Best Holsters Poems
'Twas an ominous moment when rode into town
To its marshal defy and outdraw and gun down
A notorious, murderous varmint named Slade
Who had widows and orphans throughout the west made.
The next morning, as destined, they met on the street
To for title of gunfighter finest compete.
Marshal Matson, with duty to outlaw arrest,
Versus Slade, risking life in the ultimate test.
At a distance the townspeople gathered to see
The historical challenge that thrilling should be.
Two tall figures unconquered and stoic and brave,
With the loser interred in a premature grave.
Foes whose shadowy faces beneath Stetson brim
Wore expressions determined, ferocious, and grim.
Hands were poised over holsters attached to their thighs,
Jaws were set, hands were steady, and angry were eyes.
Doomed to sprawl in the dust would be gunslinger slain,
While the victor would toasted and honored remain.
Marking one more rash braggart whose lifetime is done
Would be notch newly carved in his pearl-handled gun.
No one knows who drew first for the blur was too fast.
Barrels blazed in a loud, simultaneous blast.
Then a second and third and again and again
Until chambers were empty, but still stood two men.
Errant bullets great havoc had caused all around.
Precious water was gushing from tower through holes.
An unfortunate, low-flying buzzard was downed,
Signs were dangling from hinges, and riddled were poles.
From the crowd that was watching arose a great roar,
But of laughter, not cheering as always before.
The combatants, embarrassed and hanging their heads,
Scurried back to concealment in brothel room beds.
All night long drunken witnesses filled the saloons
To guffaw, raise a rumpus, and target spittoons.
While on opposite ends of the town slinked away
Into darkness two shadows disgraced on that day.
So astoundingly awful and wayward was aim
That the pair's reputations were never the same.
Butts of jokes the names Matson and Slade have since been.
Still remembered for showdown that neither could win.
Categories:
holsters, adventure, history, humor, parody,
Form:
Quatrain
...Dedicated to the memory of my great Uncle Fred,
Spanish American Veteran & worked a "night job" during
the depression, while supporting wonderfully my Mom's
family on the south side of Chicago, when she was young,
Grandpa had lost everything, but Uncle Fred saved our family
I have never been to another planet,
Tho when I walk the early morning streets
Of the meat packing district, my feet have
Left this earth. Floating unease courses
Through my body... lights, sights, sounds
And smells never before registered in my
Physical and emotional inventory confront
Me. My ancestors travelled these same paths
Many years ago, usually with shoulder holsters
And homemade body armor. My senses
Understand this heritage, I traverse
Cautiously as if walking downhill on a
Pilgrimage. Tonight I shall visit Mars, in the
Shadow of Venus, cradled in the arms of the
Crescent Moon.
Categories:
holsters, family,
Form:
Lyric
David slings a rock
Cop holsters a glock, Lizzie Borden packs an axe
Mac he packs the knife, Billy battles with a club, Tommy’s gun is a sub
Kelly’s got one too, Bazooka Joe Is Gum, Peter Gunn isn't,Colt45not malt
Nor is it a horse, horseshoes & handgrenades, canons have big balls, Doc
Holiday had TB Rock Hudson had HIV, James Dean crashes his car,Hank Williams crashes a bar, Natalie Wood don’t float, Cain killed his brother, Juliette drank poison for her lover, Rev. Jim Jones killed with cool-aid, Whitey Bulger he got paid,dead man walking gets to eat Rodney King
got beat, Cupid’s arrow as Clyde Barrow, Mama Cass choked on ham
57,000 gone in Nam, Four dead in Ohio, Kamikazes fall 1941, again
they fall 2001Iraqi leader with a rope, John Belushi too much dope,
Charles Manson is alive MichaelJackson isn’t,Saturday night special
is very ordinary, Fast and furious is the crime, Dick Clark just his
time Pirate victims walk the plank, THINK,
Next I’ll come rolling in a tank
Hear the whistle of my missile
Dirty Harry had the biggest
The Derringer is small
Smokey Bear forest fire
Greek funeral is a pyre
Too many +’s or -’s
Is electric surges
Woman and child
sing the dirges
Walking dead
Are zombies
Fat man and
Little Boy
Are atom
Bombies
Categories:
holsters, conflict, courage, death, metaphor,
Form:
Shape
To a rhythm my feet were moving.
