Best Gun 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.
The Black Hills wept for Thee
East of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota,
Part of the Great Sioux Nation.
On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the GarryOwen,
was such a sight to see.
While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte.
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe,
the chief of the Minneconjou.
Five miles West through the cold day they walked,
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh,
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,
that would turn the tide of chance.
Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,
as the women and children fled to a ravine.
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.
Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains,
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains,
of tears and laughter forever silenced.
In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain, ingloriously.
In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory.
“Let us put our minds together to see what life we can make for our children.”
-Sitting Bull
If guns don’t kill people
Why are so many people dead
Another moms child
shot in the head
Blackboards white chalk
splattered in Red
A teacher killed
For something she said
Victim after victim
Demons need to be fed
On violence they’ve been bred
We shouldn’t need
Metal detectors at School
A place of innocence has become cruel
What happened to the Golden Rule
Have we all taken on
the role of a fool
A gun isn’t just a harmless tool
It’s a weapon of mass destruction
and the most potent hate fuel.
I am scared by the NRA narrative
The power and control amendment imperative
Off to Washington lobbyist slobs
More and more gun factory jobs
Guns don’t lead to the collaborative
Weapons should not be the normative.
We have got in the habit of not looking up above
No gun has ever led to acts of love.
So until politicians become brave
Our society is a slave
Problems grow over time
We shouldn’t be so naive
Profiteers shouldn’t determine what we believe
In the end there are to many lives to grieve.
gun salute~
in every fold of the flag
his sacrifices
The Bullet from My Gun
I am propelled like a bullet from a gun barreling through space,
Through your flesh,
Through the time you have misspent on this Earth now ending,
Too late to regret the bending trigger of my gun.
I penetrate your vagina,
Your mind,
Your sense of inner self,
Tearing through your false resistance like a runaway train.
I cannot stop, I am momentum now.
Ripping through your many lives,
Decimating your hopes for the peace tomorrow that now will never come.
Because my trajectory is certain and yours is a wet pipe dream.
You are obliterated into fragments by the curling of my finger.
Now Isis will never find you.
Fear is still a man’s best friend:
And a little pressure goes a long ways.
"Only a good guy with a gun can stop a bad guy with a gun."
So says the gun lobby—the bad guy with a gun!
School, shop, and street wax wet with blood,
But the hum of the gun works drowns out their cry.
Their tears, still, run deep in our ears
Sweeping away old lies about guns
That gun shop bums so glibly put forth.
By caskets in a ditch, they make their pitch
To conjure gun sales out of every shooting.
"Strap a mop to a gun butt to blot the blood," they'll say
Knowing that in our fright they can fly us like a kite
And lead us by a string to gun shops and the like.
Soon, though, we see not more sales alone
But in their red wake more hells too.
By right we arm but by love disarm.
Now is the nation called to love:
By gun control we challenge not your rights
But your heart to sacrifice that love entails.
So give me not a reading of the law
But tales of love's deeds in hearts and homes—
How racks have shed arms like autumn leaves
And turned the land from red to gold.
That moment when you think it'll be a silent fart
And it comes out like a machine gun giving your heart a start
Knocking over strangers
Not realizing the danger
Turning their hair white and creating a new part
© Jack Ellison 2016
Son Of A Gun
My Great Great Grandpa was a musket
only one son he would want.
My Great Great Grandma named him shotgun
he used to love to hunt.
He too would only want one son
and that's just what he got.
My Great Grandma named him rifle
he was a single shot.
Married with one son himself
Grandpa wouldn't take no static.
His son was highly favored
and they named him automatic.
Along then came my daddy
who I never gave no lip.
He lived inside a holster
that men wore on their hip.
He had a great big family
but I'm his favorite one.
My daddy was a pistol
I'm a son of a son of a son of a gun.
Edwin C Hofert
When I gave you my safety, I had only you in mind.
I could protect you and defend with a love so refined.
You claim not to have asked, but I assure you that you did.
For I cannot fire bullets without first removing my lid.
You accepted it and grinned and clutched it ever so tight.
Protection overwhelmed you as I moved into the fight.
Something in your gut told you that I would never ever yield
until the battle was long over and your wounds had all been healed.
When it was all done and peace was finally restored,
I came back here to greet you, only to be ignored.
You returned my orange cap with hesitance in your eyes.
Before I'd screwed it on, you took it back to my surprise.
You played me like a primate, tossing hope over my head,
And your indecisive nature left me dry and nearly dead.
I stumble to the floor searching for an arm to hold.
My unprotected trigger bending wildly, uncontrolled.
I turn to try and find you midst the havoc of my fire
And hit the ones you hide behind with whom you soon conspire
To drag me down and pin me out of fear I might attack,
when all I really need is for you to give my safety back.
I’m a poetic gun;
Shells of great caliber.
I measure each poem,
With my trusty caliper.
I load my own rounds,
Thoughts are the primer.
The powder’s my inspiration;
I’m a quick draw rhymer.
With my cylinder loaded,
I’m ready to take aim.
