not one given to me.
In ever little thing this is m only true fear.I will lose myself in the end.So call me what you want for it nothing more superficial scandal,That I have no need to control no more even if I be your only Sacrifice
Copyright © Marcedies Rhodes | Year Posted 2012
They say he had three Mothers
The Earth, the Wind, and Water
And His father was the Sun
And the Moon was his daughter
He wore a gun in his belt
With clothing made from hide
As He walked, He made no sound
And never broke his stride
Folks say he was part Cherokee
Others say, part Crow
There wasn't any clarity
There was no way to know
He wore a shiny locket
On the inside of his shirt
That he took out of the pocket
Of a dead Comanche’s' skirt
The feather in his hat
Made the white folk all take notice
And on his belt a sack
With an ancient Aztec Poultice
The myth, was he knew magic
Taught by spirits raised by Shamans
And because His birth was tragic
He was thought to be a Demon
As he passed through our town
The People, looked away
Afraid of being cursed
They where glad he didn't stay
The sun sank in the East
As the wind blew from the West
And he walked in a straight line
Like a man bent on a quest
He climbed up to the foothills
Where the Injuns made their graves
There he raised them from the dead
As he made them all his slaves
No one knew his purpose
For the dead upon that mound
Not at least, until that day
He came back to this town
Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014
Can you see his steel blue eyes?
measuring you up for size
Gun placed low around his hips
A cigar hangs from his lips
He moves slow and yet he's fast
Those who challenged didn't last
Coffins lined up at the door
Now the losers are no more
You are young a little brash
He seeks honor you seek cash
In the end one will remain
Men choose paths that lead to pain
Young and quick you take your chance
Sadly it's your final dance
He shoots you right between the eyes
You're dead before you realize
From his eye a tear does fall
He doesn't look quite as tall
He just turns and walks away
Another Cowboy's lost today
Shadow's Cowboy Contest
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013
-LAST DAYS OF OLD BEN-
“See that man up there on the mountain, son?”
“Yeah Pop, why’s he a’jes sittin there starin’ out at nuthin?"
Well, son it ain’t nothin’ he’s seein’…Just nuthin we can’t see, know what I ‘m sayin’?” confused the boy just agreed.
'"He’s a legend, that there Ol’ Ben. From times long past before e’en when I was borned,” Now he just sit’s on his old nag waitin’ for sumthin, just not sure, and can only guess what. They sez Ol’ Ben was a rascal way back when, boozing up moon shine, not carin’ a world fer nuthin’ or no one. Well, Old Ben got caught one day he did, they throwed his sloppy drunk hide in the tank fer a long time.'
'Bet he didn’t care none, he din’ have nuthin to do.
As time went on, Ben got ought’n jail ‘n’ went right back to his thievin’ ways. As we all expected, the law was jus’ bout ready to throw him in the canner and toss the key down inta a well furev'r, when Ol’ Ben he saw something that took the fight right outn’ him ‘n’ made his chest swell.'
'Comin’ round the Sheriff’s desk were the prettiest Southern Bell you ev’r did see, an’ Old Ben dropped his jaw- from that day on…. Ol’ Ben turnt into a man…. He fell in love with sweet Lindsay Lane, banker’s daughter- And they ran off to the range- and lived on what they can'. That little Southern Bell did’t care Ben was a wrangler, she loved him for’ver. But Oh her Daddy’ did care, he put up a fight’ ‘n’ gave reward money if’n someone’d kill Old Ben, you see, but Old Ben was too wiley. He knew… he always knew her Papa wuld git 'em somehow. That Pappy o’ her’s was a pain in the ass, and so they couldn’t never really get away. Rumors ran ‘round town lika a nuthin’, there was gonna be a showdown! Firse light 'n ba’ween Ben ‘n; her Daddy., Soon as that li’ Southern Bell heard, she begged her daddy to leave Ben alone, her daddy wasn’t havin’ it, and Ben knowed that’d be the only way they would be rid of her father.'