Left, right, T.A.N.G.O.
Moving at a pace full of life and spirit.
A willing partner I had.
Twirl, pause, five steps always ahead.
Stamp and up he holsters me.
He was best with the twist.
My hips would gyrate.
Moving at the steady pace of his grasp.
Completely igniting my body fiercely.
I could not help but change my pace.
To a beat from Santana
I enacted to a tarantella dance.
Feeling his strong hands;
Hold, feel, touch and inflict.
Aphrodisiac some would say.
Perfect partner I thought.
1, T.W.O.S.T.E.P. we go
1, 2 he leads me.
I follow like a loyal dog, the irony.
I loved dancing.
I loved dancing with him.
Cha-cha he changed the pace.
Cha-cha I felt my heart beat.
His hands slithering.
His body away from me it went.
Coming back again for a sultry dance of shag.
The dream partner I needed.
Zouk he dances again.
Paso-doble he serenaded.
My heartbeat getting stronger.
My feet moving willingly.
Moving closer.
His hands grabbed me softly closer.
Waltzing he teased the tip of my nose.
Moving slowly down to my lips.
Allemande our arms where.
He whispered in a tricotee tone.
Au revoir my sweet.
I’m sorry to be such a bag.
But our dance has come to an end.
Cakewalk he strode away.
A partner he was to me.
But never was I to him.
Fox trot I complimented myself.
A fool I felt as I broke in a hora dance alone.
My perfect partner was gone.
I guess those who understand dance moves will understand this, but Im pretty sure its understandable ;-)
© Herzel Poshiwa
Categories:
holsters, dance, goodbye, lust,
Form:
Blank verse
Magazine ads and newspaper obituaries
skitter across the streets
like tumbleweed in the desert.
Rims the size of carriage wheels roll by.
Everyone's holsters are filled,
even the children carry pistols.
The schools are ghost towns
but the saloons stay occupied.
This is the Wild, Wild West.
Categories:
holsters, cowboy-western, history, introspection, life,
Form:
Free verse
WESSON
GIVES A LESSON
WITH A .357
DAVID SLINGS A ROCK
COP HOLSTERS A GLOCK
LIZZY BORDEN PACKS AN AXE
MAC HE PACKS THE KNIFE
BILLY BATTLES WITH A CLUB
TOMMY’S GUN IS A SUB
KELLY’S GOT ONE TOO
BAZOOKA JOE IS GUM
PETER GUNN IS NOT
COLT .45 IS NOT MALT
NOR IS IT A HORSE
HORSESHOES AND
HAND GRENADES
CANONS HAVE BIG BALLS
DOC HOLIDAY HAD TB
ROCK HUDSON HAD HIV
NATILIE WOOD DON’T FLOAT
NATILIE HOLLAWAY DON'T FLOAT
THE TITANIC BOAT DON'T FLOAT
JAMES DEAN CRASHED HIS CAR
HANK WILLIAMS CRASHED HIS BAR
DIRTY HARRY HAD THE BIGGEST
THE DERRINGER IS SMALLEST
CAIN MURDERED HIS BROTHER
JULIETTE DRANK POISON FOR HER LOVER
JIM JONES KILLED WITH COOL-AID
SLASHING WRISTS WITH A BLADE
BOW AND ARROW KILLS THE SAME
AS BONNIE OR CLYDE BARROW
CHARLES MANSON IS ALIVE
MICHAEL JACKSON IS NOT
IRAQI RULER WITH A ROPE
JOHN BELUSHI TOO MUCH DOPE
SATURDAY NIGHT SPECIAL IS ORDINARY
FAST AND FURIOUS IS THE CRIME
PIRATE VICTIMS WALK THE PLANK
THINK! NEXT TIME I”LL BRING A TANK
HEAR THE WHISTLE OF MY MISSILE?
