Best Guns Blazing Poems
Dedicated to a fine poet on soup, Lin Lane
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I shook hands with my brother and bade him farewell
Then set off on my journey away from this hell
Mexico I’d head for and buy a small farm
Meanwhile back in town the guards raised the alarm.
A posse they assembled to help track me down
But saw some Apaches and hightailed it back to town
It was far from over, the Pinkertons were brought in
Determined they were, to carry out the hanging.
After three days riding my horse became lame
It slowed down my escape that made me fair game
Sold my horse at Santa Fe and boarded a train
Vowed I’d never come back to America again.
Two whole years went by and I was living free
Thought they’ve given up now, they’ll never find me
Bought a farm, met a girl, a beautiful senorita
Had two children both girls, Anna and Conchita.
One day I went to town to buy some supplies
The Pinkertons were there, I couldn’t believe my eyes
They arrested me at gunpoint and they took me to jail
I strongly protested my innocence but to no avail.
Spent a week in the jail while they sorted deportation
Paperwork completed, headed for the railroad station
After a long journey we arrived back in Colorado
They had the noose ready, they were raring to go.
All over the state the news was all about me
The Pinkertons just loved their new found glory
The night before the hanging I heard guns blazing
What happened after that was truly amazing.
About a hundred desperado's invaded the town
Burst into the jail and told me to lie down
The sound was deafening as they shot at the lock
The Pinkertons stood speechless, they were in shock.
I went out into the street and a voice said to me
“We only found out because of the publicity”
Then out of the shadows came a face I knew well
My twin brother once more had rescued me from hell.
He said “join our gang and we’ll ride far away”
I said “crimes not for me and one day you’ll pay”
Rode back to Mexico to round up my family
Then headed to Brazil where I now live and I’m free.
Lin suggested a part deux so I was inspired to write a sequel, thanks Lin.
The west went in guns blazing to help their fellow man
In Syria against the Islamic State and in Iraq and Afghanistan
They brought an end to a campaign of terror and a killing spree
And made the world a better place and safe for everybody.
So why in God's name is the civilised world, just standing by?
While thousands of innocent men, women and children die
What is it about Russia, that murdering terrorist state?
Are we just going to look away, leaving them to their fate?
Ukraine is running out of fresh water, they have no electricity
While the Russians carry on firing missiles, indiscriminately
And committing atrocities that would make a grown man cry
A harsh winter is fast approaching and many people will die.
Why are NATO and the civilised west worried about escalation?
While Russia carries on pulverising that peace loving nation
Enough is enough, NATO needs to put boots on the ground
And rain down hellfire on that Russian scum, round after round.
The west is sending arms and humanitarian aid to Ukraine
But dragged their feet when they requested a fighter plane
Vladimar Putin growls like a dog and the west backs away
We shouldn't listen to his rantings, he must be made to pay.
Ukraine got rid of all nuclear weapons with the fall of the iron curtain
I bet they wished that they hadn't given them up of that I am certain
Because the yellow backed Russian scum would never have invaded
And their threat to world peace would never have escalated.
Written 24th November 2022
My view from the clouds are quite amazing,
Off in the fields I can see the guns blazing.
I visited this place once before,
I leaned off the edge of the 15th floor,
They just weren't ready to open the door,
And so I had to wait, a year and no more.
My view from the clouds are a site to see,
Time has passed and its since been year three.
I've punched my ticket many many times,
Failed attempts, and not my time combine to decline.
Waiting for it to finally happen, I'm last in line.
Halo over my head, I can once again shine.
My view from the clouds are breathtaking,
Here because I chose to start spectating.
It might not have necessarily been fair for you,
But for me, it was much long overdue,
I just wanted to be there so I could pursue,
This beautiful view.
