Best Pellet Poems
The sun yawns in the horizon as it flutters its eyes
Honey – yellow, orange, and shades of red
as it goes into a deep slumber as the moon awakes in the skies.
Heaven vast upon the seas
a pellet of darkest blue violet to a dark inky storm,
Shearwater skim closes the waves in flight by the breeze.
While angels weave and caress in loving warmth
of strength and comfort, an unconditional loving squeeze.
Our Earthly home
Our paradise,
Our Eden,
Our heaven.
A place full of sadness
A place of happiness
A daily reminder
A promise
Heavenly Angels protect,
Meant to be kept for eternity.
Lighting forks across the night skyline,
the rumble of thunder sounds around.
Angels pure of love and where they're most abound.
They're always nigh an angelic sign.
12/30/2017
It’s skin deep evident,
being black is an inherent crime
It doesn’t matter whether we
peacefully
stand our ground,
or be siren subservient —
Hands in the air,
knees bent
We get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
In the back of our mind,
fear is a pride looter
Epidermal evidence suggests,
probable cause is
five fingers of uniform blue grave danger
A click gavel falls trigger quick,
siren verdict be: 1st degree fatal anger
It’s just another casket open-and-shut case,
the latest obituary picture
bearing eyewitness of Breonna Taylor’s face
Like chalk on a blackboard,
we get erased ...
so rap sheet easily
Four-by-for centuries,
our coffin pleas
have been iron fetter ignored
The only asphalt sound
silently heard
are the yellow tape trace words:
“I can’t breathe,”
with our George Floyd face
in the paved dirt
Epidermal evidence historically reveal:
We always got shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Skin color hatred smoking barrel explode
on a trigger reload
Being black was our genetic crime
Wanting the good life
on the whiter side
of the picket fence
Made former slave cotton-picking sense
Our emancipated thoughts
were escaped equality sought
But votes auction bought,
forced us to tragically be
paddy wagon pellet caught
And when suffrage hope died,
it was our fault —
Runaway tears shed for naught!
Morgue blame sent:
Usual suspect motives be
dreams non-violent
Desiring to be integrated legally
into American society
was our heinous offense
No need for more epidermal evidence
It’s just another cell open-and-shut case,
the latest unarmed picture
bearing eyewitness of Jacob Blake’s face
We repeatedly
get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Seems the lawlessness of the land says:
The badge can be
judge, jury
and executioner
Ain’t it blatant epidermal evident,
being black is an egregious, breathable offense
Of which there is no self-defense
We get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Perpetrator exit wombs inflicted on
menace to society ghetto we
Aborted justice is our
perforated epidermal eulogy
Being black is a natural-born crime,
evidentiary,
an umbilical sin
It’ll get you pandemic shot seven times,
by a sick, sick six-shooter
Whipping gulf clouds burn
Sheets of sideways rain
People's worried smiles
hurry, pass me by
I'm a lazy girl
Rumbling starts in
Slashing lightning
I mosey home
to watch the storm
Slow feet now
Pellet rain
Lock the door
Sweet sound
Tire me
Peace.
He had no teeth and neither did his girlfriend.
We’d sit in his apartment in the dark drinking margaritas and watch Jeopardy.
He’d answer every question correctly and his girlfriend would cackle.
He’d shoot at the mice with a pellet gun as they scurried in the shadows.
He rarely missed.
Their heads would explode and I would feel queasy.
Then he’d turn back to the TV leaving the brains splattered on the floor and wall.
We’d stay up all night talking and drinking.
He’d stand out front of the building in the snow in slippers always laughing.
He was always laughing.
Even after I moved 3,000 miles away I’d call him up to talk over the phone he’d tell outrageous stories always laughing.
Sometimes those people that are hurting the most laugh the hardest.
He had no one in the world.
His girlfriend and myself, we were his family.
I figured when he someday died his body would simply turn into a skeleton in his apartment.
And he’d still be laughing.
