Best Holster Poems
The child is a poet with innocent eyes
And a bumpity A-B-C rhyme,
A dancer whose feet with the rhythm of life
Move in jubilant one-two-three time.
The child is a doctor who heals with a kiss
And treats with a serum called smile,
A researcher who seeks out the meaning of life,
Then explains it with unflinching style.
The child is a chef who makes sandwich and Kool-Aid
And thinks it a royal repast,
A hero who battles the monsters and villains
And renders our land safe at last.
The child is a teacher, a sleuth, an explorer,
Controller of race car and ship,
Possessor of limitless spirit and mind
With holster and gun at the hip.
Reflections of children shine pure in the eyes
Of those who are watching them grow,
Remembering times when the sunrise meant journeys
To lands where adults cannot go.
Written in 1987
Categories:
holster, children, happiness, innocence,
Form:
Quatrain
It was now growing dark as the sun was going down
When a stranger rode into Soup Creek, a frontier town
No one could see his face, he was all dressed in black
An old boy was heard to say "I think he's come back".
He took his horse to the stable, then went to the boarding house
Before he went in looked across the street, to the town jailhouse
There was a familiar figure sat outside, in a rocking chair
Cradling a Winchester and the stranger, felt his cold stare.
He'd returned after all these years; he had something to prove
And just after a few days back in town, he would make his move
But Sheriff Koplin is no fool and he had planned up far ahead
And had formed a posse whilst the stranger slept in his bed.
Three fiesty girls from the saloon, Jan and Jenna, Tania too
And a Texas ranger called David who was just passing through
With gambler Milton who was deadly, with a colt forty five
And Tom the undertaker who looked more dead than alive.
It was the evening of the showdown; the stranger came out of the saloon
The sun was now setting but the tension had been building up since noon
From his holster he withdrew his pistol and then fired shots up into the air
The stranger was not one for living a peaceful life and he just didn't care.
Sheriff Koplin approached him and said "Hand over your gun"
And the stranger replied "Lighten up man, I'm just having fun"
The stranger was laughing now and looking down at his feet
The townsfolk were nervous and had disappeared off the street.
Then behind the stranger came a shout in a loud Texas drawl
It was Jenna disguised as an old woman, covered with a shawl
"You heard the sheriff " she shouted, "Put your gun on the ground"
The air was now thick with tension and you couldn't hear a sound.
Then from nowhere the rest of the posse appeared pistols in hand
They abhorred bullies and conflict and were prepared to make a stand
The stranger realised he couldn't win and threw his gun down
Walked to the livery stable to get his horse, and rode out of town.
The drama was now over but it could have gone either way
Sheriff Koplin and his posse restored peace, and had won the day
It was now days end in Soup Creek in that peaceful frontier town
All you could hear were chirping crickets as the sun was going down.
Written on 20th May 2022.
Categories:
holster, america, humor, sun,
Form:
Rhyme
Your strongest day is standing
just outside your door. Let it in.
Each day the sun comes home to you
it whispers with the wind
calling out your name.
This is no video game.
Life’s a bouquet banquet
made from your reflections.
You do not need directions.
Pick your moments carefully.
Stop and smell the roses,
leave your motor running
for the dangers trust exposes.
Listen to where life comes from
the beating sound of your own drum.
Make the most of music that it brings.
Unraveling all your tangled balls of strings.
With patience Iron out each peace,
holding tight to all you love
with nails and teeth.
Now put your stubby thumbs
through their tiny holster loops
and pull your britches up.
Hitch them high,
and puff out your chest !!
You’ve always been ready for this.
This is not a test.
This is your life.
Categories:
holster, adventure, character, courage, identity,
Form:
Free verse
If you are reading "the Adventures of Soda Pop" for the first time, read the first in the series and the story will make more sense. I hope you enjoy.