Aint nothing in life so weak and parasitic
As the smug self-delusional heckling critic
Sick with repressed envy and a manner most vile
He slithers to his seat to vent his acrid bile
Bereft of any talent to do anything himself
Can't wait to put the boot into everybody else
Can't act, can't dance, can't sing, can't play
Wouldn't have the nuts to get up on stage anyway
Sad man, sad man, silly little sad man.
Really rates himself as a man who knows his stuff
Mouthing well-used insults (too dumb for off-the-cuff)
When you're up there playing he'll inevitably try
To portray mock disdain if you ever catch his eye
So pay no mind to this impotent imbecile
Who follows his calling with unrelenting zeal
No wit, no style, no clout, no class
The turgid remains of a charisma bypass
Sad man, sad man, pity for the sad man.
Like a keyboard warrior, an internet troll
Loves it when his barbs hit an unsuspecting goal
And if you ever flinch, he's got you mind and soul
Thinks this master of the moment the ninja in control
Next time I'm performing I pray that he will show
I'll come on all guns blazing, and hope he has a go
This piteous mug who'll dismiss me with a sneer
Chuckling with his cronies at how bad I've been up here
On social media you can bet he'll go to town
Spewing forth his venom as he tries to put me down
No joy, no smile, no love, no praise
A pitiful indictment of his hollow darklit days.
Sad man, sad man, silly little sad man.
Once upon a time...
A little boy and a little girl
Looked up at the stars from the planet below
Seeing the moon hang bright in the sky
Said one to the other, I wonder... I wonder, if there we could go.
Said the stars in the sky to the two on the ground,
If you reach up high and fly into the night
You will never come down
Try as you might
So the boy and the girl came up with a scheme
(not to be like Heroes stun guns blazing,
Or find aliens no matter how amazing)
But to build a sleek spaceship to follow their dream.
They rolled up their sleeves,and got right to work
Putting gizmos to gadgets,
whosits to whatsits
A mighty spaceship did start to take form.
At last came the day when the two,
Declared that all was right.
they could finally, 3...2...1 ...
Blast off into the night.
Together in a spaceship built on dreams
As they went along their travels
All of the marvels
In a lonely universe they did see.
Past the supernovas
And into Antares nebula
Swinging from Orion's belt
And drinking from the dipper.
Seeing baby stars be born
In the Oort cloud
Eating cookies with the Milky way
Jumping around the galaxies.
Just the boy and the girl all alone
Among the shining stars
Floating in a spaceship
Heading back towards home.
A little boy and a little girl
Look down from the stars to the planet below
Past the moon hanging bright in the sky.
Said one to the other, I wonder... I wonder, if there we could go.
... The end.
03/02/14
The Champion
Controlled by remote desires I trip the laurel fuse of longing ancestry
My Mom had been chosen to compete diving from the high platform of
Hitler’s mania for ‘Kraft’ ‘Freude’ living space terror raised arms and all in
guns blazing a misplaced childhood offered on the altar of manic delusion
Wreaths gathered dust on unmarked graves white crossed monuments
administered torches blazed parades marched lined the ‘Higher Faster
Longer’ ‘More Ideologically Corrupt’ abuse of innocent festival of youth
Replaced demounted sacred Mount Olympus for Auschwitz and Stalingrad
My mother was no Jesse Owens who blackened Nazi dreams of whiter than
white no ‘Black Consciousness Runner’ shoving gloves to the sky in post-fascist
Munich 1972 quite close to Dachau where Jews Sinti and Roma vanished
at the hand of Swastika’s psychopathology for denial distanced denied memory
A colour TV to watch remote from a distance was the closest she ever got to
her dream of honour and glory disgraced by politics assassinated like Israeli
athletes in a continuation and preview of fanatical devilish monsters high and
low jacking innocent sports for propaganda politics malignant ideas and ideals
In 1944 there were no Olympics titanic battles were scrambled instead in
General’s Admiral’s chessboards and tactical blood baths no dives into chlorine
and water just rotting gassed trenches exploding the dreams pawns in the Games
crushing to bone meal the Peace with their tanks and grenades fusing demise
1948 came to London awaking from ruins and rubble and the brain washed
German Olympians were banned from all sports had they not spread eagled
their passion prostituted their vigour for eugenics death Fuehrer and Fatherland
My mother tainted blemished in blood and in water a fallen hero on her sword
09th August
Written for Healing Peace and for the contest 'Olympic Mania'
they walked along
weathered, carrying their guns;
like the four horsemen…
down to the O.K.
guns blazing, bullets flying;
smoke clears, the strong stand…
MY AFRICA
A dusty street, commuters meet
A taxi crowded, a route decided
Street vendors sell, plastic from China
Fresh fruit, dead meat, flies from hell
A cellphone rings, a message pings
Africa, my Africa, I know so well
Populations swell, polluted wells
Children dying, old man crying
Nobody cares, everyone stares
Gold, coal, a bloody diamond
Everything's traded, lives degraded
Africa, my Africa, I know so well
Guns blazing, wars a raging
No rain, no grain, population with hunger pain
Wilderness retreats where humans meet
Malaria, mosquito born hysteria
Hyena calls, a lion roars
Africa, my Africa, I know so well
Witchdoctor belief, the mans a thief
Muti making, money taken, knuckle bones shaken,
Throw the bones, skinny man quaking
Superstitious dread, powdered vultures head
Goats throat cut, ancestor pleasing
Africa, my Africa, I know so well
Habitats shrinking, a duiker drinking
Rhino horn, elephants tusk, money lust
Charcoal making, our forests forsaken
Aids, ebola, a broken molar
Africa dying, nobody crying
Africa, my Africa, I know so well
Dictator for life, a stupid wife
Life is cheap, broken bodies in a heap
A leopard coughs, a baboon bark
Gangsters fighting, drug addicts scoring
Corruption, consumption, businessmen laughing
Africa, my Africa, I know so well
The rains have come, a cowhide drum
Wildebeest mating, zebra migrating
The grass is green, landscape clean
Thunder clap, lighting strike, a stole bike
People sowing, maize a growing
Africa, my Africa, I know so well
Choking dust, untamed lust
Political lies, rugby tries, meaty pies
Little round huts, kids in the dust
Fat cows, little black pigs, a cockerel crowing
Turtle dove calling, a blood red morning
Africa, my Africa, I know so well
The old, the new barely meet on the street of Bardstown road, yet diversity so unique, from Cherokee to the rarity, stepping forth in time with the antique structures surrounding you, from magnetic tape recordings to punk truly a highland of culture. The Victorian and the shotguns the two guns blazing an electric mix of the streetcars undesired prelude to hate Ashbury a lower height, thinking how Hunter S. Thompson may have mumbled a few gonzo words, on the way to decadent and depraved Kentucky Derby but where was I. The greasy spoons all in a row, out wrestle the dining rooms but the salons collage with saloons, somehow the college student gets passed the culture shock. A young man sits at the bus stop his guitar propped on the glass, maybe he is writing a hit single or maybe just hung over, as a young girl in a miniskirt with a quick flip of long hair and a glance over her shoulder hurries somewhere. My friends just want to look at girls and crack a joke or vice versa.
On a white board scribbled meet the author of Cornbread Mafia sometime in November. There is just a strange feeling about this road, as the politically correct are begging to slay the political satirist, like a living far side cartoon, making a statement, about which is more corrupt.They say, it takes one to know one but even more to know what you are not . Will corporate media continue to slowly suffocate journalism, with wet rice paper slowly, layer upon layer until journalism is dead? Then they will come for individual’s rights of free speech like a snail over a razor blade until the sword rusts with mucus. This began about Bardstown Road but ends as a Bard, a Town and a Road.
The Tree
The Bells
The Blazing Guns
Seemed like fate never saw kind, on that drifter called Stone.
Riding the dusty trail, over the Rockies, alone.
With winter behind him, on that warm, spring day.
