Cartridges Poems | Examples

gun slinger

The  Gunman

In Montreal, in a bar frequented by shadowy 
people who used French phrases, making money
fraud and mayhem, I bought a revolver that still 
had five bullets in its chamber
The next morning, our ship was bound for Japan. 
I worried about the gun, perhaps used in a heist 
where someone got killed, and there was
 The Kennedys are still in our memory 
Chief, they said, you look absent-minded, what's
 Wrong, nothing is wrong. I have a slight cold.
Near the Sea of Japan, I threw the weapon overboard
because I knew if I had a gun when I was growing up 
I would, in my anger, have used a gun
I threw the revolver overboard, and an hour later, the 
cartridges I didn't want they to meet up 
The next day, I was my old self, free of guilt

Recording a Rape

It is one hell of a risk
Away The Cops could Stan whisk,
By Jeff's window with a disc
They'll think he's there to things frisk,
Although, slow Stan's moves not brisk...

Stan means recording a rape;
He's gone there, too, with a tape
Any funny noise Clean Escape;
He's learnt to jump like an ape...

But Jeff has got a shot gun;
If he sees Stan, end of fun!
He, sure, shall blow Stan's brains out,
As he thinks of getting out
All gun's cartridges fire,
All idle killers hire!
The idea is damned risky,
Stan suspect of downed whisky.

Printing Problems

Yesterday, my printer worked
  today it's on the fritz.
I was in a frenzy perked
  spewing words lined in poetic blitz.
Fingers slid along the keys
 and every word was good indeed
but the final stall was a tease
 and the printer appeared deceased.
I struggled with direction
 set the keys to cleaning action
but every paper eluded perfection
 and lay in depressing dissatisfaction.
Changed the cartridges of ink
 and tried again once more
but the printer barely seemed to blink
 alas, I shut it down and swore.

The Era of Trampoline Floors

The emotions that bubble up,
Fizzing from your finger tips,
staining the already worn carpet
as it licks its lips across the floor.
 
Passion doesn’t spit both ways.
 
Would it feel like dancing?
Eyes holding onto another
with hands discovering
new found love on the small of a back.
 
Or perhaps more like breaking.
Love snapping into sixty seven bits
sixty six mice greedily grab, devour,
while one bit is left watching 
the other dregs collecting dust.
 
To have heart and soul ripped from its cage
and placed before the eyes
which have been stained 
with sin for so long.
 
Arms carrying ink cartridges to a lover.
Dripping dry the entire way,
so that no new romance novel will come
to existence,
and the empty printers will, too, cry themselves to sleep.
 
One set of two irises, two pupils
is all humanity receives
to view a universe so massive 
the eyes of God would need broadening.
 
“But no, passion doesn’t spit both ways”
No bouquets of hyacinths to fill the summer daze.
 
Our weakness turned blue as the sea
where the muted telephone was fed.
Refusing to feel anything but lonely,
yet never as alone as the hopeless romantic.

Pieces of Mahatma

we come in peace
we are rent to pieces
pieces of beads we offer
pieces of soul we barter
barter is fine with us
barter your beads for our gold
gold is our guide
gold is your god
god we bring to you
god was always there    
there is a distant king
there is our king
kings are not for you
you lie and you cheat
you must serve our lord    
lord be praised
lord will save you pagans
pagans  converted
pagans are our burden
burden to whip                    
burden and  dogs
dogs and Indians not allowed
dogs and pigs
pig's fat in cartridges
pigs are eaten as pork    
pork is anathema
pork grease smoothens bullets
bullets will be fired now
bullets fired in revolt
revolt for freedom              
revolt against company
company go home
company  of east india
india wants freedom
india our crown jewel
jewel you stole
jewel of the east
east rose the sun
east was the strife
strife till 1947                      
strife suppressed
suppressed no longer now
suppressed struggled for freedom
freedom under gandhi
gandhi  and  ahimsa        
gandhi the mahatma
mahatma and freedom
mahatma and india   
india
freedom

