Best Son Of A Poems
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
For as long as I can remember,
the months of May through September,
have always been the most enjoyable for me.
If you wonder, it is easy to see.
I love the boardwalk, the sun, and the beach.
Summer fun has always been in reach.
My friends and I in an old beat-up Ford
would drive down to the beach with a surfboard.
Pleasant past thoughts I would reminisce,
as long as dive-bombing seagulls continued to miss.
Those were among the memories of yesterday.
However, little has changed up to today.
The season at the beach is especially nice
with girls in bikinis and Italian water ice.
With cool breezes, the surf, and the sand,
no other scenery can be as grand.
I am older now, but it does not matter to me.
I still enjoy every bit of the scenery.
Even Honest Abe Lincoln admitted himself that he wasn't all that pretty,
But you'll be hard-pressed to find a president who was more witty!
During debates, Stephen Douglas called him a two-faced son-of-a-gun.
Lincoln replied, "If I had another face, do you think I would wear this one?"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
With a pen to write;
with fingers to type;
I write anew;
This a new spring for me summer is gone;
autumn near winter flees.
It's in my blood; the ink the feather.
wandering soul; so long;
Irish bones african heartbeat.
Because of the english we make sound sweet.
It is who i am; where i go it gives me
voice; when i myself hide in shadows.
I can sing to that special one; romantic i am by nature.
I hold with both hands her features.
"Let down your walls great city." they shout. Why should I; for they only
pillage me.
Why battle with this blank page?
It is my blood; a fight i win.
how can you know? Do you take the time to
talk, to see , to understand?
Every step, evry stroke of the pen; again and again.
Every story and rhyme, now and
in future time.
Cry a river, spell a dream, sing a song
never seen.
For a penny, for a dime?
No!
I am the son of a poet.
Knives fly
cows and chickens die
new world translations
morality always a test
abandoned sons
the fathers crimes exposed
cursed by a closed mind
brainwashed
by voices in the sky
mathematics
begin to multiply
only then
will fathers repent
and children rejoice
animals roam free
all the living
have precious souls
"You son of a biscuit!" That's me being clean.
I call others a "son of a biscuit"
when I'm in the prescence of children especially,
when I really want to say, "You SOB!"
I get some pretty weird looks from they I "curse out,"
in front of children regularly,
but this approach can backfire as I discovered unfortunately,
soon you'll have a squadron of children calling everyone,
a "son of a biscuit" eventually.
Kids seem to think my "son of a biscuit" is very funny.
Written May 25, 2016
There's coal in the air
Dust in their lungs
I'm left pondering
All that I've done
As a hazy cloud surrounds
The storm comes barreling
Engulfing this town I'm in
But as the son of a coal miner's daughter
I'm too far removed
From this rugged life that I'm
Supposed to be living
I am fire cooked in the belly of a barrel
An inferno like a messenger of death from hell
Somersaulting like a ninja assassin wilding his sword unsheathed
With double edged precision and ill intent unleashed
In my clear trajectory I target any would be shot stopper
I spit fatality and finality, I am the showstopper
There lies power in the pull of a trigger
An on/off switch of life at the tip of a finger
I entre the air with a loud Bang!
I express death like a bulletin
Collide and split air molecules with gun powder
15 calibre to penetrate fragile body armour
I shoot off my mouth like a machine gun
Two syllables, death by numbers, one by one
I recoil on my words like a liar, then silence
Steal lives and leave behind bullet clips
I laugh at your gun laws
I am the Lord of all wars
I’ve never been to war
or claimed the old kings shilling.
Though born and bred to Army life
I knew the need for killing.
The civi’ kids thought those like me,
were gypsies in their town,
but quickly found how hard it was
to try to knock us down.
The discipline we had at home
meant nothing could compare,
we learn to duck and dive a bit
when trouble’s in the air.
Never caught, escape, evade,
let others take the blame,
the lesson learned by everyone
who played our army game.