AFTER THAT WHAT DO YOU BET?
I’LL COME FLYING IN A FIGHTER JET
SMOKEY BEAR’S RIGHT TO “BEAR” ARMS
OR DID WE JUST ARM BEARS?
NEVER STIFLE MY RIFLE
THIS IS MY RIFLE THIS IS MY GUN
ONE FOR FIGHTING ONE FOR FUN
CADENCE…
BANG - BANG - BANG - BANG - BANG - BANG
RELOAD
MOLON LABE
COME AND TAKE THEM
THE ONLY WAY FREEDOM OF SPEECH WORKS
IS BECAUSE THE 1st AMENDMENT
IS BACKED BY THE 2nd AMENDMENT
Categories:
holsters, america, conflict, death, education,
Form:
Free verse
As I ride across the high plains desert
large gaps of open, arid scenery whisk by
burning sun is heating up old rippled windows
jostling riders jiggle and jump, jerk and sway
to the click, clack, click clack of wooden tracks
towards Tucumcari, New Mexico; Gateway To The West.
Sounds of the Old Wild West stir up the imagination
stories linger, like the great train robbery of Black Jack Ketchum
that occurred in 1897 near Tucumcari
where he and his bandits secretly hid the stash of gold
long before the train whistle blew near the station.
Clickity, clack, clickity, clack, or could that be horses’ hooves
galloping alongside the old steam engine tracks?
As desert dust kicks up, I envision ghosts of riders
wild west cowboys catching up, with guns out of holsters
shouting, “Stop the train! Get the gold!”
“Next stop, Tucumcari!”, calls out the conductor
I am shaken out of my daydream and look around
I view humble buildings huddling within the arroyos
these people are proud of their Southern Pacific heritage
for here in the desert you’ll not find a heartier folk
than those within this land of grit and sizzling sun.
Categories:
holsters, history, usa,
Form:
Free verse
At the 5:00 whistle
When the sunset in late November
Is less light and more molten
Like a blast-furnace window
Glowing above the highway home
Goo spilling from its sparkling ladle
Bent
At the off-ramp’s arthritic elbow
The city smolders
Under
The backs and braces of its groaning bridges
Like a half smoked cigarette
Crushed under the heel of a boot
An entire city is snuffed out.
The Man, my father, comes to this setting sun
As a welder
Flipping down his black mask
For his last day at work
With stars still tracing cross his eyes
And his factory-floor poems loose in his head
Like nuts and bolts rattling in his toolbox.
His visiting grandchildren
Sent from the Coasts for Thanksgiving
Clung like empty holsters to his massive thighs
May someday think Grandpa, what did you do with your life?
He wants to kill them
Kill them all
Lick his pink slip like a Christmas card envelope
And hang himself
With a drill
Still
Plugged into his whining hand
But on his last day home
With smokestacks steaming like gray volcanoes
The sunset remains wondrous to him
The Makar the Creator
He envisions a flower molded from bronze
Bloomed and shaped from his callused hands.
Categories:
holsters, america, change, courage, integrity,
Form:
Free verse
Shots fired
In a western town
Smoke clears
From the barrel of a gun
Two arch rivals
In a duel of death
Who's the better gunslinger
Will be put to the test
Bullets fly
On a mission to kill
Only the Bulls-eye shooter
Holsters his weapon again
Sheriff falls
To bite the dust
A cowboy escapes
Trailed by bounty hunters and hounds
A reward is set
On church walls and saloons
"Wanted dead or alive"
Reports Tombstone daily news
Categories:
holsters, conflict, death, people, ,
Form:
Verse
A princess dressed up in lace with a crown
Cowboys, their toy guns in holsters abound
White painted faces dressed up like a clown
Supermen with their capes flying all ‘round
They travelled thru the streets without a care
Gathering treats from houses in a row
Trusting their neighbors, no harm to ensnare
Simpler times replaced, now nowhere to go
They must visit safe houses for their fun
Too dangerous to wander aimlessly
Safe treats must be approved by everyone
There’ll be no more malicious trickery.