Before twilight’s panels close the day,
I sneak into this sacramental hallway
fueling my pagan howls where I can be
the raw-weed of a bush: a time when
vignettes drain the floor--- spilling bones
of my own pen, scratched and bent.
Here, the vein bleeds of how I watched
a pellet sun grate dusky leaves
upon cobblestones, or why
old man Stanley picked his regular bench
in the park, talking to himself
motionless as imaginings of verses run
while the vivid language plays in my head.
Brian Johnston's Contest
Words---The Heart Of Imagination
by nette onclaud
Days of youth, spending time tossing that white pellet.
Learning how to play was sometimes heartless
as losses were an injury which was difficult to take.
As time went, so did the misunderstandings of the game,
but instead left a deeper love for its nuances.
Where to move on each play, who covered which base,
cutoffs, and the defensive attitude in mind when on the field.
Looking to see if the coach had enough faith
to put your name in the lineup for that day's game.
Every pitch became important. Every batted ball became the
hit you wanted. Every member of the team became your friend for life.
Don't let them down with an error or strikeout. Be their hero
with the saving catch or drive in the winning run.
Baseball on green fields
Pastime of all my summers
All American game.
You made Death grumble, boy
He not pleased that a little squirt like you got away
He had you choking on your mama's apron strings,
with that foolhardy, playful dare you made
Said you was gonna cross Bim Argut's field,
and you wasn't scared of his menacing sign
Hope that pretty young thing you were trying to impress,
comes to your funeral in her best Sunday dress
"No Trespassing" is what the rusted, buck shot at, sign said
"Private Property," so that means you better stay off
You can leave walking,
or you can leave being carried away on your back dead
Yeah, Death thought he had you, little bugger
Had you in Bim's gunsight, but he didn't squeeze the trigger right
Even after you turned tail and ran,
Bim was still trying to hit you with his bad arthritic right hand
Just missed you,
Grim Reaper thought he had you
Dead to rights, you was almost his
At that distance how did he miss ...
with a 20-gauge shotgun, even a blind man
could've gave you a silver pellet kiss
Maybe your big friend from on high helped you,
if he did, I don't know why
You ain't nothing but a troublemaker,
a short life is written in the stars
You won't live long enough
to raise glasses in honky-tonk bars
Now gon' run back to your papa
in your blue jeans with the brown backside
Yeah, run back to your mama
in your white sneakers with the yellow streak,
like you done cried
Death's gonna get you one day,
everybody knows that Death don't play
Yeah, Death's gonna get you someday,
so you better start learning how to pray
Poets in the pot
Striving not to get cooked
For poverty in the hood
As gotten all hooked
Becoming ingredients of hunger
For all to maw
A new season...
A fresh session...
For the wrong reason...
Recession a new name
Best known to them
Stimulating ideas cocooned
We are the laughing flock
of several rudderless shepherds
Life of a wordsmith activist
Still in the soup stewed
Strands of words
whittled to bullets and pellet
Firing from all cylinders
our pot-belly shepherds
Sorting out issues with Pen
But bullied with hunger
Ohhhhhhh...
Analytical paralysis in full swing
Poetry an apt medium
for language of protest
Bully me not today
With words, we travel to freedom castle
With hunger, we fro back into fiefdom cabin
Bold and grave, brave and spot on
Fighting with the tongue and pen
Shall our tongues be mute
when deeds are wrought
Yet our minds far away
From the battle field
Alayande Stephen T.
9.25pm
5th October, 2016
At the office
NB- Just thinking aloud yesterday with the members of Loudthotz Poetry trying to play on (Protesting Poet or Poetry) on our whatsapp group and this poem came knocking...
