Best Desperados Poems
A funny thing happened on the way to my hanging
Couldn't sleep the night before my head was banging
I was innocent of a crime that I did not commit
But they roughed me up and got me to admit.
The face on the wanted posters said it was me
Anyone seeing those posters would be inclined to agree
I was in a horse drawn prison wagon with bars down the side
Thinking to myself, it will be my last ever ride.
Heading for the gallows then onto Boot hill
To pay for shooting a bank teller that I didn't kill
Two miles from the town all hell did break loose
Unbeknownst to me I'd be dodging the noose.
For ten desperados' brought the wagon to stop
Then ordered the guards, their weapons they drop
Some gang members got me out and they set me free
The gang leader approached and he looked just like me.
He said " in this life you look out for your own "
Then he told me something that I hadn't known
" We were Separated at birth and we had the same mother "
And that this mean desperado was in fact my twin brother .
" We heard that you'd been framed for our crime spree
But you are my brother and that's why we've set you free.
The teller had died because he went for his gun
We grabbed all the money and went on the run ".
He gave me some money and said " start a new life "
Told me head south, settle down and find a good wife
There was so much I wanted to ask him and so much to say
My brother said " some other time, best be on your way " .
Written on 4th July 2018.
For a funny thing happened on the way to...poetry contest, sponsored by Robert Haigh.
"Why is it", the donkey mused, "that horses get all the glory?
Seems throughout the ages its the same old hackneyed story.
We go unheralded and are treated with utter disdain,
While horses bear king and emperor about their vast domain!"
"Though we are somewhat ungainly and will never win a race,
We've born distinctive personages with extraordinary grace!
I'll tell you of unnamed heroes among our humble breed,
That will outshine the acclaim of any blue-blooded steed!"
"Mister Ed the talking horse has nothing on the donkey Balaam rode.
She saw an angel of the Lord in the way and promptly left the road!
Balaam cursed, the donkey talked some sass and was beaten thrice!
The angel was about to slay Balaam had he not heeded her advice!"
"A donkey was in the stable when the Prince of Peace was born.
Later to Egypt they fled - on a donkey Mary's Babe was borne.
For entry into Jerusalem, He chose a donkey, a borrowed one at that.
Hosanna! Hosanna! God's Son it was! There he regally sat!"
"We've had astride us preachers, desperados and hardy pioneers,
And have been accused of stubborness driving mankind to tears!
But when all is said and done, we provide reliable transportation,
Getting you slowly but safely to your ultimate destination!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF
© All Rights Reserved
When Faith turns fanatic,
When the mind, like a sponge soaked in dogma,
When the lure of money overrides,
When reason is hoodwinked
With the promise of a Heaven in wait,
A terrorist is born!
He moves around armed with ammunition.
Joins other desperados with loaded guns and bombs.
Like horrendous beasts unleashed from the den
They lunge on a rampage, with threats at gunpoint.
In God's name violence is concocted
Spewing hatred, hostility, and horror
When interests clash, when the greed for power overrides
Between countries, tension builds.
In the war between Russia and Ukraine
In the turmoil between Jews and Palestinians
How many have died leaving their families wailing?
We are on the brink of an apocalypse.
Guns roar, bombs blast, causing,
Death, deformity, and destruction,
Mushroom clouds rise high.
Dark clouds hang on the horizon.
Frivolous ideologies kill lives of innocents
Leading to distress and doom.
With the world turning into a battlefield
We need an escape from this inferno.
Combined efforts alone can subdue,
This formidable enemy of gigantic proportions.
United shall we stay to get all wrongs right,
Muster strength to catch the bull by its horns,
To let the doves of peace take on wings,
And build a world free of hostility and war!
_________________________________________________
The marshal saddled up as dawn broke over old Dodge City.
Upon town rabble and mean hombres he took no pity!
He donned his ten-gallon hat and strapped on his gun.
On his vest the marshals' badge gleamed in the rising sun!
Sheepskin chaps and fancy boots completed his dandy outfit.
He was a handsome dude - with the ladies he made quite a hit!
He mounted his horse Woody and took a ride about the town,
Ever on the lookout for desperados of notorious renown!
He took a break for a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs,
Then continued on his rounds on the lookout for society's dregs.
Rowdy cowpokes galloped down Main Street on a toot.
Marshal Dan escorted them out of town in hot pursuit!
At high noon the peace of Dodge City was interrupted,
When a brawl at the Long Branch Saloon suddenly erupted!
Shooting began and Marshal Dan drew his peace-maker;
Two rowdy gun-slingers had a date with the undertaker!
With Marshal Dan, peace in Dodge City was guaranteed.
Danny dismounted his rocking horse Woody, his faithful steed.
