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Terry Flood Poem
This is the story of mad Molly Shaw
She might be mad now but she wasn’t before
she came home to find her man dead on the floor
She lay down her bible and let out a roar
She walked into town with her hair in a mess
Fresh mud on her face and her pretty white dress
She knew that such murderers never confessed
Rely on the law... that would be best
And in the law house where the sheriff was found
She said I just put a good man in the ground
So go take a noose and grab Samurai Stan
For he is the one who done murdered my man
He stopped me last week and he wanted some fun
I told him I’m married but he drew his gun
He said that his name was Samurai Stan
And his samurai sword would take care of my man
The sheriff said Stan and I share the same mother
Ain’t wise to come in here bad mouthing my brother
You show us how tightly that pretty mouth shuts
Or find out how easy a preacher girl cuts
Tin star on the desk where the sheriff was sat
She grabbed it and bellowed ain’t standing for that
No varmint should wear a tin star, it’s obscene
She flipped it and watched it splash in the latrine
The sheriff jumped up as she made for the door
I ain’t taking that from no Holy Joe Hoor
Mad Molly turned and she stood in the doorway
Our business is done here... at least for today
*
Her kin had been preachers since preachin’s been done
So mad Molly Shaw hadn’t handled a gun
She made an acquaintance with two Smith n Wessons
found a gunslinger and paid him for lessons
Molly learned quickly and so by and by
The gunslinger told her you got a good eye
Your hand is far faster than I’ve seen before
And these things will help if you break with the law
She thanked him for all of the progress she‘d made
And said I must now learn the Japanese blade
I need to know what makes a katana sing
And the gunslinger said, life’s a funny old thing
Some fella came by just a few years ago
But learning the craft he did not want to know
Just quick ways to put a man into a hole
And not how the blade becomes one with your soul
This Samurai Stan, I can swear to your Lord
He’s no Samurai, just a creep with a sword
No matter how often with sword he attacks
He’ll have no more grace than a man with an axe
I decreed that day that I’d never-more train
Any man deaf as I try to explain
The katana can slash a man’s chest open wide
But it’s mastery dwells in its spiritual side
So, day upon day and many a night
Molly and tutor would practice the fight
In which she was told to go for the kill
While he stopped each thrust with an effortless skill
And when she was ready he told her this
The katana can kill with a featherlight kiss
And it can spill guts with a heftier slash
But you are its mind be you subtle or brash
*
So now twenty weeks since her husband was slain
Molly Shaw walked into town once again
Criss-crossed on her back two katanas dwelt
And two Smith and Wessons in her holster belt
With dust kicking up at her every step
She never looked right and she never looked left
Her shirt front was tied clear of guns at her hips
And the sheriff’s cheroot simply fell from his lips
At the saloon the swing doors sprang wide
And two drunken cow hands were bundled outside
The landlord said, ‘Get lost’, then turned on his toes
He went back inside...but the doors didn’t close
Inside on the bar leaned Samurai Stan
Who only turned ’round when everyone ran
The sun rendered Molly in sharp silhouette
And Stan said what your man got, you’re gonna get
But lady I’m seeing you sporting a bump
Don’t think that that gift from your God fearing chump
Will stay me from cutting you down don’t you fret
Ain’t killed me no mother in child... as of yet!
