The Gun Shop
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May 23, 2024
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Open Poetry 9
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
Poet’s note: the structure of this poem reflects my admiration of the ingenious format of the poem, The Quilt, composed by Abigail Parry. Her poem is exquisite. The use of language and the multi-faceted expression of her theme is rich, textured and entwined. My poem is simple by comparison and quite different in subject matter. I enjoyed the striking quality of her format and was inspired to write this poem in a similar fashion with the hope it would work well with my theme. Though I strayed from Abigail Parry’s form in both stanza count and the number of lines exceeding 8 syllables, I feel I was able to meet my goals for writing this poem. A wonderful learning experience. If you want to read an amazing poem full of beautiful soul, poetic devices and stellar technique, please give Abigail Parry’s poem The Quilt a read.
(unrhymed) quatrain
The gun seems gun-shy in this space;
where deer hides hang on rustic walls
and granddad-tick-tocks beat, instead
of hearts in hollowed skins. The gun
a “trophy-bagger” in its rack,
a loud-mouth predator at rest,
this motherless, brother-less thug
perceives no pity-pangs... the gun
now quiet, buckshot empty, cold.
Above the stove’s phoenix soul hangs
an antlered head with prideful tines
the man, with bear-paw hands, had won.
A fox in freeze-frame-trot, a stiff
with cat glass eyes, attests his prize.
Indeed, like litterfall they fell,
unseen his haunt in hunter gear, his gun
a junkyard dog of steel. I say
they're beautiful in life. He says
they’re beautiful in death. Between
our words — a stand of pine — the shot!
that brought the shock of ammo air
that rib-cage-ripped and broke the breath,
that hurled the crows against the sky —
the blast that felled the 10-point buck that failed to sense your goddamn gun!
Yeah... blame the buck his reckless pose
and buckled throes. You felt the king.
Behind tight trees you sat with dawn
in sniper-silhouette. The gun
felt nothing; no remorse, no joy
—it, too, hangs upon the wall.
Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2024
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