It had been a tough day trying to be fair and impartial.
Now it was afternoon nap time for the little five-year old marshal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
The Hill Country is dry and you can forget about California
Filled with dying live oak and mesquite
There’s a seven-year drought upon us
And momma says it’s going to get worse
Red ants on the tire trails
They don’t seem to mind the heat
The Southern Pacific blows out of the west
Heading east with a pack of coyotes behind her
Suckling pups yapping at the Estacado winds
They know a meal ticket when they see one
Sooner or later that cattle is going to need to be fed
And that pack of half-baked desperados will be waiting
They are on the trail because hunger drives all creatures
And the heat curling up from the caliche
Will wilt the best of the arid crops
Leaving nothing but jack-rabbits and mice
They look up and growl when my boots hit the ground
The dust clouds up and the scorpions scatter like quail
I walk out toward the old water tank to see if she’s still pumping
Tepid water and nightmares of creatures that couldn’t escape
They float rotting and ghoulish in the foul water
I fish them out and throw them off into a cedar break
Rules of the desert: leave the dead and the wounded behind
The flies begin to gather and the buzzards are on the wing
Nature is taking its course.
It must eat.
I see the coyote’s skitting through the low brush
I drop a bead on one with my old 30/30
But I got no reason to kill him
I haven’t raised cattle here since 92.
He stops and turns his head toward me
And for a moment we both understand
It ain’t me against him or him against me
It’s just us trying to get through this life
A life carved out in many ways
About learning to live, die, sing, and dance to the rhythm of life
How I look forward to October the thirty-first each year!
Though the autumn be chilly and the weather a bit drear,
I have the pleasure of meeting strange little imps by the score,
As they visit, lisping "twick or tweat" at my front door!
The door bell rings constantly it seems as I leap to me feet,
Wondering about the wierd characters that I shall meet!
Will it be a devil or an angel or a frightful ghost?
Whoever it might be, I must be a generous host!
Hordes of fairies, cowboys and Indians grace my stoop,
Along with sheriffs, desperados and soldiers by the troop!
Ferocious pirates, scary skeletons and dreadful witches,
Leer and grin at me, nearly scaring me out of my britches!
Standing regally is a king and queen, each wearing a crown,
Along with their court jester, a gaudily bedecked clown!
There's a sweet little princess decked out in ribbons and lace,
Smiling demurely with cute dimples on her pretty face!
A little secret with which those little monsters I'll never share,
But I'll clue you in on my own little Halloween trick if I dare -
I dole out bubblegum, candy corn and stuff I don't care for much,
But keep the Snickers bars, Babe Ruths, Hershey Kisses and such!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
All are prisoners locked in the prism of timespace
A few sail through cushioned from the rigours of hate
Yet none may opt out never losing the favours of grace
Would that it were nobler to suffer confined in space
Than be thought brave to overcome the fear of fate
All are prisoners locked in the prism of timespace
Fear of the Unknown plunges us all in utter disgrace
Though desperados fail not to open the ultimate gate
Yet none may opt out never losing the favours of grace
Most sport excuses to want to stay in this only place
Family mate duty cause unfinished work started late
All are prisoners locked in the prism of timespace
Yet others pray for the day of deliverance to save face
Wait in patience for the scythe to sweep clean the slate
Yet none may opt out never losing the favours of grace
Don’t we look around and wonder at this endless place
We call a living-space hoping for more on our plate
All are prisoners locked in the prism of timespace
Yet none may opt out never losing the favours of grace
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Under cover of darkness
two glowing eyes in awareness
of all its cruel foes
that appears where ever it goes.
An untuned carniverous orchestra sings
funerary songs as Death stings,
suddently, many glowin' eyes scrambles in the shadows
like consternated desperados,
yet an unlucky prey
met its doomsday!
There’s a scoundrel in the wings
He’s drunk again hear him sing
For whisky is the taste for him
And his songs the wind to me brings
In his day no one to him could match
And women thought him quite a catch
For that was then and now is now
But I am not saying his lost the know how
I reckon he still had some fight
In his eyes the fire still burned bright
And he kept his weapons closer still
Revenge you see was a bitter pill
He was his own counsel those days
Wrestling with his soul in countless ways
In dreams at night he felt her lips again
Wanting more but knowing she was at an end
Some thought that he was no more
A coward for whom drinking was now the score
One day as the sun rose through the morning dew
With not a word he rode away too
At first there was no word
And they said he was gone his life absurd
Then a package came to his home
His brother opened it when he was alone
It was a dried scalp with a label attached
Written on it in blood Spiro and the in hair matched
The months went by and other packages came
With each scalp labeled in blood named
Montana, Hendricks and Jones
All matching scalps and all known
One day the last package came
That for his brother was named
And on unwrapping it he stepped back
Four sets of eyes were packed tight whisky Jack
There was a note attached to the jar
Bury this at her feet her grave not mar
So the next day he did as was told
The sun setting to the desert cold
We never saw him again
For he drifted as on the wind
Not to return to his home town
His wife’s grave now alone found
But they say it did not end there
For at sundown when the desert is bare
You may see four desperados wandering in the dark
All blind crying for mercy stark.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Once upon a time:
a wet market bat eater
turned humanity into mask-wearing
double-ply paper-hoarding survivalist.