Molly scowled, you appear to have only one sword
I’ll match you for that if I don’t get too bored
She drew a katana and took up the stance
Of a samurai swordsman ready to ‘dance’
Samurai Stan with his ungainly grace
Came swinging his sword all over the place
Maybe the Gods could have seen Molly move
But there in Stan’s forehead a deep bloody groove
The sheriff barged in with his Winchester ready
Its aim was at Molly its aim was rock steady
A pre-strike katana held Stan on one knee
So her right hand was busy... her left hand was free
With not a word spoken and just the one shot
A revolver smokin, a little red dot
Just under the hat of the sheriff who stopped
Slumped to the floor and died where he dropped
Samurai Stan was still down on his knee
But fear for his life gave him new clarity
He swung his katana in unrestrained haste
And slashed a deep gash across Mad Molly’s waist
Molly stepped back from the force of the strike
She’d thought she could match him at least swipe for swipe
Stan said you just had to share me your charms
But two lightning swipes and he lost both his arms
He staggered then tripped on his dismembered limbs
And he slumped in a heap to consider his sins
The scowl on his face displayed no repentance
Twas always his fate to be vanquished by vengeance
An ironic grin split Stan’s ashen face
Seems that my death in this time and this place
at the hand of a girl is my wages of sin
His eyes slowly closed as blood ran down his chin
She turned to her tutor, Hey gunslinger man
I ask of you why did you lend me no hand
The gunslinger told her I did have your back
To step in if your resolution should crack
He stepped out from the shadows, neither gun nor sword in hand
Revenge? A steer that’s only yours if it wears your brand
One man can serve up justice at another man’s behest
Revenge you must take for yourself, and cold by far is best
And then from the floor of that bloodied saloon
A mumble from Stan who must surely die soon
Molly said Lord I guess you know best
But heaven’s no place for this unwelcome guest
Stan murmured I heard you laid your bible down
She towered above him her face wore a frown
She loosened the knot at the hem of her shirt
And lifted the hem, here’s why I’m not hurt
Stan struggled to raise his head so he could look
Strapped to her belly, a half severed book
My Lord would not watch while I died at your hands
I lay down my bible but took up my man’s
Blood flowed from his stumps but the pressure was low
And with his last breaths he wanted to know
Just tell me please where you learned Samurai
My teacher I killed and I watched him die
His grave is right there by the old sycamore
And then his head slumped and he muttered no more
She said to the gunslinger what going on?
But got no reply, the gunslinger was gone
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2021
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Terry Flood Poem
All heads are bowed in Soup Creek today
The town’s elder statesman has passed on his way
A gentleman true whose tongue wasn’t forked
To whom people listened whenever he talked
But when others spoke he would cheer or applaud
Whatever their nation, whomever their Lord
His words rarely barbed and only when apt
And usually only when friends were attacked
The name of this man, held so high in the rankings
None other than L (call me Milt) Milton Hankins
A man of belief with a deep ingrained faith
Who found time aplenty for each stray and waif
It’s quiet today in the town of Soup Creek
There’s a humungous chasm… so to speak
It’s like something’s missing for one and for all
It’s like someone’s stolen the church and town hall
Soup Creek, a town with its spirit ripped out
But Milton left town as a man in no doubt
That Soup Creek would thrive on his foundations laid
His legacy being the friends that he’d made
A sage and a mentor whose work here is done
A scribe with adventures, brand new, just begun
I dreamed in the night that a light lit his land
And his good lady wife said, “Milt, take my hand.”
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2022
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Terry Flood Poem
Coming from Texas, I knew he’d be loud
And soon I discovered that two is a crowd
Is that the privy? he asked of my house
When he saw my dog he said you’ve got a mouse!
We heard on the news that a bush kangaroo
It might have been two, had escaped from the zoo
He said that in Texas there’s no cangerroose
Don't know what they are but they wouldn't get loose
He bragged that in Texas the average rat
Is three times the size of what we call a cat
He spotted some sheep and a grin touched his lips
Why have you got a field full of Q-tips
And then as we stood there a crow passed us by
The Texan said hey bud, should I swat that fly
He whipped up my carpet and then told me that
He’s going to splat it with this little mat
My pet snake I showed him, I thought he might squirm
He said back in Texas, we call that a worm
He stared at my garage and called it a hive
I was still miffed when we went for a drive
We drove by some cows that were stocky and fat
But Tex said his pigs are far bigger than that
Well, I bit my tongue as I drove, heading south
The only thing big around here was his mouth
Those two missing Roos hopped right into the road
The Texan appeared to think I should have slowed
I sped up and ran them both down with my truck
He cried stone the crows, are you nuts, what the f*ck
He shouted pull over, you must call the coppers
I said that I would for a dog or a cat
But not for a couple of bloody grasshoppers!
