Best Buckshot Poems
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.
Scarecrow Addict
Gritted and dusty
Powered by flack jacket eyes
Bootsteps through grey puddles
Flotilla of cigarette butts
Trash kicked aside
In a desert of litter
Seeking the soulless of death
Chattering on split lips
The grimy irk of air
Festoons the rink and rack
The floating black
Sucks unbidden
Horses into battle ridden
Scream through his lungs
Broken weapons
Filled with empty bullets
Enemies in their colours run
Demon angel
Of the iridescent metal
In the bars of sculptured hell
For the hot choke of alcohol
Has squandered his nights
And burnt his will
The vengeance of mirrors
He cannot defy
He has become
The man with the gun
And rabid dog bark
Is the music
The fang gangster rap
Chews on his pride
Coughs back and spits
Too many drugs
To fill his hate
As he seethes through the alleys
The ricochet sound of poverty
Slaps hard at the cold
Whistle through the doorstep
The vicious snide crack
Scavenges his chest
Scarecrow buckshot
Trammels his lungs
And coughs up plastic
Iron girders against shattered walls
Where the whole world threw up
His sick
Chokes on the disgusting chuck up
Of need
So full of promises
But still lets in the freezing winds
To whined up urine stained
In the pallor
The colour
Of his sky
Bandit warrior and loser
This brave young man
Watched this driven and ploughed memory
Eat away
By iron vice drag
Devastate his pale haired wench
Leaving blood trailing on her breast
Pimped
She was
And hate in grey battered uniforms
Drove the callous on
And lifted him from the reeking cans
Of his desolation
Bled him through nights of sweat
And cold turkey chewed regret
The plaster wet billboard and pealing advert
Have no idea
What they have unleashed
Brittle as long dead bones
And screaming head
No longer hates
But still sneers revenge
In tattered loose rags
He staggers from the vomiting pit
Emaciated wolf
The grinning scarecrow eyes of merciless
And the jagged teeth of candle lit
The reek of vendetta
Hangs ever about his lips
And woe betide the gun smith
Woe betide indeed the needles
Wet prick
Nothing left to fight for
Other than
A long dead
Lover
In a small gold rush town sipping on ale
Mark Twain once overheard a bartender
Made himself famous by penning this tale
A frog jump contest with a large wager
Decided outright when one frog didn't jump
The contest over before it could start
Obvious that the bullfrog seemed too plump
Buckshot in it's belly made jumping hard
The first County fair sixty years later
They called it The Jumping Frog Jubilee
Just local frogs are allowed to enter
The record is over twenty one feet
Each May at Angels Camp, California
Mark Twain's tale center stages the gala
Brave man
buckshot
rear rump
hot lead
stings red
pants drop
sees blood
Fainted!
3/30/15 contest sponsored by: Judy Konos 'Your Footle Poem'
T Reams 1st Place
< Once was a gal shopped all garage sales
Nuts ~ bolts ~ screws ~ all found in one big pail
Husband said had nice rack
Wife turns ~ gives him.... good smack
Loaded - buckshot - and - boy - did - he .... wail
Written by
Katherine Stella
9/8/2012
Entry For
Skat's
A Poets Garage Sale
GL ALL
My biggest challenge of my life
occurred in 1998 a year of strife,
routine mammography displayed a buckshot
spray of calcification which displayed a lot
of cancer within its maudlin picture show,
removal of my right breast proved to be a torturous blow.
It turned out to be a Trans-flap operation in which
a surgeon did a miraclous and incredible switch,
I ended up wearing part of my stomach as a new chest.
February 28, 2017. 73 words.
