Best Shotguns Poems
(Read later stanzas for more of the humour part ; parody of politics)
I Can't think well of a democracy
if nepotism and false promises
are part and parcel of its idiosyncrasy
A system of governance can't appeal to me
if it forever stinks of the 'stinking' rich plutocracy.
The media the ravening wolves many times their puppets,
together they howl for our divided attention
With wily words to win the masses of marionnettes
The nation's welfare merely their scheme in pretension.
Wonder why political power has to be the monopoly
of ambitious, vainglorious affluent power moguls.
Why can't they simply choose leaders
from any sincere poor yet wise and humble individuals?
The promises of a better world by 'em' politicians
are simply the oratory tricks of slick tacticians.
Demagogues come in all shapes and sizes
They come in 'perfect' future leader disguises
Pulling you and me to polling booths, luring us the dumbstruck voters
To amass as much power and wealth as possible in their limited quotas.
No wonder poor presidents are turned or burned
in the form of their rude and crude effigy cartoons
Comic sarcastic politics I say, since a caricature
it purposely lampoons!
Then the demonstrations, remonstrations
but they only invite riots and tear bomb gas
So if yah can keep your rallies peaceful
maybe you won't be such an ass.
And if yah do go ahead ranting, panting, slogun chanting
No seeds of discord nor weeds of hate be sowing, planting
for a showdown with fleshy arms, no metal arms can still be prancing, advancing
With sloguns not shotguns be ye protesting and demanding.
Thus I really wonder if politicos politicking
really do make the world tick.
Or do they simply in many places cause
timebombs to parallel the clock's tick?
(ok cast d ballot n vote 4 me as funny presidential candidate
of no-man's land ;
Categories:
shotguns, international, parody, political,
Form:
Rhyme
Let’s take a ride, how about traveling, to outer space,
Just accept anything’s possible, it’s our cosmic chase,
Moving faster than light speed, in the blink of an eye,
Unleash your imagination, laws of physics, don’t apply,
Maybe stay closer to home, getting carried away,
Not that it’s impossible, Probably better this way,
I bid to free your mind, open up Pandora’s box,
Some controlling egotist, may be keeping locked.
Might think this is fantasy, I promise you not,
Keeps us unrestrained, from an imperious lot,
Rather we’d stay stupid, believe everything’s fine,
Brainwashed all our lives, left to tow the line.
Too many gaslighters, out for personal gain,
Call us troublemakers, having gall, to complain,
I am not preaching, just offering sound advice,
Keep your independence, for life’s full of choice.
Well thank God for google, if needing a little help,
Press a few touchscreens, a tonic within itself.
Always some caveats, beware of computer trolls,
Half decent firewall, should suffice on the whole.
Is too much knowledge, really a dangerous thing,
Worse than owning shotguns, barely aged sixteen,
I agree in some cases, ignorance truly is bliss,
Only if comforting, from the inevitable abyss.
Many poets shone light, on history’s darkest times,
Obscure aficionados, emancipating reality with rhyme,
Fighting nightmarish wars, writing obituaries home,
Bleeding ink upon paper, never flinching in their tone.
Others encapsulate landscape, frozen in winter snow,
How they portray nature, this rhymster will never know,
Beautiful form of art, smashing out from all restraints,
Poets you set me free, lest my tribute is mundane.
By
David Kavanagh
Categories:
shotguns, appreciation, education, internet, meaningful,
Form:
Quintain (English)
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of yellow, metal Caterpillar’s.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
He moves under tree shadows,
if there are no tree shadows
he takes a bus.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the Green Man,
he is not a straw man,
or a hollow man –
he is green
at least for now.
Categories:
shotguns, poetry,
Form:
Blank verse
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
Ancient is he, yet as fresh as tomorrow,
in green ponds he fishes for sunlight.
He plumps grassy pillows,
quilts nests for the slumbering and slippery,
gardens all dewy meadows.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of the truculent muckrakers,
the yellow iron caterpillars.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
Slips between the stringy and tall,
if there are no forested ways
he ambles where the wind ruffles.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the bosky bedfellow, not a straw man,
or a hollow man – he is variegated and verdant,
a green man for me and thee
at least for now.