He never said much after that
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2021
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Terry Flood Poem
The bats in the steeple were feeding on people
By sucking the blood splattered wood
That came from the coffin a vampire dropped off in
When he’d drunk all the blood that he could
Here in my basement, my permanent placement
I lurk since the day that I died
At rest in my casket, my skull in a basket
My hideous grin gaping wide
Rats and mice squeaking a rusty hinge creaking
A slither of light from outside
My long severed head was rotted and dead
But gasped as the door opened wide
I lifted my lid as some hooded kid
Crept sneakily into my crypt
He soon spun about and he might have run out
If only he hadn’t have slipped
As he hit the deck he shattered his neck
I thought he was bound to be dead
But then as he stood, he lowered his hood
And then he un-swivelled his head
He gave me a wink as a hideous stink
Came gushing with smoke from his ears
He then started hissing through teeth that were missing
He looked like he’d been dead for years
I climbed from my tomb and stood in the room
Where demons would hide out all day
Until in the night they’d screech their delight
And frighten the vicar away
But this little fellow with skin that was yellow
And nails that were long curly claws
Let out a howl, an unholy wail
Then went back and bolted the doors
Like rattles at Wembley, my bones were all trembly
My teeth were all chattering too
My wee wee was dribbling and let’s not be quibbling
I thought I was going to poo
It’s usually nice that we can’t die twice
So people down here dwell forever
I then realised that everyone dies
And now I’m not feeling too clever
For my turn came first, to enter the hearse
My beautiful love left alone
In these years apart she’s been in my heart
But hell’s darkest hole has no phone
So how could it be this thing before me
Could desecrate my sacred rest
I needed it banished, It had to be vanished
Along with the worms in its chest
I watched every worm wriggle and squirm
I jumped at the twelfth hour chime
In life we take knocks through the ticks and the tocks
But we can’t fight the passing of time
So...
In spite of the stink, I started to think
Which gave me the fright of my life
I had to make room in a new double tomb
For that hideous thing was my wife!
Entered October 2021 in Your Personal Favorite No 2
Sponsor L Milton Hankins
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2018
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Terry Flood Poem
[Just a little note to help maintain the peace on Soup.
To cause no animosity among our friendly group
I myself am partial to some tasty asian food
I hope you’ll see my tale as fun and not just think me rude
And also for the rest of it, I trust you won’t expect
That anything that follows is historically correct!]
***
Those cowboys used to ride their horses under desert sun
Each of them had practised hard to be the fastest gun
They’d eat their beans and chew tabaccy till the day was done
When, ’round the fire they would sit and fart and spit for fun
But horses they need tending so one man would stay awake
To give them food and water so those horses did not bake
And when a horse dumped on his boots he said for goodness sake
I say my prayers, ain’t shot no-one, so, Lord, give me a break
That night the lightning lit the desert, thunder rolled on high
The only other sound around, a lone coyote cry
One cowboy wearing mucky boots observed that odd green sky
And when the rest awoke a hundred years had passed them by
John the Wain woke up again and couldn’t hear his steed
Who always neighed and whinnied when he had his morning feed
But Red who'd watched the horses and who’s beard now reached his knees
Said while you kipped much time has slipped, your horses now are these
A dozen motor scooters stood with no horse there beside em
Decrepit Red so nearly dead had books on how to ride em
He said I’ve aged these hundred years but somehow you defied em
I found no helmets anywhere no law has yet required em
Wain looked at Red and then he said that means my girl is dead
The last time that I saw her she was snuggled in my bed
If I could I swear I would take measures to be better
If it meant that I could ride her...