He was planning for Calgary, by the mid-month of May.
Winter was hard for him, fending off the bitter cold.
Was many a nights, the devil had wanted his soul sold.
But despite those hard months, he had managed to stave.
Enough strength to keep both feet, out of his own, self-dug grave.
When the folk of the town had found their loot gone.
Was then when Stone just happened, to come rambling on.
The truth of the matter, was not plain to see.
Because when Stone rode to town, it was all contrary.
With the real culprit gone, so no one else to answer for thieving.
Left Stone all alone with nowhere to run leaving.
Stone heard the bells of the small town church sound.
With guns blazing, the town folk shot the thief they had done found.
And because they were all, as mad as can be.
They hung poor old Stone, from an old hanging tree.
SHM
Form:
Guilty pleasures
has you on a Siberian Ferris wheel,
spinning rapidly
Gulag suicidal libido
urges you to cock the trigger and squeeze
Keep repeating the nightmare:
Six torture chambers
Six gas chambers
Six motel rooms
with five vacancies
It's your last chance to exit
this cursed promiscuous existence;
but you don't beg to get off,
this is how you like to get off
Six bridal chambers
Six bed chambers
Six hotel rooms
Face the sex gun ... spin the chambers,
and watch the cowards run
You don't like to play it safe,
law abiding abstinence makes no sense to you
You love the thrill of knowing you might die
from doing something you love to do
It's the way of a sex outlaw: hell raising and guns blazing
and booties shaking in every bar and brothel
Thrill-seeking junkie cowboy,
you're gonna stay on this rough ride,
try to buck the bronco
You got big macho dreams
of being the head legs-spread honcho ...
sweating beads of lead perspiration
in the fire down below
You need amoral nerves of steel,
if you wanna partner up with the devil
Mete out to the innocent souls much ricochet suffering
Promiscuous criminality don't pay ---
Doing anything with anybody,
then giving it to everybody ...
gonna send you to your grave one day
Guilty pleasures
has sentenced you to a life riddled with
holes in your two brains
Serving time in chains of misery and pain
The destination is oblivion,
for all who board this prison bullet train
Doc Holliday truly amazing
Sick to death and two six guns blazing
Though his blasting appeared not to be phasing
The calmness of his gelding equine’s grazing
This be the glory, how the west was won
By house of ill repute, and the six gun
Plenty of action, was never boring
Funeral parlors, were businesses soaring
Stank of many bodies in pine boxes
All human life was generalized poxy
In the west, principle way of the law
Generally how fast every man could draw
These early days were quite chaotic
Wyatt Earp’s moves were a bit methodic
The saloons were filled with poker tables
And many big bosoms of dance hall mabels
Indians drank of white man’s fire waters
Sheep herders were known as only free squatters
The winning of the west, was quite a quest
Reservations put Indians to the test
America has it’s many stories
How our west was won by many glories
So greatly was the west romanticized
We wonder how much was only lies
Well documentation of westward truths
Or documentation of many human spoofs
Maybe fraudulent claims, as was the hog leg’s aim
We accept no blame, but we’ll take the fame
Placed # 15
Inheritance
We are guardians of the future are trustees for
posterity though wars galore are our legacy
We leave to our children the genocide in shining armour
destruction that we vowed not to happen again
Its all in the mind and however we feel not involved we
soak up the human condition promote it in our thoughts
At the airport I picked up two of my triplets 23 now and
with one staying behind 23 plus 23 plus 1 = 47
It should have been easy to remember my parking lot number
2 K 47 two kind children and one loved one missing
My age when I met my lover 47 the writers ‘group 47’ maybe
the white death hunger winter in Europe that time
47 days until Christmas and 2 Kinfolk to arrive yet I however
instead chose 2 AK 47’s as my mnemonic automatically
As in 2 angry Kalashnikov guns blazing me back to that dark
gloomy place where my car had been rested for later
What kind of light what remembrance and outlook on life has
been planted like a bomb in my destructive perception
Do I accept when words convoluted connotations sinister
aberrations seep and creep the into the percipience of what I call home
Or must I refuse not to become guilty of killing by proxy
of destroying the heirloom in mind and in spirit
By not standing up to that covert insidious manipulation and
domination taking place in my head I suppose I am guilty as charged
14th November 2016
...Then working with the government,
who always liked more western cash,
they set up an agreement that
they hoped could contain this backlash.