The weather was just how I liked it
Looking like it would stay dry
The breeze had the sharp tinge of winter
Beneath a low overcast sky
The thick blackthorn hedgerow behind me
Bordered the tangled beech wood
In front was a sowing of Rape seed
The shooting from here should be good
The ditch in which I was standing
Was shallow and recently dried
I put up my camouflage netting
As kind of a temporary hide
I looked across my field of fire
It spread further than buckshot would reach
So I opened my trusty old twelve bore
And slipped two Eley five’s in the breach
I saw something off in the distance
Out on the old bridal trail
I knew straight away it was Reynard
I could see the white tip on his tail
This dog fox was working the hedgerow
Looking for something to eat
In a week or two he won’t be hunting
For vixens will soon be on heat
Then came a sound to my left side
I heard the dry rustle of leaves
I eased off the safety catch gently
And stood still not daring to breathe
Nearby from a patch of dead Teasel
A Pheasant was poking its head
It’s wattles were white as a snowflake
Round it’s eye was a dash of bright red
It’s head and neck seemed to change colour
With a green and blue oil like sheen
It sported a thin clear white collar
The clearest one I’d ever seen
Cautiously into the open
It was only three meters away
I was stunned by it’ breathtaking beauty
This vision is with me today
It looked like a fowl made of copper
Each breast feather tinged with a Pink
And edged with the finest black outline
As if they’d been sketched in with ink
It’s wings were a blend of dark ochre
Mingled with olive brown hue
It’s tail was two thirds of a meter
What was this hunter to do
Quite unaware of it’s danger
It slowly strolled on to the crop
Carefully I raised my shotgun
But something inside me said STOP
No way could I fire at this vision
This beauty by me won’t be shot
I came to an instant decision
Find something else for the pot
I have enjoyed many a pheasant
Washed down with a bottle of red
The countryside here would be poorer
If this lovely creature was dead
The bird by now had become bolder
and had wandered some distance away
With an unloaded gun on my shoulder
I went home having had a good day
I will have bread and cheese for my supper
rattlesnake
slithering toward sunlight –
buckshot
People laugh and make fun of me because I wear a coonskin cap.
But they'll stop laughing because I'm through taking their crap.
People say that my cap makes me look silly.
They say that it makes me look like a hillbilly.
This morning a city slicker called me a hick and he called my hound dog a mutt.
He was laughing very hard but he stopped when I put some buckshot in his butt.
He started running after I shot both of his cheeks.
He won't be able to sit down for about twelve weeks.
If you see me face to face, you may point, laugh and make fun.
But unless you want to visit a proctologist, you'd better remember that I own this shotgun.
(This is a fictional poem.)
The wind blows in through the palms from the East Sea.
The turtle doves and humming birds scatter like buckshot
As the cows approach.
In the rafters above, a hundred mice and their charges,
too small to be seen, scurry away
From the waking bats.
Outside a man with a white stick preaches about injustice
And how the world is wrong. Me?
I’m just glad to be here, waiting for your perfume.
I'll tell you this first, guns are my curse
I was dealt Ace's and watched all their faces
Looked around and called all in
Everyone folded, but Buckshot just grinned
He moved up his stack, with a loud crack
I just love playing a maniac
I drew two cards to make him think
He drew one card and took a drink
I reached for my boot, got my Two Shooter
Buckshot flipped over his eight outer
My Ace's won, as he went for his gun
I told him "Son, you make winning fun"
I filled my boot with money as Buckshot stood up
Could have been any outcome with my sad luck
He yelled "Eat lead you no good low down cheat"
I shot him dead with that Two Shooter in my sleeve
“Santa Anna Wind”.
© London F. Buss
Don’t fear sadness, only shadows,
who come through walls,
It's always now and always then.
It's loneliness never ends,
even after you him. yes him.
Only money it seems can buy a friend.
She hates herself; ugliness never ends.
trampled under a calloused love.
She wants to die just to feel love.
Happiness is a dream?
But her daughter, she’s so young,
she just don’t know.
he danger in his eyes,
Tangled knots in her hair, isn’t love.
His lies laid bare.
Just as well it’s cold as hell,
she got summer in her smile.
He got his hand on her thigh,
hands playing with her tities.
Footsteps going, going, gone.
He wouldn’t wait a while.
What would you say?