... round on my Lambretta
He whistled up his cowboy clan, who gathered toting shooters
He told them all to learn to ride on these weird looking scooters
Pretty soon they’re whizzing round like half demented looters
Shooting bullets in the air and sounding off their hooters
But soon they saw that something more was playing on his mind
He said he cannot rest until they find who they must find
We came to catch the injun in a hundred years gone by
It makes me sigh to think that I didn’t watch him die
Well Red had one last breath to take before he lay on down
I heard that there be Indians in that there yonder town
Wain buried Red and then he led his men off on a sortie
Something that he should have done way back in eighteen forty
Twelve Lambrettas lined the street they entered through the door
Good evening Gents, the owner said what can I do you for
Wain said speak of Geronimo, I need to know the score
The owner said Geronimo don’t come round here no more
We’re not that kind of Indian but we have heard his story
We understand he didn’t go out in a blaze of glory
They locked him up for quite a while and then they let him go
And that’s the last thing anyone heard of Geronimo
So tell me is there something else that I can do for you
I’ll get the chef to serve you up a tasty vindaloo
With pilau rice, chapati and perhaps some sag aloo
And maybe I’ll throw in for you a poppadom or two
Wain, a little side-tracked huffed, I hope he got a fine
Shoot him, jail him, string him up: that decision was mine
’twas no-ones jurisdiction to let that man go but me
The chef came out and asked him, would you like mango chutney?
And so they ate, the spices had them huffing and a puffing
But for a hundred years they’d slept and they had eaten nothing
Although the food was very hot it did taste rather yummy
But they were used to bland and tasteless baked beans in their tummy
They couldn't know Geronimo had lived and wasn't gone
The ambush he had set up or the steed he sat upon
So Wain and all his gang they mounted up and scootered on
And each Apache started up his Harley Davidson
They rode toward the sunset and those scooters they were flying
But it was not the scooters that were noisily back-firing
They leapt off by some bushes and as one they started crying
I feel like I’ve been gut-shot and I think I may be dying
So Geronimo and all his braves just sat with engines running
Their plan was good although it looked like no cowboys were coming
And so there was no fighting on that day there in the pass
For John the Wain and all his gang were squatting on the grass
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2021
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Terry Flood Poem
Now Santa is getting eccentric
His sleigh is now fully electric
He made Rudolph retire
Pressed the red button - ‘Fire’
His world then went totally hectic
He searched for a roof with snow clearing
And found a good landing site nearing
First attempt was a mess
He had no GPS
And no reindeer doing the steering
There was no choice; he had to go back
But he felt he was getting the knack
He then, feeling bolder
Looked over his shoulder
And demolished the next chimney stack
Rudolph, eating sprouts and not grass
Had seen these events come to pass
He helped Santa out
But ate one more sprout
And then put a flame to his ass
“By God, that’s one hasty arrival,
Could you please ensure my survival?”
And Rudolph said, “Sire
I shall stoke my fire,
But promise our team a revival.”
So up in the sky, roof to roof
Relying on sleigh-ski and hoof
Santa got his job done
With a smidgen of fun
And sometimes a butt going ‘poof!’
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2023
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Terry Flood Poem
When ‘He’ decides to destroy one and all
I’ll spend my last day in this old snooker hall
My cue in one hand and a beer in the other
I’ll play my last game with my dad and my brother
*
’twas a speck in the sky that the eye couldn’t see
Though hubble sent images regularly
Communiqués transmitted so secretly
The news wasn’t fit for the ‘you’ or the ‘me’
Of course there were figures and charts and statistics
And scientists all stood around eating biscuits
A sceptical man said this quiche is so good
In sixty days no man would stand where he stood
The chances of anything impacting earth
Would make any advocate subject to mirth
Thus all of the sums were checked over and over
Then someone said, ‘Should we evacuate Dover?’
The truth was that Dover would soon be a crater
And everywhere else would go mere seconds later
So a man tucked away in a basement at NASA
Emailed a contact based outside Mombasa
Where no-one suspected the waste that passed through
Was a screen for a nuclear silo… or two
But rockets were readied with warheads in place
So Earth wouldn’t disappear without a trace
But Russia said, ‘Het!’ and china said, ‘Bù!
Because we mistrust what the west plans to do.
For once your nukes fly then some tiny detours
Could wreak holy havoc on all of our shores.
The data you quote is essentially flawed
And China and Russia shall not be ignored
So launch at your peril if you think you must
We shall counter strike: in this you can trust.’