Ricky ran up the stairs to go to his room to prepare for the days fun. He put on his favorite pair of jeans and a western shirt with pearl buttons. From under his bed he pulled out a leather gun belt that held two cap guns. (apparently the monsters vacate the space under the bed during the day) As he strapped the belt around his waist, I could tell he liked how it felt on his hips. Ricky took one of the guns out of the holster and placed it back under the bed. At first I wondered why and before I knew it Ricky placed me upsidedown in the holster. I liked how the leather held me firmly in place, luckily I had been corked or Ricky would have been wearing purple instead of blue jeans. Ricky then started rummaging through his closet looking for his Daisy BB gun. After a few moments of searching he was happily holding it in his little hands. He shook it and I could hear the BBs rolling around inside the gun.
As Ricky walked down the stairs I could feel his imagination taking hold. Ricky felt as tall and powerful as any real cowboy. There was a certain coolness in his stride, if he had had on some cowboy boots instead of his black canvas runners, the picture would have been perfect. Ricky went into the kitchen to find Roy and Teresa, Mrs. Burns told him they had already left with some friends. No worries after all today Ricky was the "Lone Ranger" and I was Tonto! The adventure could begin.
Categories:
holster, adventure, childhood, , western,
Form:
Personification
Some modern folks, when they hear his name,
will roll their eyes and look ashamed,
thinking the cowboy is uncivilized,
with his hats, and guns, and round-up rides.
That somehow they are beyond the stuff,
to good for the wild, and the rough,
following some unwritten ‘elite’ law,
suppressing the urge to shout ‘yee-haw!’
But I think when it all is said and done,
cowboys are truly made of awesome…
Riding swift across the wide-open plains,
coat flapping behind like your horse’s mane,
maneuvering a large and panicked herd,
turning a stampede with iron nerves,
rough-hewn men cooking by the firelight,
coyote chorus yips through the night,
knowing that for all the wind and grit,
it sure beats sitting in an office.
A battered hat worth more than any pearl,
grabs the attention of the cowgirls,
boots that announce you in any room,
be you a mere hand, or fancy bride-groom.
Leather vests that dress up any shirt,
and somehow can even make fringe"work,
a bandana or a wild rag,
with a thousand uses, not a mere fad.
The tell-tale jangle comes from your spurs,
vast coat made out of buffalo fur.
Square-dance, line-dance, twirl a girl around,
to fiddle and steel guitar’s sound,
campfire songs to entertain the kids,
harmonicas to sing the blues with,
teaching the folks to throw a lasso,
then breaking out tricks with swirling rope.
Living life by a strong honor code,
one that good people would do well to know.
Wyatt Earp and his famous revenge ride,
Masterson cut Dodge City down to size,
Doc Holliday gambling with a death wish,
Billy the Kid, criminal, yet tragic,
Wild Bill holding those aces & eights,
and old Kit Carson, out blazing the way,
Buffalo Bill brought the people a dream,
and who can forget, the legend Bass Reeves?
A six-gun at ready, holster right side,
the lines of a Winchester, ever sublime.
Ranches that sprawl on mountain and prairie,
riding the trails where man can breath free,
rampaging rodeo, those guns are fun,
and damn can those barrel-racers run!
Living out of doors, by both skill and luck,
be it on a horse or a pick-up truck,
It’s clear that when all is said and done,
that cowboys are truly made of awesome.
Categories:
holster, america, appreciation, celebration, fun,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Bank robber Jim was one unlucky bloke
Went to draw his gun but the holster broke
It dropped on the bank floor
And went off with a roar
The shock was too much and he had a stroke...
Though he was unconscious he hadn't died
Woke in a coffin for his final ride
In a desparate bid
Banged on the coffin lid
But all he could hear was laughing outside...
Written 17th June 2021
Then someone shouted can you hear banging
It was quite faint because folks were singing
The sheriff prised off the lid
And he was so glad he did
Because he thought we'll have us a hanging...
Jim didn't know whether to laugh or cry
Resigned himself to the fact that he'd die
Saw sheriff holding a rope
Realised there was no hope
And for unlucky Jim the end was nigh...
He was taken to the gallows in town
Handcuffed and wearing nothing but a frown
Jim was then starting to choke
But with the drop the rope broke
The crowd screamed as poor Jim came tumbling down..
Unlucky Jim jumped up quick as a flash
As he passed the bank ran in and grabbed cash
He stole the first horse he saw
Then let out a loud yee haw
And for sweet freedom he made a quick dash...