Some say it’s tough to move about
stability unsure.
But you learn to make a killing
before others know its war!
Security and stable home
deprives one of the fun
of knowing when to stand and fight
or choose the time to run.
It doesn’t show to look at us,
……our natures hid away,
but lessons learned in growing up
forever with us stay.
An Army brat, who knew the way
to win by any means.
Be careful all civilians sprogs
things aren’t like what it seems…………..
Ivor G Davies
I talk within the frame of my thought, I eat within frame of my ability, I
go to school within the call of education
The language in the streets enshroud me to the shoulder of a singer
The crack of my feet on the ground with my feet stamps signed the effects of
the long journey I have been taking
The road to success is a slopping, but I managed eclipsed it with total
focus
I remember the boulevard roads from the day one I smelled the wind in my
world
I never give such thought to talk star. I poet the lines with the sound of
personification
I built my thought to mountains of Trembling fingers with curled hair
I living in my imagination, I wasn't dare to be distracted from the ponder
of education
The looks of the lemon salivates my tongue, to the brewed of coffee in the
morning
I'm addicted to my thought, Um! Um! he groans within wisdom in his calories
He ditch to flinch the fog through the trash that tall his ambition
Mum middle her kids, while dad sleeping in his shallow box where no amount
wealth can will him to salvation like King Solomon
I couldn't understand, why my dad dug hole so early to helm the rim of his
kids behind with single mum at the edge of wearing the gown of
responsibilities upon that tiny brain
The kids crippled with no option except opting in towns and cities wanting
to dribble remittances to the wooden house under the boulder
He lynches the hurdles from his Oceans of struggling like boiling water in
the morning
His ideas met with pain but his smile shall dwell in heaven
As fate is weapon designed to fight poverty within the frame of my thought,
it will rain with prosperity.
The frosh of imagination is the fruit of my labor where I coined the truth with colorful look.
You fooled me once... but you can't fool me twice
You've done something stupid... that's not very nice
You tailored a lie... you did not accidentally miss a stitch
You fooled me on purpose... you rotten son of a …..
After all these years... I believed in your trust
And now, low and behold... your truths are a bust
It's not a case... of which witch is which
It's a case of a liar... a true son of a …..
Shame on you... my now begone friend
I won't ever forgive you... I will not pretend
That you are my friend... because you, I will ditch
I trust you no more... you son of a …..
Fool Me Once Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brenda Chiri
8/9/2018
If you were born a son of a gun
Life for you would not be fun
Because you'll never know your Dad
Or who was he if you had?
He could have been anyone.
You poor bastard Son of a Gun!
Son of the devil I am
Am I, I a psychologically
Misunderstood individuality
Emitting my soul in the caress of hypochondriasis
Believing in the many illness of fame
Belligerently dumfounded to using a needle point frame
On the oasis of my flesh
To depict-ate past failures, un-relieved stress and to provoke
An aggressiveness determination
Not blinded by greed, and to be astronomically true to me
Me the son of a devil
I'm the son of a gun.
You can call me the son of Sam.
I kill, Bang, bang, you're dead..
I kill. therefore I am.
I remember my own sweet home,
where I never suffered loss,
and the holy rifle on the wall
slung just beneath the Cross.
No earthly power is my master.
No thing can hold me in awe.
To legal qualms I answer.
I stand for cannon law.
And as long as you are still breathing,
get more bangs from your buck.
Industry is thunderously booming
but never trust your luck.
For I may find you any place.
no matter where you roam,
in Iraq or Syria,
or where you are at home.
How does someone do that
just pretend to care
mess with someones mind
then just disappear
Just stay away unless
well unless you really care
stop messing with me please
I could never hurt someone
never like that
messing with the mind
that is criminal with intent
don't you feel guilty or
do you feel nothing at all
I am at my wits end
knowhere to turn
not a soul to hold
So just go away
leave me alone
I don't need more confusion
go to hell
find someone else
to make them feel alone
Your a son of a.....