Walkin around head down
Praying I'll soon be casket bed bound
Whether it's from a gun when it spreads rounds
Or catch a disease that causes me to shed
pounds
And I pass away alone no tear drop sounds
Come to my funeral if you knew me I predict I
vacant crowd
Satin welcomes me with open arms son your
finally found
Maybe my death comes from self infliction
Take the rope put it around my throat hang myself my
own lynchin
If I had 5 horses I'd use the rope and tie it my
body every segment
Have all run in different directions to separate
every ligament
The inhuman intense images
Is inconceivable to the human senses
The pain is relentless
Starts at the head makes it goes through your
legs then shoots back to shatter your appendix
It's the reason I invoke my final breath comes
soon
Especially if I'm forever foredoomed
Every where I go misfortune looms
Hope is striped
Compare my life to my penmanship
Sloppy hard to read and find it far-fetched
anyone would wanna claim ownership
So why would I subsist
Put in a sub I quit
So if I die at this moment remember this
I'm sorry to the ones I threw stones at and forgive
the ones who threw bricks
Mama I was suppose to be a success but destiny
didn't like the script
Grandpa sorry I'm not strong enough to fight
through the hardships
I started as a soldier and became a seasoned vet
And after all these battles all was left
Gruesome images I can't seem to forget
And a perpetuating battle with the devils green
beret
Brings depression and ignite rage
No assistance from god to have the demons
slayed
Till tick tick tick then explode like the pellet I pray
to catch that's stray
Unspoken obstacles
As I decide to self loathe
And let ill fortune rot in my soul
Make no sense to be a living being
I get discredited for carry boulders that makes
me Herculean
Eyes closed in a black hearse as I exit oblivion
You don’t have to say
one spherical metallic word
I know with GSW empathy credulity
just how you feel ... I bequeath kindred sympathy
Taking one lead body blow
for the I homeboy visiting team,
was enough mental pain timeout for me
And the physical hurt toll it put on my body
made me frequently start falling to my knees
I can understand if you’re gun shy,
really I can
When you felt the quiet burn
of the silencer,
and the sweat of your fear
started to pellet fly
There’s a few blood splatter
reasons why
you’re audibly mute upset,
and so gun shy
Some whack eraserhead
unholstered their hostility on you
Bam, bam went the bullet hate —
hot metal piercing flesh ...
smearing cold iron-cooper fear
over your nude, trespassed privacy
I can understand if you’re gun shy,
really I can
I can truly relate
if you thought death
was your imminent fate
Really I do
You don’t have to say
a single semi-automatic word ...
You’re gun shy,
and I know the trigger reason why
Your temple’s been invaded
by kinetic metallic thieves,
who left your wounded,
praying soul to cemetery bleed
But putting a cap on the lip lid
is gonna make you implode within
Though asking for a modicum of gun control
is considered a Second Amendment sin
Keep the treason
on the tip of your tongue
from speaking
It’s best to remain gun shy,
never saying a word
It’s smart to duck when the bullets fly,
and the screaming is heard
Silence is double-O seven golden,
it’s good that your thoughts
ain’t got a license to kill
In the quietude of the grave,
victim death shout echoes do reverberate still
So, shhh ... stay low-key gun shy
Any sound motion can be detected
by a revolver barrel indiscriminate eye
Heat seeking for some unsuspecting
bipedal target to Big Wheel die
Any guttural movement
is gonna get a crosshair,
scattershot, fade-to-black goodbye
The kevlar-coated lip service politicians
sternly suggest you keep
any over-the-top, brash comments
under-the-counter on a locked vault cry
They say, now ain’t the time to be vocal and brave ...
bite the bullet,
and suffer your soul to die timid gun shy
Exodus
Under a big holm oak, I sat on a stone resting a little
the sun so early in the year was hot, years ago there were
flocks of sheep here they laid chewing ignoring me.
This year there is none not even pellet droppings
the landscape is being gentrified and no peeing up against a tree
It is strange when people who are not of the land
the first thing they do is to try trimming it and making smooths
tracks made of imported sand, plastic chair and a nice cuppa.
The extended field of olive trees lends itself to a golf course; they will
of course, leave a few trees with tall grass and call it the rough
little can be done give the developer a chance and Portugal
ends up looking like Florida, and architects will draw the same
dull estates and find some fancy names
for their vandalism.