Written 19th June 2021
A bounty hunter called Nevada Slim
Went after bank robber Unlucky Jim
With tracker Spirit Bear
They discovered Jims lair
And Jim's future was now looking quite grim...
Slim called out "put your hands in the air"
Jim grabbed his gun, Slim said "don't you dare"
But Jim was too fast
And let off a blast
Slim fell dead then Jim shot Spirit Bear...
Jim quickly packed his things and rode away
Thankful that he'd survived another day
He decided to lie low
But what old Jim didn't know
Was that Pinkertons were heading his way...
Jim was sleeping in the afternoon sun
And didnt hear the cocking of a gun
He woke up with dread
Saw guns at his head
And a lawman said "Jim looks like your done"...
Jim was handcuffed and they rode back to town
There to meet them was Sheriff and Judge Brown
The charges were read
Jim nodded his head
Sheriff said " this time Jim you're going down" ...
For Jims last request he asked for a smoke
And noticed the hangman had a new rope
He put a hood on Jims head
Jim dangled then he was dead
An escape this time!, there wasn't a hope...
Written 1st July 2021
RIP UNLUCKY JIM
Categories:
holster, humor,
Form:
Limerick
A glacier like a cowboy sat
Upon the foothills. And just like that
The climate changed from hope
To glad. And just like that a bar of soap
Was drawn from the rhinestone-clad holster.
With pink and orange stones it did stir
The emotions pride and reverence
But didn’t make sense
With its raven claw and bunny paw.
That type of injustice should be against the law.
To bathe with soap upon the skin
With water warm and a glass of gin,
Made cold with glacial ice, those are nice
Experiences to have. And then to roll the dice
Into the saloon and pollute the soul
With games of chance. Such a toll
Does pleasure take upon the Puritan
[for those believers, anyway]. A ban
Would ameliorate, if self-imposed.
Unfeeling cowboys are never so disposed.
Categories:
holster, christian,
Form:
Couplet
Gangsta politicians,
falling stars ... twinkling
of an eye
disappearing
Leper lips
halitosis blowing
Got there gun clips
and stacked deck
poker chips ...
Sin City bullets overflowing
Body politic,
staph tongue infection
Still the voters ain’t
getting sick
and tired of the lies
Coming from the mouth of frogs,
whose sticky words
attract a swarm of flies
Gangsta politicians,
falling stars ... Babel Tower wishing
Twitchy finger hearts
on the nuclear trigger
Hope got a tarry start
Poof!
The next moment
whole cities were disappearing
Spotted skin suits,
so profiteering from the mutated pain
Rotten to the root,
nether mind laws neglect the suffering
You can scream
up to the top tear of your lungs,
but corporate desert adders can’t hear
Dare to dream,
poll take the right party plunge ...
Now, does that pledge lessen the fear?
Gangsta politicians
demand sycophant loyalty
Falling stars
want your eyes bowed down
before their flag
Begging for a peace of crumb
on your trembling knees
Can’t you see,
can not you read
the tea leaves?