The speck in the sky is now seen in the day
But no missiles, ever, were sent on their way
And churches now welcome the agnostic stray
Some seek new guidance and some even pray
The speck in the sky to the unaided eye
Looks strangely like it might simply pass by
It’s far larger now with a visible tail
Approaching unchallenged, as diplomats fail
Just one day remains until earth’s final tune
Plays out to the light of its final full moon
Our nemesis nearing earth’s lone satellite
Four hours ’til impact and then it’s, ‘Goodnight.’
*
Well that was last week and the detail you seek
Was divine intervention… so to speak
Some nations were lost and no longer about
When their tides came in and didn’t go out
And nine fractured rocks light a new blessed sky
From a near Earth encounter that saved you and I
Someone at NASA, a half baked buffoon
Perhaps should have factored the path of the moon
Which saved life on Earth, ’though not one and all
By hitting that rock like a stellar cue-ball
*
Our nine newborn moonlets, now orbiting Earth
Are circled by rocks that had shared the same birth
Many rained down, and the largest of all
Ironically flattened my old snooker hall
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2021
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Terry Flood Poem
Santa came home with a reindeer
And Mrs Claus said with a sneer
‘Did you have to bring
That horny old thing?’
Rudolph said, ‘Madam, he lives here.’
13 December 2021
For: I Need A Good Laugh: Xmas Limerick Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2021
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Terry Flood Poem
Sat in his chair, the tv still on
He’s not changed the channel for so very long
The message on screen says a shut down’s ensuing
But press any button to carry on viewing
The remote, untouched on the arm of the chair
The TV shuts down like there’s nobody there
Old Albert is sat with his chin on his chest
The room is still cold but at last he’s at rest
Time was when milk would build up by the door
But nobody delivers milk any more
Mail might protrude from the mailbox at night
But no bills are due and so no-one will write
And as time goes by no-one wonders why
Nothing’s been seen of that old army guy
Everyone knows that everyone dies
But no-one does nothing… until there are flies
It falls to a man in a blue paper suit
And a copper equipped with a size ten boot
To let themselves in and survey the scene
Of a house full of flies but otherwise clean
Albert, to no-one’s surprise is sat there
It’s patently clear that he’s beyond a care
A man at the door says if it’s up to you
And this house is vacant put me in the queue
The cop shuts the door in the intruder’s face
And mutters, ‘society, no sense of place’
How does a man die completely alone
How can a man be completely unknown
Upstairs the blue suited man finds the bed
A jacket with medals laid out and he said
Not really the job of a pathologist
But I think he wants to be buried in this
The note that is still held in one withered hand
Unfolded and read just as Albert had planned
I’m sorry it said that I’ve tarnished your day
And you were the one who would find me this way
Please be so kind as to think well of me
And know I was not always this that you see
I fought when the world faced a new tyranny
I fought for our freedom and our liberty
I fought for my king but from what I can see
I fought for a land that would not fight for me
I’m happy to go now for I’ve been bereft
That, of all my comrades, there’s only me left
I go to my God, I won’t fret and won’t cry
And I’ll meet my soldier friends up in the sky
**
Word was sent out in the national media
Searches on Google and on Wikipedia
But no wartime comrade was anywhere found
To stand and salute or to fire a round
But the manager of an East End snooker hall
Seeing the news, gave his father a call
**
Six pallbearers, great grandsons of men
Who Albert had saved with a half empty sten
Those men who, once safe, watched him go in for more
And who watched him fall, shot, to the shell strewn floor
Those wounded who’d watched as he crawled his way back
Dragging a man by his rifle strap
The pallbearer’s fathers and their fathers too
There for a hero that none of them knew
There to salute without further ado
A stranger whose name each one of them knew
Seven the number of uniformed men
Who step up to each fire three shots and then
The last post plays out over old Albert’s grave
Where a stone would soon stand saying… ‘He was the brave’
Written 8 November 2021
Entered in: War Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2021
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Terry Flood Poem
The astronaut saw the black hole
And suddenly feared for his soul
He chose to die brave
And gave life a wave
And as he went in he cried, “Goal!”
The astronaut clung to his pride
As his atoms were spread far and wide
And he nearly cried
Because as he died
A voice in the dark said, “Off side!”
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2024
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