When did a cute costume filled atmosphere
Become a disturbing night full of fear?
10/20/16
Categories:
holsters, fun, holiday, , cute,
Form:
Sonnet
The Naked Gun
Sound asleep at the jail
A young lad lifts both guns
From the unsuspecting law man
Who is already undressed in his dreams
With abandoned holsters
The lad takes off down the street
Yelling at passersby to sell the fire arms
To anyone for 2 bits
Someone comes up from behind
Taps the lad on the shoulder
Snake eyes to snake eyes the old man pierces the day
Holds the youth in his sights as he says
“Is 25 cents worth losing your life over boy?”
He drops the law mans naked guns
Runs forever for what he’s done
Categories:
holsters, conflict, corruption, culture, history,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
FIFTY6FABELSOFCHARLAX
FIFTY6FABELSOFCHARLAX
CHARLAX
The Arizona Kidd
PART ONE
The Path Of The Wind
The Arizona Kidd hung up his spurs the day the tree split into crosses from the
lightning bolt surmising that his LORD was not well pleased with him that day
the Sherriff made his play. The Kidd wears a Jean Vest and spurs his boots are
always black and shiny his Hat is leather with a nickel band no feather his Indian
friends one day took his Rodeo hat and stuck a feather in it and laughed so now
he avoids his Indian friends. The Holsters on his web belt are reversed for his
quick draws the one on the left is his Silver plater hanggun. The holster on the
right has a Gold Plated thumb gun the trigger is tied back to shoot the bullits one
by one in a quick lethal manner he is shooting at the son of man to warn them to
be left alone at sunrise come. He used to use the silver bullits but the leaded
ones are nicer and the cost is so much cheaper and the Golden bullits on the
belt are costly and not cheep palaver is not his forte. Listen as this tale is
fabeled. He was drinking whiskey the Sherriff swore he would arrest him or die
with his boots on trying to uphold the lawman looked like he had never missed a
meal his bald headed visage in a grimace climbing up that hill to get a look down
on that killer's camped out near the tree was tall and filled with wormwood and
on that fatefull day the wind made a mourning noise and came near to watch the
Sheriffs' play with the Arizona Kidd. He could not see into the sun. This was the
Sherriff's thinking some people call it cheating.
Categories:
holsters, brother, childhood, cowboy-western, faith,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Military boots grip the pavement,
hair in a Sarah Connor ponytail
Got her sunglasses on at midnight,
waiting patiently for the right ride
to stop
And swing open an invitation
to rest her road wary bones
From the bend of the elbow,
to the cut leather gloved hand
waving a five finger salute
With a Rambo blade strapped to the thigh
of her shredded, faded blue jeans,
she has no hesitation riding shotgun
with a human unknown
Inside her deerskin vest,
she holsters a Beretta 9-mil
Trained as a sniper ... shoot to kill
Speaking politely to the stranger,
she tersely says: “keep your hands off the merchandise,
and keep your eyes on the road
And please, don’t make me have to say it twice ...
I'm saying this once, and I'm saying it nice"
With a nod of understanding,
they both settle in for the long haul
The ten thousand raven-strand beauty
says she’s going halfway to wherever
the occupant’s destination is
She remarks with a wry smile: “tonight ain’t such a bad day to live”
The driver assesses the situation,
and glumly decides that tonight ain’t a good day to die
So the hitchhiker exits from the vehicle,
thanks the stranger for the rest and the ride
After getting a bath, a meal and a good night sleep
from the local comfort environs;
she packs her gear, it’s time to be on the move again
There’s always someplace that can use her unique skills
Heading back to the edge of the road,
with no particular place in mind to go ... just stay on the eagle fly
Wing it on the sky dive
Hitchhiker, free and windblown —
With storm cloud eyes thunder bursting,
she only focuses on which car to next parachute in
Categories:
holsters, character, dark, travel, woman,
Form:
Free verse
When I was very young
All I really wanted
To be was an Indian.