Future past
is on a thundercloud roll
Terrifying prophecies
have so long ago foretold
how the end’s gonna be
Gangsta politricians,
Rublecon paws ... blood-licking
Houdini toes,
the next moment,
without a cash trace disappearing
Falling stars
want you joined
to their holster hips
Taking a serpentine bullet ride
to the bottomless pit
Categories:
holster, slam, spiritual, truth, wisdom,
Form:
Rhyme
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
Categories:
holster, analogy, family, fantasy, grandparents,
Form:
Rhyme
7/20/19
"I'll be your Joker"
Still a registered voter
Signed up to be an organ donor
And finally became a car owner
I rarely use a controller
When it's time, I'll man up and buy a stroller
As well as panels that are solar
Near and far from areas that are polar
Doesn't matter if I ever get a Range Rover
Or Roadster
I'm barely ever sober
Always been a loner
And stoner
3 months away from another October
If you want to be my Harley Quinn, I'll be your "Joker"
Not no poser
Where are you Scully? This is agent Mulder
Anytime you want, I'll be your shoulder
To lean on
From here to way beyond
For eons
Where's my Marge? I am Homer
I'll be your rock over and over
Since I've gotten nobler
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder
I've seen it so much, I could compile a folder
Life's one giant rollercoaster
It's really revving my motor
All these women giving me a b***r
And then the cold shoulder
As if I am an ogre
I remain a soldier
Drinking high end coffee, no more Folgers
Getting wiser and older
Becoming bolder
As the world gets colder
I'm not feeling dolor
Just multi tasking, while a fire continues to smoulder
Maintaining my composure
Finding closure
Getting closer
To greatness instead of being mediocre
I enjoyed the work I did with several growers
As well as trapping some gophers
Occasionally I'll partake in poker
Even though I'm not the best hoaxer
Once or twice I used a fire stoker
When it came to Mary Jane, I was a doter
A fan of it's fragrance, it's not what I'd call an odor
I consume some products made by Clover
And am usually in places considered remoter
It's time I get a toaster and holster
I don't really need a Flame Thrower
Or to get my face on a most wanted poster
Suit yourself if you want to wear a boater
Or choker
Houses in continual foreclosure
Not always wise to go for the price that is lower
Someday my mind and body will be slower
And one day it'll all be over
10-4 over and out
And now you know, what i'm really about
Not just by word of mouth
As they say don't look a gift horse in the mouth
Regardless of if you had your doubts
By: Dalton Ogletree
Categories:
holster, dark, deep, poetry, rap,
Form:
Rhyme
The Bad, The Ugly and The Good (aka: Bad, Badder, Baddest)
The Bad
I am the gun-toting, God-fearing Ganja Gangsta.
I’ll smoke you, pray for you, then have my daily siesta!
I answer to no one, and fear no man; No Sir!!!
I answer to only One Master. That’s Heaven’s Prime Minister.
I am the player-hating, man-baiting Sister Disaster.
I’ll woo you, thrill you, then …kill you; true that, mister!
I just swagger thru the city with my ‘Ghetto Blaster’,
I don’t mean sounds, fool!!! I mean my ‘piece’ … to blast ya!!!
I am the mean-looking, menacing Monster Mobster.
I’ll cut ya, shred ya, and have me a pasta fiesta.
I do not boil ‘em…! No sah!! I’d eat a live lobster!
I’m so mean ….Hey! ..I’ll even steamroller your hamster!!!
I am the fast-talking, Bible-bashing Pastor Imposter.
I’ll bless you, fleece you, then sex-up Sister Disaster
I’m just a shyster - but please don’t tell the Menacing Mobster!
She’s the God-fearing Gangsta’s wife - and the Mobster’s sister!
The Ugly (Badder)
I am the flesh-eating, life-sapping, Cluster-Sinister.
I am impartial; care not for class, colour, creed or gender.
I am microbe, but not a person-respecter; ask the sex inspector.
I am sorry, but for me to survive, you have to become a spectre.
I am the tear-jerking, game-changing, people-Prankster
I get called ‘*****’, ‘Sod’, …some even call me a ‘Mater-Conjugator’.
I don’t like Gangsters, Mobsters and especially that dodgy Pastor
I may get mad, or even get even; Call me ‘Life’, or call me ‘Karma’.
The Good (Baddest)
I am the Beginning, the Alpha/Omega; Heaven’s only Prime Minister
I wrote the Good Book, but look inside, I have never been a Jester!
I carry fire and brimstone to bolster my holster - you’d better helter-skelter!
I mete out justice, and vengeance administer: you'd better pray faster!!!
(Fg 81.5.8 - January 2016)
Categories:
holster, bullying, funny, hip hop,
Form:
Rhyme
Billy the kid kept roving around,
A campfire here, a cowhand there,
He traveled alone through country & town,
Always headed somewhere,
One certain day he rode into town,
His forty-five strapped on his side,
Just to stop and drink one round,
Then continue on with his ride,
He hitched his horse and went in thru,
The front tavern bat-wing doors,
He didn't see anyone he knew,
Just a couple cowboys and some _hores,
He moseyed on up, ordered a drink,
Sarsaparilla I'll have here for me!
Down the hatch, smooth as a wink,
Then he was given another for free,
He thanked the man kindly, turned around,
To leave thru the bat-winged door,
A cowboy stood up and stared Billy down,
Lookin' for trouble and more!