Categories:
shotguns, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
A haze…
Languorous oft in summer days
Where sundrops drip
From melting skies
Onto city grind
And parasols shade the cobbled grays
Across back alley lanes
Trains and trolleys tip toe by
As a fool in love forever waits
Among a noon bistro Paris crowd
For his girl, who is always fashionably late
Outside a sidewalk somewhere café cityscape
Young beauties amidst a mid-day stroll
Becomingly, become ever respectively
The flowers that line the picket way
Or some frilly prize ponies
Beneath carousels about avenues of Torrid place
A testament to this…
The carriage horses that turn their whiny heads
And then, when I turn mine
It’s to witness boots of cavalier instead
That step to one side
For moments languor has left
As my own prize has made red carpets rise
Those flutter lashes like shotguns glint blasts
And soon the white dove makes its notorious descent
Where the gentlemen, unbeknownst to them, become like minded ruffians
As they dive into madness for her precious handkerchief
“Oh” this women of mine, she has her perculiar ways
Just like all the silly rest
My damsel mademoiselle never enters into throes of distress
Longer lace invites mischievous about a button down dress
And her kisses offer smiles and arduent waves
With utter love contempt to them, but my hand is her biggest praise
I guess it’s the thrill of the game
And she’s the tigress and I her willful prey
Opening up the Gazette, coffee I incredulous sip and purposely hide my face
As my sweet flora strolls my way
And lands into her lover's arms
In a somewhere summer Paris afternoon café
Categories:
shotguns, relationship, romantic, summer, love,
Form:
Romanticism
"Buddy Breathing"
Ten leagues below
the bed of the ocean in my heart,
strange creatures exist,
they guard the gate
of all things that
have past
the sound of their existence
is strange music for strange creatures,
words are not written, nor are they spoken,
mute hearts bleeding and eyes wide open
masks are worn down here, like soft harlequins
glistening sharp diamonds
they carry forgotten meanings in ever resilient silence,
the trick in the eyes is not to open;
we somehow breathe down here
it’s called buddy breathing.
we try to think of the poetry
in life, remembering the bliss
in our purposeful being,
the oxygen bubbles God bless,
sometimes rise to the surface;
we like to think we are all friends;
some immortalise us
while we die from the bends.
we prayer for miracles
like the 2nd coming
sweet kisses
sharks teeth
colophons
and unblessed
un-nun-like
sisters
Candide Diderot. ‘25
"Swiftly walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear, —
Swift be thy flight!"
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)
****
"I’m blowing further away
This storm is gaining force
Now it’s tripping the waves
How can I test this water
The stars have their say
I shouldn’t admit this but
My heart starts to stray
I’ve tasted white light
Willows weeping
I’ve tasted love songs
Angels sleeping
Fever's breaking
Wild waves
Leaves are raking
I pray to the Saint of all that’s lost
And in the finding curse uncrossed
Wait for the sun to come undone
Signalling me
Out to sea
I’ve tasted Saturn
Seagulls screaming
I’ve tasted shotguns
Apostles dreaming
Fever's breaking
Wild waves
Legs are shaking
I pray to the Saint of all that’s lost
And in the finding curse uncrossed
Wait for the sun to come undone
Signalling me
Out to sea
Out to sea"
(Elysian Fields, "Out to Sea")
Categories:
shotguns, character, imagination, symbolism,
Form:
Free verse
My prankster, older son, came home from college, just the other day.
He saw such great possibilities, in how, he, with the Trolls, could play.
Now, you must remember, my son, has always been, a tad bit wild.
But, he truly is a charmer, when he has a new brainchild, compiled.
The Postman had been so Leary of dropping off mail, with the Trolls about.
So daily, I would greet him, explaining, they were really harmless, big old louts.
And I complained a little, of the time spent, to convince him, back at the house.
So my son took up the cause, yes, he was actually going to try to help me out.
Each day, he got the mail, I was so proud that he was trying to solve my plight.
He said he had an idea, which he would try, the last day in town, to set it right.
Of course, I believed him, he was my son, and I felt such pride, as he drove away.