'So The mor’n came of the quick draw- I ‘membe, it were misty, foggy that day, culdn' see nuthin'. Both men drew guns walked 100 paces and shot! BAM! N dat was the day Old Ben really did change. Turned a rascal fount love inta a sad sad shell o’ a man..His Southern Bell tied him up in the night, so she would be the one to draw- hopin’ as soon as her daddy saw’ it were her, mebbe he’d let them go. But the anger and fog hid her daddy’s senses, he was a red burstin’, he took’n his pistol he shot. Shot her right in the head, blew the hat off (she wor’d Ben’s clothes) and there in all her glory- blond hair dusted with red.'"
" Welp, her daddy done took his own life, but Ben, Old Ben and that old nag just stayed up in them hills forever- and to this day they visit the place his beloved lost her life.”
Don’t know, can’t fathom eve’, a love that strong, one day you’ll look up there on that mountain and Old Ben will be gone.”
Copyright © Amy Green | Year Posted 2014
The horses gallop,
and the silver guns fired
one good cowboy dies.
Copyright © brittany martin | Year Posted 2008
or tired love?
and weak games
Look at you!
Your such a lame!
Me cry?! Ha! Not no more!
Five point five years
What a joke?!
All you do is lie
Keep smoking your life away!
Wake up before its too late!
Before this love turns into hate!
Your too old to act this way!
Your too comfortable
You cant stay!
In my life!
In my way!
Goodbye to you!!!
Copyright © MARGARITA VERA | Year Posted 2012
ONLY THE STRONG WILL SURVIVE
God gives not peace, it's only dreamt by man,
in all the world ,brought from catastrophe,
all things are made, since time was first began
by things upheaved so new life comes to be.
The weak must fail, be eaten by the strong,
and losers die the death along the way,
so new life grows, even if it is wrong,
there is no time the poor will have to play.
The lion who will lay down with the lamb,
will have a feast before the day is done,
and all the world will never give a damn,
nor care about the giants and their fun.
The hunter takes his aim and fells the dove
the weak in life are only dreaming of.
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2011
~A Wooden Cross~
South of Lafayette on interstate 65
I saw a wooden cross.
The roadside monument,
weathered and grey,
was a tribute to a loved one
who lost his life in a car crash.
At 70 mph I only saw it for an instant,
yet it was time enough to see
the cowboy hat that proudly perched
on the weathered wooden cross.
I didn’t know the cowboy nor his wife.
I didn’t attend the funeral.
But for just an instant I felt
both the sorrow and the love that poured
from the weathered wooden cross
with cowboy hat on interstate 65.
Copyright © James Rasmusson | Year Posted 2011
I'll cut you into little pieces,
push you down underground.
I'll let maggots feast on you,
just to see broken flesh.
I'm glad you understand my twisted self,
and you take part of my daily bread.
I'm going to hang you from
the highest star in the heavens,
burning your laughter from your lungs.
I'd be joyful, emotionless,
wreckage not even God Himself can undo.
Underground the maggots chew and chew,
hey girl there I see you.
Copyright © Maura McGregor | Year Posted 2012
Outward swing saloon doors,
Hanging heavy in the midday sun
Where but fools or legends walk
Burnt and scarred,
The gecko sings
Slow, rhythmical, a slow heavy march
Whining in the din of midday silence
The dust stirs
In the saturated air
Out of barred doors
The free hurl the damned
Face to the dust
His last respite
Breath is heavy
The mob gathers
And the drums call
Resonating the dead wood
To fever pitch
Sir you stand accused…
The accused stares to the heavens
The lawman’s drone continues
The drums stop as the clouds
The hammer falls
The drums take up the call
As the gecko’s dirge begins
The air breaks
Rippling across the mob
He breathes again in the rain
The fools and legends retire
Onto wet dust
Tramping to the sound of drumming
The rope falls.
Copyright © The Red Rain | Year Posted 2013