But let them spend money before it comes crashing down
abandoned and nature can take it back, yes it has happened
before and with good reason when small farmers were so poor they
sought work on the other side of the ocean
and their old homes has trees growing through them
nothing is new only the name changes like a rabbit would care
I had a dream —
different ... dark ... obscure
Mine’s wasn’t like Martin Luther King,
it was different
So very dark to the core
In my dream I saw his dream
masquerading as a fantasy
There were separate, reality TV camps competing:
radical, bellicose talk of Black Lives Matter,
and virtual, cyber walk of alt-right hate chatter
There were bone chilling sounds of
nuclear voices ... uranium saber rattlers,
and automatic gunfire arterial blood splatters
And in my dream
there was an iron-copper, ruddy king’s ring
coveted by a smiling Joker, batty as a Mad Hatter,
with an itchy trigger finger
And this nightmare of a dream snoring-ly lingered
My sleeping eyes saw a lot of marching in the night,
clashes of angry protest signs and torches burning bright
Different colored children wasn’t walking hand in hand,
hugging and kissing in harmonious unity
No, they were casting stones at each other,
hurling heavy curses and jagged profanity
In my dream, that dream that Martin Luther King seen
was a fake news rerun cancelled program broadcasting
And the interrupted voice of a moderator said:
a gunshot to the head killed Martin Luther King dead
Then there was a funeral for his dream,
with a sad procession of Obama supporters crying
I saw horror of horrors ...
dark clouds ominously began to evilly congregate,
and the fair trade winds wasn’t waving the flag
Fear merchants were selling whiskey bottles of hate,
and commemorative red, white and blue gag order rags
For some it was a festive atmosphere,
a grand occasion to sample a taste of times past
Blowing lead pellet trumpet sounds
of a shotgun baby shower blast,
Birth of a Nation music was merrily playing
Vaders celebrating the death of a starcrossed king’s dream,
opened my eyes to a rude Gentile awakening —
slumber promises begets delayed praying
I had a dream —
so different ...
That of a pauper, not of a king!
I used to garden naturally,
but now I'm guard'in chemically.
I've traded in my life bucolic
for one much more diabolic.
I'd rather play in the dirt chem-free
where weeding is great therapy:
tending herbs and building beds,
watering and dead-ing heads.
I'd welcome help to germinate
wiggling worms to cultivate,
and frequent flyers to pollinate.
But no! I'm forced to fumigate.
My homeland's been invaded!
All my plots are being raided
by countless uninvited guests
and some most annoying pests:
those snakes and snails and slugs,
wasps and spiders, moths and bugs,
herds of deer, rabbits and moles
a local raccoon and several voles.
Despite the natural tools I've tried
my garden still is occupied.
So I feel completely justified
to spray more potent pesticides.
To keep my enemies at bay,
I have to fight most every day
with coyote smells and critter baits
copper tapes and underground grates,
then netting plus a six-foot fence--
all apart of my homeland defense.
Yes, I admit I'm a fearful zealot
always seeking that magic pellet
or some ultra-noxious smell
which will cast its might spell
to desist, to deter, to repel,
or extend that final farewell.
So when you need that knockout drop
here's the place you ought to shop.
Skip the nursery, and fill your cart
from all the shelves at My-Pest-Mart
Building of the darkening columns
against the fairest summer skies,
the golden blaze of enduring warmth
replaced with flash of searing light.
A storm of heightening, swirling frenzy
unleashes pelting, frozen spheres.
Painful fury descends,
upon unwitting fields
and man alike.
The plague stands unforcast!
Destruction comes with a deafening roar,
like gravel thrown against tin.
With certainty, the echo will subside,
and commotion will seek control.
Equilibrium returns with each icy pellet.
Blue penetrating through the spent
storm of expended energy.
A return to summer’s easy glow
triumphs over the bitter sting of falling hail.
blackened sun, miniaturized pencil-point, glued
to an expanse where pillow-clouds once lay in repose
caftaned, toothless droids on broomsticks whiz by, cackling
anvil-hot, clay-red rains scald cracked turf, vapor rising up
where phantasmagoric ice-pellet fireworks burst in the night
~ darkness and death descend -- the final curtain