Then I waited for the surprise, he’d set with the Trolls, to make everything OK.
The postman made his rounds, as usual, until he came toward our house.
Then he shot off like a rocket, which was truly outward bound… the louse.
So I ran out to catch him, for in his hurry, he’d forgotten to drop off my mail…
But he was so fast that I missed him… so back to the house I did sail…
In front of the garage… sat 3 Trolls in bib overalls in their rocking chairs.
Across their laps lay shotguns, yes, the really heavily gauged ones…
And there before my eyes were crickets playing banjos all around…
With ‘Deliverance’, the song they’d used, to make that mailman bound…
But don’t worry; I got even with my prankster son… To end this tale…
The next time he ask for money… I said… the check is… in the mail.
1st place in the Contest: Smile Your on Candid Camera
Categories:
shotguns, adventure, fantasy, funny, imagination,
Form:
Light Verse
It’s Autumn!
Throw open the Windows
Get out the Leaf Blower
What falls on the Lawn
We’ll just Mow over
Get out the Shotguns
To clear out the spiders
Be careful about Grandma
In the cellar making Cider
We have new neighbors
What’d you say,Hoke?
Our cleaning may scare’ em ?
Screw Em’ if they can’t take a joke
Light the Fireplace
And see if it smokes.
Categories:
shotguns, parody,
Form:
Rhyme
A Cowboy is lean, tall, muscled and an inarticulate mass
Of loyalty, independence, pride and downright Western class
He cocks his hat to the back of his head and lets loose an infectious grin
Testosterone overflowing he’s masculine from boot toe to hat brim
He mumbles “Ah, Shucks”, ducks his head and charms the ladies
He’s saddle born, ranch raised and calls his palomino horse Hercules
A Cowboy kin drink, git drunk, cuss and dance a mean square
He kin hunt, trap, fish, and if put to it, outrun a riled–up bear
A cowboy spits, chaws, farts, smokes hand-rolled and sings off-key
He shoots, ropes, hogties, brands and whistles at cattle in high “C”
He’s an introverted soul, shy, gawky and tongue-tied in society
But ranch owners’ virgin daughters are eager to marry him
After doing hanky and panky stimulated by 100 proof killer gin
The shotguns hang on the fireplace wall, but the Cowboy ain’t gonna give in
Thinking, “mebbe It’s time to git gone and ride out like a swift blowing wind”
And into the sunset the Cowboy eases away without a backward glance
Looking for a cattle ranch that needs know-how hires and give him a chance
To punch cows, shoe horses, drive cattle and harness a gal into a new romance
Cowboys choose, lose, win, and wander here, there, and all around
Unless a right-smart gal he diddled in the stable of a small cow town
Is a hardheaded Cowgirl who hogties him when his pants are down!
Categories:
shotguns, humor, , western,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Ladies, if you marry a sportsman that loves the outdoors be ready for some beautiful gifts
On your birthday, a new rifle or fishing pole, how about a bass boat or four-wheeler on your anniversary
Ladies gets smart! Don't wait until you have seven rifles, three shotguns, two bass boats, and two four-wheelers, a Jeep and a canoe
If you want a Coach or Dooney and Burke, new dress, or perfume go out and buy them a month before Christmas, birthdays, Easter, Valentines, and etc.
Show them to your hubby, give him a big hug and kiss for it thank him for the nice thoughtful gifts!
10/30/2014
Categories:
shotguns, giving, husband, wife,
Form:
Free verse
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.
