Best Six Shooter Poems
The Beauty And Essence Of A Pretty Cowgirl
Although she wraps herself in soft leather,
Wearing her pointy-toed cowboy boots,
She delights in darkest stormy weather
And banging sounds her fast six-shooter shoots;
But hurt her and she just barely whimpers,
She is a lovely cowgirl through and through
Best to flee fast if rousing her temper
For she may stomp and beat you black and blue.
Yet gently hold her hand and give a kiss
You she may then gift a romantic night
You shall next wake unto heavenly bliss
But lord man, don't you ever pick a fight!
Although she wraps herself in soft leather,
She delights in darkest stormy weather.
R. J. Lindley, June 26th 1979
Sonnet, ( That ravishing beauty wearing cowboy boots )
Note: 7- 02- 1979
Met a cowgirl at the club, she was absolutely gorgeous.
We rode together all weekend. No saddle needed.
She left me that Monday morn, saying- "maybe again next year"..
Note: 3-11-2021
There truly are some that are totally unforgettable..
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
With His Six Shooter In Hand He Emptied Its Load
In a whiskey glazed stupor his horse he shot
Under blue-wailing moon his heart, a broken mess
And then his emotions tossed in their sad lot
Somewhere with lost hope, his failures he did confess
But as image appears, her beautiful face smiles
She, kind goddess that had stolen his lonely heart
Over and over, the argument -always starts
And then the swarms of excruciating deep pains
Fight to make it leave, his eyes look to the blue sky
Silently these words he says, "My Lord help me please"
Falling to dusty ground, he asks again the why
Did God allow that beautiful witch his heart seize
Then romantic thoughts flooded a confused brain
Her dear vision so enticed and refused to leave
It all was far too much, far too great a love-strain
Next how she had him, ready to again deceive!
But oh no, not again, his intellect then spoke
Do not let this dark, deceptive thing again hurt
Recall this truth, she had made his life a bad joke
Remember torture, the loss, her poison black spurts
And how she laughed as his tender heart she broke!
The cowboy then rose on up from the desert sand.
Swearing true, she and this are both accursed land!
Mounting his horse towards Tombstone onward he rode
Swearing, never let his wounded heart be "stoled"!
Then a broad smile so magically it appeared
Up the trail just head vision of her as he feared!
With his six shooter in hand, he emptied its load
And laughed out loud, as on
to Tombstone he rode!
Robert J. Lindley, Rhyme/Narrative
April 12th 1982
Note: Edit.. Nov 21st 1983
The young cowboy made it all the way to Tombstone
His young life was then about to meet pretty girl
She too was standing proudly there and all alone
Fate decreed it, they joined to give life a whirl!
I'm a space cowboy
riding imaginary horses
with black light saddles
herding cows in my closet
my six shooter is my finger
making bullet sounds with my lips...
My ten gallon hat
filled with false optimism
borrowed from a circus clown
in a barnyard outhouse...
My posse are ghost riders
in the milky way
we lasso Taurus the bull
and have shoot outs
with villains
shaped as shadows
on the star dust trail....
~ ~ ~
Sexy sensual silky smooth seductively smart Sebastian
Charismatic cool comet crashing creative chemical concoction
Over thinker overseer overwhelming
Revolving six shooter raw rhyme repeater
Purposeful and pondering the question of what's powerful
Intense somewhat intelligent always an irresistible individual
Oddball offspring enjoying an open water poetry philosophical odyssey
It's high noon,
and everybody is nervous
Jittery hands and trembling knees
I saw a skirt on a man,
who was hastily leaving the train station
The last one leaving
is the man I am supposed to meet
As the sheriff of this God-forsaken town,
I was duty bound
to deal with any outlaw who came around
It wasn't just rumor, it was fact
That he was lightning fast with the six-shooter
Could fill your belly with hot lead
before you could even squeeze the trigger
But I'm not afraid of him,
because I ain't afraid of dying
I'm the law around here,
I'll let my coffin do my crying
Besides, I'm pretty fast too ... that's what people say
If I first take a drink, then my hands don't shake,
and my nerves won't break
Anyway, that's what people say
But today, redemption is coming my way ---
I put no bottle to my lips,
I took no whiskey kiss
Truth is, I'm dead already most people insist
They say I'm an old gunslinger,
who when sober tends to always miss
So today, justice may require my life,
but this feared outlaw killed my son and my wife
And today, he's gonna pay the price
This morning, I prayed to the heavens,
and a small voice said to me, let him draw first,
for it shall be his body that hits the earth
I now have faith in my steady left hand,
and here, shortly after high noon ...
this evil outlaw will be buried in the sand
Once in the ghost town they called rotgut
Seen mortician dancing dead mans strut
Six shooter brought Slim down
Black smith hurried left town
Guess hang by boots then when in a rut
Entry For Jerry's
A Town Called Rotgut
GL All
the streets are scarred for good and we know it
after the hits of untamed hearts
after this abstract damage of cyclic returnings
there's a window in my chest
a sight of iron garden and crystal steam
where colour of poplars recalls
moss in the living room
and her veins in the dark
the skies are striped of equinox sabbath
over the cities full of empty people
cities full of mannequins
over the valleys of sordid poppies
perfumed mists and magnetic trees
as my shoes walk around the moonlit woods
through cobblestone plains, by mythic fields
the war of kisses rages in gravel pits
on days like these
these octagon days
and there's a storm in the kitchen sink
there's debris for dinner
the orchestra of germs in a room of dahlia
invokes all the nymphomaniac angels
all air rats and arachnid armies
with passion of cold-blooded lovers
oh, what a circus!
that's why my luggage is haunted
in floodlands, ready to depart
for the taxidermy heaven
for I'm the king of the sandcastle
just a smoke child on a paper planet
with glass floors and concrete shoes
and yellow lorries in umbrella lakes
with my brain lantern and pet mallacoderm
the rabid rooster will guide my way
down the bronze boulevard
with chocolate six-shooter in my hand
only because the streets are scarred by our love
and we know it
A hot breeze blew the other day, as the Chipmunk Kid rode into Troll Lake Town.
He rode on the oldest, slowest steed, that I had ever seen, a Snail called Abilene.
He came a packing, with a six shooter acorn gun, riding low, for an easy draw.
Armadillo Billy The Sling Shot Kidster, was his intended target, you know, y’all.
Sheriff Bunny Garrett said, he’d shot Billy down, but the word had gotten round.
Billy was alive and in our town, so The Chipmunk Kid wanted him found, right now!
A meaner glare, had never been seen, as it slowly moved, around our town. Tho…
Something seemed amiss; perhaps it was his crossed eyes, and petulant frown.
Climbing down from his stead, he landed face down, in the snail slime of his stead,
On that fateful day, Billy solemnly shook his head, at the craziness of this strange Kid.
The Chipmunk Kid had moxie, but little else of praise or glory, I can honestly say.
For when we told him Billy was here, The Chipmunk Kid, then fainted straight away.
Not to mention, his snail stead, old Abilene, shied away, when this happened, too.
Now, he could have grabbed the reigns, for Abilene had only moved, an inch or two.
But the Chipmunk Kid was a bit flighty, you see, as he took his lasso from his side.
Before he was done he’d tied himself up, and Dear old Billy, couldn't help but smile.
Armadillo Billy knew he’d won in that minute, not having to fire a single slingshot.
That’s how, it should be done, he knew, after seeing what the Kid had wrought.
He was happy, to just once see, ALL come out alive, still knowing that he had won.
They became fast friends, with time, as he taught The Kid the true meaning, of life.
They had lots of time, you know, as Abilene, couldn't seem to make it out of town.
Poor old Abilene was winded, from extended travel to find our beloved, little town.
It turned out; he wasn't a snail after all, just a very confused and ancient old slug.
So, as you might have guessed, we did naturally make room, as we usually do…
Yes, for the illustrious Chipmunk Kid, and Abilene, his dear old slug.
With the challenge of writing a poem in the now
I reach for my pen, a lightning quick draw
Gun slinging the page with a six shooter of words
Letters ricocheting off of the page, escaping the poems claw
Defeating all who dare to challenge my ink shooter
Walking tall in Poetry soup's Wild West
Poets work, slinging words left and right
We enter contest, to conquer and be the best
Today I'll spur the paper with cowboy up
Put my words down with the quickness
Winning the buckle of Glory
Riding this bull named "dirty business"
I'm riding off into the sunset another notch in my belt
The legend of the "Word Slinger" has begun
Conquering all from the east to the west
Riding in glory, clearing the dust second to none
------------------------------------------------------------------
Inspired by Matt caliri contest - Write now-
took me 30 minutes to write and type 8-19-09 had lots of fun!!!!!!!!!!
purely fictional :-)
Welcome to the war, son ...
You’ve been conscripted,
go grab a gun
And you daughters
of the new American flag,
you’re not exempted either
Go get that gat outta my bag
There’s a 21st century civil war goin’ on,
and you gotta declare right now
which side carries the righteous bones
I pray for your sake, that you don’t choose wrong
Us Sons of the Smoking Gun,
we fight for the right to bear arms,
anywhere ... and at all times
Don’t try to put a tamper timer control
on our safety trigger alarm
We firmly believe
that our right to own guns
is second to none
And in fact, the Founding Fathers got it wrong
Constitutionally, our freedom to have guns
shoulda been right number one
And anybody that speaks otherwise,
betta talk to the barrel pressed on their tongue
Shoot first,
ask questions later
That’s the right order ...
Free speech gets trumped
when a gun talks
Whether the caliber of conversation
is big or small,
a cocked trigger silences all
Shoot first,
talk answers later
That’s the right order ...
one, then two
Dialogue is over,
the gun only speaks bullet truth
Free speechers,
betta let your lady lawyer Miranda
do the talking for you
This war on gun rights is raging so out of control;
but we be on the right side this time, don’t we Johnny Rebel
This ungainly Civil War is taking it’s civilian toll,
there’s gonna be more bloodshed of innocent souls
We gotta end this war, before the next four-year polls close
Time to squash dem blue belly, liberal gun takers,
gonna shut
every mouth of dem Yankee free speech makers
The right of the gun
to own more metal worshiping slaves,
is gon be at the top of the New Confederate Bill of Rights —
the six shooter automatically gon be number one
No more free speech talk,
that’s over and done
The right to have a smoking gun
is gonna be constitutionally changed
When this war is won,
the freedom to speak with your gun
is gon be second to none
Poet Note: In the American Constitution's
Bill of Rights, the first amendment is
free speech. The second amendment is
the right to bear arms.
— Romantic Warrior
Rise Up!
Daylight's a-Burnin'
By the End of this Day
That Varmint Black Bart's
Fixin' to Be Learnin'
Robbing and Murdering Innocent Folks
Might Get's You some Nice Spurs and a Fancy Gun
I'm Fixing to Have You Hang For it
When All is Said and Done
I'm Gonna Keep On Riding
All Night if I Have To
Sticking Tobacco in my Jaw
My Horse Nightrider and my Trusty Six-Shooter
Is All I Need To Uphold The Law
The fog of war
is lingering long on
these golden amber grain shores
In the bar,
in the synagogue
Count the missing fingers
in the high school cafeteria tomb
Tally the tiny toe tags
in the elementary home room
Feel another barrel blast
of rage eject empty
When the smoke clears,
wait nervously
for the next automatic weaponry
to fire breathe
Such is life in America:
Wealthy home of the brave,
beggarly land of the free
Daily tourniquets of death
is profit united
by the paid gun lobby
The deadly fog rolls along
the bloody asphalt
Eighteen wheels of chance
be always spinning roulette wild
Six shooter spitting triple digit proof
is a tempered slag romance
Chambers of commerce
tout the tourist numbers out loud
As the government buries each
gun violence study
under a redacted ink cloud
In the open concert air,
in the closed-eye praying
cathedral pew ... lead eulogies ain’t nothing new
Register those concealed mute ears
and deaf tongues,
which don’t security speak or hear
See how caliber turned blind eyes
have their moral vision
bank deposit casualties disappear
Shell-shocked citizens fear
another magazine blast of rage
is about to eject soul empty
When the smoke clears,
we wait anxiously
for the next impotent badge response
to publicly seethe
Such is statistical life in America,
where bullet violence is purchased so easy:
Bazaar home of the hot metal slave,
wretched land of the cold trigger squeeze
mr. hope & change is saddened again,
as just a few weeks ago the nation mourned
the deaths of those blown away in a movie
theater,
now a skinhead takes out 6 in a Wisconsin
Sikh temple &
yet the refrain is the same---
not only will he not address the real issues at
hand,
he sends his little babbling bird, mr. carney,
out to do the dirty work,
telling us that it’s the gangs that kids are
joining, which lead to these violent
outbursts,
and when they start to piss out their mouths,
these talking heads whose strings are
pulled by the gun lobby in the US,
they start to dabble in the most inhuman
nonsense,
for we all know the statistics,
we all know that in the UK, the homicide rate
due to firearms
is ridiculously low in comparison to this land
of mother****ing
cowboys,
who sleep with a goddamned six-shooter
beneath their mattresses &
yet because this empire is based on violence,
the violence it spreads all over the globe,
the violence that it beats down on its citizens
with,
is it any wonder that once in a blue moon,
somebody ends up killing a bunch of people
with a gun they got on the internet while
simultaneously playing a video game?
so “how many deaths will it take till’ we know?”
maybe if somebody goes on a rampage
every couple of weeks?
hmmm….ya think then that charlie heston & the
boys will stop jacking off &
rethink their policies?
maybe if there is a rampage every week,
mr. hope & change will get off his ass &
actually do something, regardless of how far
off november is?
don’t hold your ****ing breath.
The Un-Cowboy Like Cowboy
this is the story of cedric hyde-fleet
the most un-cowboy cowboy you ever would meet
cedric was english, not british you see
but, being a cowboy was what he wanted to be
he was from england
as i said before
never ridden a horse
and well, what's more
his image of cowboys
was of those on tv
but, being a cowboy
was what he wanted to be
he was all set to travel
and leave his home land
out to the west
but, he was allergic to sand
the dust would wreak havoc
with his pale, flaky skin
ten miles from home
was the furthest he'd been
he had a six shooter
which he'd nicknamed Old Burt
but, he didn't have bullets
they made his ears hurt
the smell of the powder
and the noise of the gun
made cedric wonder
if this would truly be fun
he needed a cream
for the chafing down there
and a specialized hat
to protect his thin hair
a brush wouldn't do
he would need a nice comb
he reacted to flannel
so he'd get shirts from rome
he'd fly out from london
head out west to a ranch
find a town just like gunsmoke
and a bar....the long branch
but, his stomach was tender
hard liquor was out
and the salt in the food
would just trouble his gout
but, cedric hyde-fleet
was determined to go
to the united states
to join a wild west show
he'd start out learning riding
how to shoot, and all that
he'd learn about cattle
he had his own hat
he was the most un-cowboy cowboy
they would have in the west
but, with his dedication
he would soon be the best
he would get all equipped
from dolce and gabbanna
his shirts and socks matched
his silk plaid bandanna
now, cedric hyde-fleet
never ever left home
never got on the horse
or got shirts made in rome
the things that he wanted
were the things that he'd seen
and he forgot about cowboys
when he first saw ....The Queen