Rapist and assorted ogres were being set free
while citizens were cuffed for walking beaches
San Fran libs gave free housing to convicts and druggies
while teachers lived in vans and cars like degreeless hippies...
PEOPLE! This is just a glimpse of what is to come
what happens when a rogue sets off a dirty bomb
millions of desperados will be displaced overnight
they'll disperse into the gun-stripped suburbs
frantically- hungry- dirty-minded
willing to snuff your life
for a little grub and
a sparkling behind
"crazy" preppers
were oh-so right...
once upon a time.
We bite the dust every morning,
spitting gray powder, like desperados.
Firebirds nosedive in forewarning,
perverting the trees into hell’s tornadoes.
We taste sooted smog on our tacky tongues,
dragging all our shadows of remorse.
Finding no habitat for our wheezing lungs,
we long for the rain’s fecund watercourse.
We find Death Valley spreading like a contagion,
and dodge parched patches, bruised and baked by sol.
So delirious our meandering, we know not our region,
our infernal night camps reek of cinder and wood coal.
We chant, not knowing the meaning of an arcane lyric,
unsure how to summon the recondite eidolon of Seth.
As city shells smolder, all chronic hearts await some mantic.
Surely hell will freeze over, so we wait with bated breath.
A child made from a passionate romance, I heard a mother -n- a father holler from
their son throwing up both his hands, we heard your demands-n-commands, you
heard the voice of death, 4 all you saw was a black man, no threat yet you took the
life out those hands, and the law into your own, you were wrong, you left a family -n-
a nation in a zone, you desecrated the United States as well as your police uniform,
you’re not alone desperados, cops with a badge -n- a gun made of chrome, I’m
throwing up both my hands, 4 I’m 2 in a zone, -n- 2 the God who watches over us all,
help us change these hateful thoughts in our dome, 4 this behavior you don’t
condone, a child made from a passionate romance, you were killed, a man with both
his hands up, now both his parents holler 4 he is gone, Michael Brown I love you my
brother, and I will fight until this disease behavior in the minds-n-hearts of men is
gone.
What happened to those
who shed many a tear
and bled for others?
They died hungry
lamenting their last years.
I know those unknown
and I know how much of pain
endured they, unbeknown.
How unkind is this world?
How ungrateful are the people?
I find no statues for them
at road junctions
and never found their names
embossed on tomes
in golden letters.
Should not we recall the names
of those felled trees
at least while eating their fruit’s
tasty pickle?
Knowing all why
good Samaritans prefer to wear
that crown of thorns.
Intuition-driven
why they try to walk the people
towards that unseen heaven?
Are they otherwise sheer simpletons or
desperados lacking reason?
One straying whim answered me:
“Each drop of water has no
separate name.
All together they’re called the rain,
a river or an ocean. They come and go
smiling, as one flood of altruism,
asking for no thanksgiving.”
They interviewed the artist
inside her large blueprint mansion.
At one point, she criticized America
for being overtly materialistic.
Her painting studio was large enough to
house half a dozen desperados...
Instead, it harbored dozens of giant unsold paintings.
I was amazed by how bright a person could be completely blind to their own
devastating hypocrisy.
Man’s intrinsic apathy's negligence-justified frown
Is the actual defining substance of a mortal clown;
Who with hollowed prejudgments fellow men slays,
And likens to hallowed duty his thoughtless decays.
He is evil's meekest martyr by doom's onus bound,
The cold-blooded outlaw donning dark's lucid veils;
His the bounden call to trim unwary lives that thrive,
His a sworn charge to hit to halt sea's merriest sails.
They're hell's happiest saints of true devoted cadre,
Obstinate desperados who without real reason hate;
Theirs rare glories for wanton vitriol by meanest fate
Met on innocent casualties of villainy's vicious adder.
What grand gratification fills world's cruelest hearts
That sting undeserving souls in most delicate parts?
Why do allegedly feeling minds grow numbest to cry,
Whilst their pleading victims in iron malevolence die?
How can life’s most cognitive kind find sweet preys,
In other creatures alike in mien and all visible ways?