My mother always read to me -
Stories of fairies and elves,
Of princesses and ogres, witches,
And brownies who did good deeds.
Poems, “Wynken, Blynken and Nod”,
“The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat”,
And “The Sugar Plum Tree”.
Books, Alice in Wonderland,
The Little Colonel stories, and
The Five Little Peppers.
(I wonder if my grandchildren
Have ever heard of any of the
Old-fashioned stories and poems
Which were all magic to me.)
But, most of all, I loved
Longfellow’s poem Hiawatha.
“By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining deep sea water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis…”
I hear my mother almost singing
Those magical words from
“The Childhood of Hiawatha”.
I could see Hiawatha growing up
And learning Indian ways in
The woodlands of his youth.
I wanted to live in the woods,
To learn to talk with animals
And know their secrets.
I wanted to wear moccasins
And build a birch bark canoe!
One Christmas my brother got
A cowboy suit and hat and holsters,
But I, wonder of wonders,
Got a “real” Indian dress
With designs of tiny beads,
A fringe on the skirt,
And a headband with feathers!
I told my friends I was part Indian,
That my great grandmother
Was a real live Indian!
When it got back to my mother
She just said, “What stories you tell!”
Although I outgrew the dress,
The dream stayed with me
Throughout my childhood -
Sort of wishful thinking.
I always wanted to
Be close to nature.
Much of my childhood
I spent by myself, somewhat
Of a loner, climbing trees,
Making hideouts in the woods,
Walking in streams
To “cover my tracks”.
That “Indian child” I was
Still lives on in the
Recesses of my memory.
Maybe that’s why now, “grown up”,
I love walking in the woods
Or foraging by the ocean,
Why Stalking the Wild Asparagus
Is one of my favorite books,
Why I love picking wild blueberries
And grapes and making jam, or
Digging for clams and mussels.
Why I HAD to experiment with cooking
Slipper shells and making
Seaweed pudding and “Sumac-ade”.
Of course, I realize,
As well as anyone, that
The life of an Indian was not
As idyllic as I had once believed,
But, even now, after
All these years have passed,
It appears that
My “inner Indian”
Is alive and well and
Living on Martha’s Vineyard!
Categories:
holsters, childhood, growing up, introspection,
Form:
Free verse
Two of Eight
My back’s against the wall
Cold granite above me
Mountain stream to the right
On the left a big ol’ spruce tree
Almost three hours back
I was holed by a shot
Given to me from a Ute rifle
And they want me a lot
My hoss caught one too
He got me to this place
High among the peaks
His final breath to win the race
Once I cussed him
As not worth his feed
But when the chips where down
He proved a most noble steed
I am alone here now
My own personal Alamo
I know here I will die
Only a short time to go
It could be worse though
I have no wife to cry
No young-uns to carry on
No family to notify
All I can do now is
Make them Ute’s earn it
If I have no family to mourn
Let the Ute’s sing of it
I hold no hate for them
For this is their way of life
So I must not show cowardess
When they end my life
For if I must die
As I know I will
I will meet my maker
With my scalp belt full
I have not gone down to death
With out counting my own score
Three of eight dead now
And I plan to take more
My Winchester is empty
That is now matter now
This wont be fought at range
They come for my scalp now
I draw my colts from their holsters
Let them come then!
To bring an end to me!
To bring me home again!
They come for me now
I can hear them now
Just over the ridge
And I know just how
My colts are ready in my hands
I will go as a wolf should
Fighting with my last breath
As only a warrior could
Two of eight now stand looking
At the man who fought bravely
Three of bullet one of arrow have fallen
As two look on gravely
They will not take
This white man’s scalp
Or the brave man’s weapons
It would be no help
Tonight in the Ute lodges
There lifts a warriors song
A man wounded and dying
But still fought on.
Categories:
holsters, cowboy-western, death, me, family,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry