Best Guns Blazing Poems | Poetry

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My View

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.
				


Copyright © Dale Ciarkowski | Year Posted 2011


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Spaceship

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 


Copyright © Heather Secrest | Year Posted 2014


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The Champion

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'




Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016


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PARASITE

Aint nothing in life so sadly parasitic 
As the smug self-delusional heckling critic 
Full of repressed envy with a manner most vile 
He slithers to his seat to vent his hurtful 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 
Doesn't have the guts to get up on stage anyway 
Sad man, sad man, shitty little sad man. 

Really rates himself as a man who knows his stuff 
Shouting 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 result 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
     He's the 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, shitty little  sad man.

















Copyright © Louis Spence | Year Posted 2014


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My Africa

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


Copyright © John birch | Year Posted 2016


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Tombstone - Like The Four Horsemen

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…


Copyright © Tirzah Conway | Year Posted 2011


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Bardstown Road at a Glance

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.


Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2014


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The Tree The Bells The Blazing Guns

         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 
  
    


Copyright © Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Year Posted 2013


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Bullet Train to Oblivion


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


Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017


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"Our Amazing West"

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


Copyright © john freeman | Year Posted 2010


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Endangered Inheritance

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


Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016


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FAREWELL BULLETS

“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




Copyright © CHICANO EDDIE | Year Posted 2016


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When the heat scolds

Elude yourself because you know you can.

Allude to yourself your master plan.

Don't go guns blazing or you'll lose the day.

Better to find another way!

Remember once that you had respect.

Remember once that you could respect.

Remember that they take it all away.

Friends of one time will inevitably betray.

Selflessness has lost its way.

Selfishness is here to stay.

No one cares deep down no more.

Close their lives behind the happy door!

Survival asks questions of our souls

Turn your back when the heat scolds?

Where were you when I was down?

Where were you when I was lost?

Promised all, at any cost?

Delivered nothing, your promises lost?

Now alone, I'll find a way.

To rebuild my life a better way.



Copyright © T.I.R.O. JY | Year Posted 2016


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Cowboy Night at the Corner Bar

          Cowboy Night at the Corner bar
The dark and the wind and the grey broken sidewalk,
pushed me to the bar, like a bunker at night with its 
black door ajar 
Cowboy Night at the Corner Bar

country was playing which drew me right in, 
and when I had pushed through the smoke and the hum
I saw they were dressed like Gene Autrey for fun, 
with 45 replicas bought through the mail, with bullets 
big as biscuits shining round their tum

a Sargasso sea of mutual respect, they heaved and they shoved
to the foot-stomping sound:
then as if by order one by one, they turned round and gave me 
“the hanging –judge”  look, (not seeing my Jimmy Stewart tassels 
and Tonto black eyes)

and sure as I turned to go back out the door, someone threw a Bowie
knife into the floor, so I kicked a spittoon and splashed their fantasy good,
so five or six followed me, guns  blazing with hate 
and I shot down three of them just past the gate





with spurs jingling and instincts tingling a friend from the whorehouse’s 
winchester fired: she shot down with pleasure, then came out with measure,
undertaker Murphy, all suited and clean and he  gave me that “don’t blame me”, smile, 
the one they all do…

so I holstered the big iron still smoking and hot, remembering 
the cowboys I’d dressed up and shot






Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015


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Mister President It's Rumored

Mister President It's Rumored
By Franklin Price
3/8/2017

Mister President it's rumored
That you always say what's what
At times sounds like the words you speak
Are coming from your butt

You must be believable
With all the words we hear
Always speak them from the mouth
And never from the rear

We know you're not political
It's not why you're President 
To make this country great again
Is the reason you were sent

If you sound ridiculous
When you tweet or when you speak
We will not be behind you
In anything you seek

The establishment, guns blazing,
Shoot down everything you say
Don't need more ammunition
From what you speak today

Stop, think, and be the President,
The one that you can be,
And we will get behind you
Think before you speak and see


Copyright © Franklin Price | Year Posted 2017


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War Torn Blues

They drop me in the killing zone
And I start to freak
Can't get the general on the phone 
Because he's a stupid Greek

With all my guns blazing 
The wind in my hair
The bullets more than grazing
I just don't care

I kill them one by one
I kill them two by two
Having so much fun 
Killing all the troops

Than I stop and look around
I realize their all dead
So I finally start to calm down
No longer seeing red

And as I sit and recollect
I realize I'm just drunk
I'm no Vietnam vet 
And that didn't explain
The dead body in my trunk


Copyright © Nathan D. | Year Posted 2017


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Merciless Beings

I finally wait 'till it's over
But anhilation's got me at throat
I don't wanna wake with lonely mistake on my mind, tonight

I know it's gonna catch me one last time
Exposing no weakness
Merciless beings from inside
Soon it will bring me to my knees
Still I can feel its wrath

I finally wait 'till it's over
With guns blazing I'm not quite alone
So I'll make one last stand to prove who I am, merciless, silent

I know it's gonna catch me one last time
Exposing no weakness
Merciless beings from inside
Soon I will lie in a bloodbath
Still it won't destroy me


Copyright © Charles Grisham | Year Posted 2005


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If you took the time

If you took the time you'd see I'm the right man for you
If you looked a little deeper you'd see I've got the Right plans for you
Everytime you fell short I gave a Hand to you
But you won't take the time to see I'm the right man for you 

In a world full of girls, how is it possible I only think of one? 
I felt too much, so now I'm in the club to drink myself numb
Tempted to message you, but I deleted your contact in my phone so I can't do that
Thinking ahead, because I still have my pride and I don't want to lose that

I only had eyes for you and my heart's set
So walking away will always be a hard step
You've pushed me away so much, and I haven't got far left 
I tried fixing you, yet you only caused my heart mess

Maybe you just want to have fun
I can't be mad because you're still Young
Due to my past situations I'm older than I should be
I just thought I'd be enough because even in the Worst situations I gave you a good me 

When you needed to cry I gave you my shoulder 
Never did I think you'd stab me in the back when you leant over
I'll swim through my tears because I refuse to drown 
But it's ironic how I come all guns blazing just to be shot down 

If you took the time you'd see I'm the right man for you 
If you took the time you'd see I had the right plans for you
One day you'll wake up and realise what you missed out on
It's a shame you never took the time, because now I'm gone



Copyright © Alex Duffy | Year Posted 2018