Two scientists could see the arc,
and work to verify its age,
one from Harvard, and one Cambridge,
and to Axum both made their way.
The American, an old man,
Professor Hammond was name,
the Brit was a young grad student,
named Alice, with a genius brain.
As they settled into their work
neither of the scholars could know
that in neighboring Somalia
an evil man plotted a blow.
He went by the name Ibrahim,
whether it was real, no one knew,
established as a terrorist,
an Islamist, quite tried and true.
He’d built a name in civil wars,
the kind that always racked that place,
made a reputation with force,
he left death, and people displaced.
And though the man gained followers,
he was frustrated by his land,
ruined and lacking resources,
Ibrahim was an ambitious man.
When he heard the arc had been found,
an idea grew up in his mind,
Christians and Jews worshipped the thing,
a route to more money he found.
He took with him one hundred men,
slipped the border, went to Axum,
keeping his people outside town
until shadows of nightfall had come.
Then they attacked St. Mary’s Church,
stormed the building with guns blazing,
killing priests, security guards,
anyone they found resisting.
Quickly they sieved the old relic,
took Alice, Hammond, and four priests,
hostages until they got paid,
at which point they {might" be released.
Chased by police they all fled east,
back into the Somali state,
where they hid amongst the chaos,
where all involved did celebrate.
A scheme pulled on the infidel,
they would now pay to arm their foe!
They had no choice, if they did not
then to hell their relic would go!
Ibrahim put out a message,
a video, as such types do,
demanding millions for the arc,
it was seen by more than a few.
And there was a bunch of chatter,
amongst talking heads on TV,
talking of how such a relic
just found, could soon be history.
Religious types the world over
spoke of how it would be a crime
if such a thing would be destroyed,
the loss of a wonderous find.
All knew some action would come soon,
too many folks were up in arms,
talk of commandos, and or raids,
to Ibrahim it raised alarms...
CONTINUES IN PART III.
“FAREWELL BULLETS”
today I woke up tired
and hungover.
I was a little sore from my road trip
yesterday and the combination
was enough to get me complaining.
I went home,
kissed my son and said good morning.
he smiled as I dressed him for school.
the time came and the bus arrived right
on time.
I kissed him on his cheek,
I told him I loved him and
off he went into another
day free from the world's evil.
I grabbed my keys,
locked up and left.
as I drove to my next destination,
I fell into a daze.
I thought of how tired I was,
how hungover I was,
how sore I was and how I couldn't
wait until my son was grown enough
to walk to school.
it’s not that I mind the routine to be
quite honest,
I'm just tired, sore and hungover.
when I arrived where I was headed,
I stood in conversation with one of the
five females I have been around lately.
we talked of the road trip,
we talked of the drinks,
we talked of being tired
and sore. it was then we heard it.
multiple gun shots and a scream. then,
the sirens.
the pigs came in on their
four-tire horses,
guns blazing. another victim of those
that protect and serve their badge
instead of the people.
as the scream came in,
my hangover and
my tired and sore body
wasn't important anymore.
I suddenly missed my son
even though I just sent him off.
the man who fell victim to the abuse of
power will never know what it is to be
hungover,
tired and sore all while kissing his child
goodbye.
all while saying I love you.
I am fortunate to be
hungover, tired and sore.
I am fortunate to be a father
who can kiss his boy goodbye.
who can say I love you each day.
to you sir,
I bid you adieu.
By: Chicano Eddie
8-10-2016