Categories:
shotguns, abuse, age, america, art,
Form:
Prose Poetry
I dress the way I do on stage
To transport you to another age
Where wild women of the west
Proved they stood among the best
They rode boot to boot along side the men
Riding broncs to hell & back again
They wore skirts, jodhpurs, flowers & frills
Had more than their share of thrills & spills
When you see me here, I hope you recall
Those women who rode proud & tall
Tad Lucas on Midnight, crow hopping & smiling
Fox Hastings, in feathers & flowers, beguiling
Mitzi Lucas Riley, her death defying grace
On galloping horse, a suicide drag, & mesmerizing face
Marge Greenough on Boxer, that gal could really fly
Nancy Sheppard with her spinning ropes, gravity defied
On the day to day, I wear a different look
Still different from those Cowboys you see in picture books
Dusty boots, faded jeans & a cowboy hat, of course
If I dressed the way I do on stage it would amuse my horse
I grew up in the Wild West, or what there is of it now
I learned to ride at an early age & know my way around a cow
I don’t have a need for wooly chaps, my shotguns work just dandy
If I wore woolies, the cactus would soon look like cotton candy
My childhood heroes included those dazzling rodeo gals
I spent many a Saturday morning as Roy & Dale’s Saddle Pal
But the role models that I still look up to today
Have quietly gone about their lives, living the Cowboy way
There’s Georgie Sicking, still going strong in Kaycee
As tough as they come, she always demands the best from me
Sister Bourne, her laughing eyes & ready wit
For forty years taught in one room schools, in her there was no quit
There are many others who have helped me along the way
Their stories are for another time, another place & day
Today I’ll weave for you a tapestry of Western Rhyme
Of rodeo’n, romanc’n & remember’n & a simpler time
There is magic in the West, I find it every where
It is that magic & my memories, that with you I will share
So settle in & enjoy the ride, for I know I have brought my best
As I stand here on this stage, a Wild Woman of the West
Categories:
shotguns, cowboy-western, history, life, people,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
I'm a PI named Barnaby Jones and I send killers to jail.
But when people receive my bills, they always yell.
Three years ago I exonerated a woman's husband of murder.
She screamed when she got my bill, you should've heard her.
I make plenty of money, I sure don't work for free.
I buy fancy suits with the money that clients pay me.
Letting people get away with murder is something I won't allow.
I drink so much milk that sometimes I suck the udders on cows.
When people see me doing that to their cows, they pull shotguns on me.
I'm a damn good Private Investigator but you will not like my fee.
(This poem is a parody of the TV show.)
Categories:
shotguns, funny, humor, humorous, murder,
Form:
Rhyme
A sporting event occurs every year
Participants find it a sensation
Hunting white wing doves along the “fly-by”
When they’re making their southern migration
The most favored hunting location is
Along the Texas/ Mexico border
Everyone brings lots of shells to this hunt
If you can, two shotguns are in order
These birds will normally fly-by in waves
Their flight is very fast and erratic
You must be alert and always prepared
Reactions must be quick and automatic
The shooting will be fast and furious
And your shotgun barrel will over-heat
If you planned ahead, grab that other gun
And keep-on shooting to bring home the meat
Excitement builds the day before the hunt
My dreams that night, I’ll see them in the sky
Keep thinking of the hunt, it hard to sleep
I’ll be ready tomorrow, “WHEN DOVES FLY”
Categories:
shotguns, adventure,
Form:
Quatrain
I was sittin' on the porch today reminiscin' about this and that,
And my hometown came to mind where I grew up as a feckless brat!
Life was lived at a slower pace it seemed, back in that place and time.
We didn't smoke grass but stealin' watermelons was a common crime!
The senior prom was held in the school gym and didn't cost a bunch.
There was no McDonalds so you had to eat at Marty's Diner for lunch.
Imagine! You danced cheek-to-cheek to a romantic Miller refrain,
And there were no computers - you actually had to use your brain!
The girls in your class were OK, but you preferred gals in that other town!
You raced about town in your Ford and with the cops became quite renown!
Guys kept shotguns in their jalopies to go rabbit huntin' right after school.
You took pleasure in datin' your pal's ex-girl friend, thinkin' you were so cool!
You could usually find who you were lookin' for at the dairy bar or pool hall.
You pushed a reel-type lawn mower when you'd rather be playin' basketball.
Everyone gathered downtown on Saturday nights for a movie or just to hang out.
Boys started drivin' their dad's John Deere tractor at age ten or thereabout.
If you walked somewhere, people would stop to see if you needed a ride.
Should you be the last kid chosen for a game, that really hurt your pride!
Boys wore 'butch' haircuts and girls sported ponytails and saddle shoes.
When I recall those carefree days I get a touch of the melancholy blues!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
shotguns, childhood, funny,
Form:
Rhyme