He tore up your yesterdays,
Pink Cadillac is parked out back,
doing the back seat boogie,
Now, she got winter on her mind.
Cadillac heater making her unwind,
Rain filled heart, smoke filled fears,
your thawing out in his arms
You’re screaming in pain Steaming.... up the widows.
and you’re on the wrong side of town.
Has daddy seen you, you're not sure?
Worn out promises, practiced lies,
too late to change her mind.
He made a mess,
Cumming over your confirmation dress,
She's only eleven and got summer on her mind.
Her daddies’ footsteps sealed his fate.
Saw her panties on the floor.
12-gauge shotgun… buckshot roars.
He's just a dying, lying, twitching, on the floor.
Santa Anna winds don’t blow this far north.
He won’t come knocking on her door,
Not no more, he killed little her blue bunny,
He won’t come knocking on her door,
Not no more,
He killed little her blue bunny,
ripped it apart is lying helpless, screaming on the floor,
Santa Anna winds don’t blow this far north.
Santa Anna winds don’t blow this far north.
He won’t come knocking on her door,
Not no more,
I’m walking through another crowded room
wondering if people can sense the tremors behind my eyes.
Fluttering wings of falling Angels full of hellfire buckshot.
I’m seeping into the Berber carpet,
into the taut stitching and beginning to gasp
as it wraps its threads around my chest.
My vision is beginning to blur.
The room has forgotten me and began its own path into the ether.
I take a knee at an end table by the
entrance, holding up plastic flowers
and now a man whose rushing mind
is quietly questioning if he is any more
or less real than the aesthetic artificiality
he has no name for. Some man in a factory
could have very well made up his own species
of flower. It may have never been real.
Is that Art?
My shoulders dip as the carpet pulls me deeper.
And my fingers feel the dusty cool of the vase that reminds me of an urn.
The kind that someone is placed in by a
family that could afford to buy one, but didn’t
bother to put much thought into it-
because he is, and always has been more of an
obligation than a member of their genus.
An old man puts his hand on my shoulder.
The flowers fall to the floor.
“Are you okay, Son?”
As my shaking hands desperately tuck the waiting room’s color back into place, I tell him I am fine. Carefully adjusting each flower
back the way it was. When his eyes met mine,
I knew that someone had indeed felt the quake.
He knew.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, sir. It’s just one of those days.” I told him.
“We all have those, Son. Don’t worry.”
I tried not to look up again.
But, as my eyes met his once more.
I know he knew the truth.
Not everyone. Not like this.
Just the ones who live in the corners of rooms
full of people. Full of colors that no one appreciates,
because they know it’s not real.
Just a cheap decoration taking up space until
something better suited is found to fulfill its station.
I am the plastic man in the corner of the waiting room.
Slowly becoming unclean.
Unable to wilt.
Despite my need to disappear.
-James Kelley 2018
-for the 99%
The cock crows at first light.
Cracking the wind’s direction
like wheat under the heavy plow
waking our eyes as red as buckshot
defying the night, calling the day, signaling
strength to rise and be heard by every women
and child; we are but men calling to the wild
that soon a dark room’s future will fold
under the color of light.
The dust never seems to settle without some rain
on our half grown gardens strange with the smell
of suffering. Toil never triumphs anymore, just another
ones hardship on the outlying trees never bearing
the fruit of his righteousness. We are more than just waves
breaking rock into more rock.
Y’all come on in boys, I gives ya a thrill
Out dere in dem hills I got me a still
Now Mama go git some wood for da fiar
And while you is out dere change da flat tiar
All a dat moonshine ain’t da same
Da good stuff burns with a purty blue flame
Behind da still I keeps me a shotgun
Da revenooers come, gonna have us some fun
Now hand me dat 12 gauge if you’ll be so kind
Gonna put some buckshot in his behind
Damn ol’ revenooer is way too skinny
To mess with a good ol’ boy from West Virginie
Gonna drink some shine and howl at da moon
Get drunk as hell. Y’all come back soon.