[Cowboy]: "Hey boy! let me teach ya how ta shoot!
Come"ere gimmee that there gun!"
"If'n ya don't I'm gonna plant this 'ere boot!
I'll show ya how the real West is run!"
[Billy]: "Mister, I'm not here ta play!"
"I've dealt with yer kind before,
"So please kindly step outa my way,
And be thankful ya don't see me no more."
[Cowboy]: "Boy! yer messin' with Danger Dan...man!"
"And yer jawin's 'bout ta seal yer fate!"
[Billy]: "Mister, yer soon to be Dan the damned man!"
"If yer gun ain't shootin' fast 'n' straight!"
"Like a rattlesnake springin' from the devils hand!"
"Billys gun cleared his holster that fast!"
"Billy's bullet knocked the gun out of Danger Dan's hand!"
"In a single straight shot blast!"
[Cowboy]: "Uh-h-h! I ain't ever seen a gun so fast!
As the one ya shot sure coulda killed me!"
"Should ya pardon my trouble, may I ask...
What is yer name....really?"
[Billy]: "Mister, it's how ya live, not how fast the gun,"
"that makes a man a man,"
"Most my life's been on the run,
Killin's no future or plan!"
"I'm stranger to most, still livin' the past,
Feelin' bad ta what I did,
"Some crossed my path, ain't here ta boast,
I'm Billy The Kid!"
Categories:
holster, crazy, horse, journey,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
My Heart beats faster when I touch my Gun
Loch David Crane,
Border Patrol Auxiliary
26 January 2010
We track illegal aliens in the snow.
It's easy to see where their booties go.
But "huddled masses yearning to breathe free"
should wait in line and come here legally.
Your thievery dishonors those who came
here legally, but have Latino names.
If you, like others, waited patiently
we'd welcome you "from sea to shining sea."
"Observe, report, direct" and document:
these lawful practices are our intent.
On nights like this, lit brightly by the Moon,
I monitor the freqs from our comms room.
My heart beats faster when I touch my gun:
it's in the holster empty, safety on.
(freqs are frequencies on the radio in the Communications center.)
Categories:
holster, america, dedication, history, immigration,
Form:
Sonnet
"Westward, further out ..."
Dusk washes over you
warm like honey
saltry and sweet
immersed in amber tones of
apricot alerts and rose
swirling unfurling peonies
the blooming silent dancing clouds
rush over white horses
crashing against
bracken green emeralds
the depths open
and unfathomable,
who can read the eyes of
an unexplored ocean,
the shallows
slide under your feet,
you turn your face up to the Sun and smile,
you feel like you’re bathing in Manuka,
it’s moorish and incurably medicinal,
the salt spray chasing northwards
up along bare legs mid thigh
on another shore
the uncertain sure calls,
the stories are a legion
in multitude of treasures
like beached shells whispering
to ears that are not listening;
you think of wading out further
where the turning back is harder,
the song calls you evocatively
further westward like a drug
you’d gladly holster star shot
drinking life in like a last shot
like a burning addiction,
your world is sliding strong
tide-drifted under your feet,
flesh and bone trying to bed
the undertow and its
neverending mystery
dragging you further out
westward
incomplete
complete
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Categories:
holster, muse,
Form:
Narrative
As the crow flies
I died. No child under nipple. No child under bib.
I died. Without ever having loved or been in love.
I died as the crow flies. Straight and placid.
I died. unmanned, in holster, uninhabited.
I died coralled up in moments, to tangeled to give an inch.
I died as the white birch tree lives.
I died in the desert. A sponge for the sun.
I died in a boat capsized in the ocean.
To small for the August Grunion run.
I died as the pen dries,
leaving letters undone.
I died up in fetters.
Rusted tension.
I died never forgiving my father, or mother, or anyone.
I died never apologizing to my sister,
the one they didnt want.
I died wrapped up in blankets
frozen to the ground.
I died not crying for help, no telegram, no telephone.
I died never sending a single postcard home.
I died never knowing my name or names of my friends.
Oh, i died, and i died
as if never have lived.
Categories:
holster, goodbye,
Form:
Free verse