Shooting poems into existence,
Into life’s open range.
In the heart of the prairie,
An outlaw poetic spree begun.
Shooting rounds onto the page,
From my poetic gun.
BULLY
Who is the girl with the cricked teeth, she doesn’t deserve to smile
She is the type of person who needs to stay in and marinate for awhile
She needs to do something with that nappy hair looking like Diana Ross
Because damn, if life was a beauty contest, she automatically loss
I don’t know who her family is but she definitely got the ugly gene
She wears the same clothes everyday and she lacks personal hygiene
She has no friends and no one even acts like she exist
So she should be glad I’m giving her recognition and writing this
On the bus we make fun of her, the whole way to her house
She doesn’t even talk back, she is just as quiet as a mouse
We love to see her cry because maybe it will wash the dirt off her face
We always throw a paper bag over her head anyways, just in case
We like to throw food at her in the lunch room to give her some flavor
And we throw her downstairs so she can die but we do it to her as a favor
However, she took the last bit of abuse from us and showed us bullying wasn’t fun
Because she was after us today, when she showed up to school with a loaded gun
I never wanted to be a bully, I just wanted to be popular and that is my confession
Needless to say, I will never bully anybody again, she taught me my lesson
Cast attention on the dreams we have caught
They’re nothing of our own
Filtering our hearts right through the dark
Until we give in to the unknown
Casting lights upon the pointless death
In the wars that we’ve become
It’s so sad to see what will really die
The part we kill because we run
Cast attention on the lies we create
Manifesting every fear
Will these walls protect me from the pain?
Will the static drive the tears?
Casting lights upon the obvious truth
That we can’t remember love
Because every notion that we think is right
Was not handed from above
Cast our questions into timeless stone
It’s time to walk away
Step again into the lonely dark
It’s time to feed the pain
Casting spells that only weave an end
This is what we’ve become
Friendly faces that will kill again
We’re just a mirror with a gun
The crimson sun still up
as she woefully walks
in an abandoned rustic railways;
Her feet ~ as heavy as the stale steel rails
almost buried in forgotten soil;
Her hands as cold as tombstone plate
whilst holding a gun on her left hand~
She grips a quill pen
to write the obscure death
of the man in blue suit~
and the deaths of twelve passengers
still unsolved...
She was here some decades ago~
aboard in an old steam train
The memory of that macabre ride
haunted her for thousand days and nights.
She writes in scarlet ink
on a bloodstained scroll
that says like this:
" To all the victims who died here,
I lay my hands before this forgotten railway
and the weeping willows as my witness;
I never thought too much love would kill.
I killed my beloved man in blue suit,
the driver of that tortuous train journey...
Yes I killed him to save the three million people
dwelling on the final station;
Using the twelve infected people,
He was sent to spread that virus
that he thought would change the world.
I didn't understand till now~
Yes, I killed him with a silencer
and unlocked that explosive weapon
before it reached its final destination.
But I was spared~
not the twelve people;
Now, with this gun I’ll give justice
to all people who died here
by killing the undersigned murderer.
Till death,
Anonymous ”.
The gun silently flicks
pointing her head~
Darks clouds hide the day
as her blood flows
on the thirsty ground.
1 May 2021
Modified for “ Guns Poetry Contest”
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
11th place
Gun in the closet,
One in the drawer,
One under the pillow,
Does he need any more?
Scotch on the bar,
Jealousy on the mind
Can take you too far...
Your fate can be signed...
A loud bang,
A jolt,
A puff of smoke,
Gone is Beauty
In one sad stroke...
The Devil helped
Pull the trigger,
Why?
Cause he loves
To make Good People die...
There is no way
I could live with this...
I'll hunt him down
If the law is remiss...
I won't need,
a gun or a knife
For me to take
this bastard's life
He's made us pay
The ultimate price
For you, your life,
To him, just a wife...
To me he killed
Both Love and Hope
And when I find him
Should he grope
For his gun
He will find
My hand has shoved
His nose
Into his mind...
I'll break it first
for extra pain,
My vengeance will
Never be sated
For my prayer of hope
Is now in vain.
Did you hear about the time the Doc was on the clock?
Apparently an actor took a shot
At the President who was enjoying the theater in a special spot
Being popular knowing the right team had won
Waiting for revenge carrying a smoking gun
This stage performer
Made the country stop everything to be mourners
Got his way when the civil war leader was in the corner
Unlike the President who took it in the head
Theatrically this toy fled
Since he was not dead
A farmhouse destination he did run
Looking desperately for a fan to help him after what he had done
And the Doc let him in
To tend to his sin
With a scream and shout
His trained vocals let it out
Biting the bullet once again
Due to anger he could not defend
Today honest Abe sits in a marble cast
Reminding us of our checkered past
Next time when you are sitting in a diner’s booth
Feeling like you want to hit the roof
Remember hitting and running is the way of the game
While scoring a goal brings fame not shame
Playing fair
Makes people care
And they will come back to be there
Nice partners clapping the activity production they both share
A choreographed athletic entertaining love affair