Dots From a Box

Dots From A Box

Black dots reside inside a black box on table top
Blue dots are housed in pens as ink, in old cartridges or wells
At the end of sentences they come out to punctuate
To stop a stream of thought on page                      
Otherwise they would escape with no ideas
Words would never end
Properly placed with surgeon like precision 
The pen comes down on pure white paper
A laser pin point tip releases liquid
Forms into a period
Melds on the surface at that concluding spot
On the two dimensional world becoming one
An indelible dot at the end of words and phrases
If left to their own devices, periods would go on parade
Lined up in rows to march like this . . . . . . . . . .   .

Snowflakes Escape

Snowflakes Escape

At the crack of dawn shots rang out
Ducks scattered at the sound
Obscenities quacked back from every beak
Hunters were not there for them

They came to capture fox
Snow fell with cartridges as hunters froze in thought 
In perfect orchestration with the day and perfect aim
Focused on the games in nature

Bringing down their prey with rifles
Setting traps along the way
Men bundled in pillow white disguise
Running with their dogs and guns through narrow paths

Towering trees held green along the way
Held their ground below the mountain
Hunters settled
Looking for some warmth after the captures


Campfires blazed
Storms rolled in on bitter winds
Enter the calm
Large swirling flakes continued on the quiet

Each one avoiding warmth to hold their form
Away from creatures clad in natures white, like fox
Away from bundled men disguised in white
Snowflakes made their escape into the silence

The Duck Blind

Every autumn in the Chaos Mountains
the wind blows through the tall grass
& the rain stalls, fitful in its sublimity.
It is not a season for speaking. Only for listening.
Out there, somewhere beyond the horizon
a silence that is not silence, calls,
& men enter the duck blind, and wait,
huddled with their cartridges & ambiguities,
disguised to themselves as hunters,
re-inventing themselves with rifle eyes
fixed on some vanishing point beyond the language
of rivers & trees, turned away from
the here & now - a tempting non-existence
accompanied by hope, which may be nothing more
than the promise of a big dinner with
lots of stuffing and gravy and no questions.

Penultimate Day

The penultimate day of  2011 

Pale winter sky, green landscape and the far mountain
is dark blue…the air is so clear I can see white cottages
on the slopes where they have goats and make cheese.
There is stillness, but I hear cars rushing by on the main
road and if I stand on my toes I can see the Gaza Strip,
 not in details as it is shrouded in the mist of conflicts.
The distance between here and there is too short today
bullets hit ground and I must hide behind a stone wall.
I see cartridges from shot guns, hunters have been here
and meaty birds fly fast and fearfully from tree to tree. 
The dale to the east that looks like a voluptuous woman 
on her back, I drove up there once but couldn’t find her. 
This year is coming to an end, a year of wars, it is sad to 
think in our world hostilities are a norm.

The Twelve Days of Happy Holidays

THE TWELVE  DAYS  OF HAPPY HOLIDAYS


In days gone by when the wordld was much younger
Kids played football in the streets
And for celebration had very simple treats.
People had a more limited possessions-hunger.


Gifts were graceful with beauty.
Now they are plastic and practical :
Their appeal is less spiritual, more electrical  -
With batteries included  (heavy duty).


No more partridges in a pear tree.
What about  five golden rings?
Forget them . . . . . bring me bling !
And printer cartridges  (buy the pair, one free).

Singing the sectarian “Merry Christmas” is out these days.
The “endangered-species” people would find absurd
The former   four-calling-birds  being heard.
So we have a song-free  politically-correct “Happy Holidays”.

Poetry Destryer Vs Gareth James (Round 3)

For who is this poetry destroyer
A cop, but who else would employ her?
As she spies no end
No poet, she pretends
Vanilla ice in leopard skin fur.

You ask If I want mommies hug
wouldn’t that be nice, lovely and snug
You just want to hold me
Under that great oak tree
And kiss me on your picnic rug

You want the vultures to enjoy
My sweet flesh, is that your ploy?
Wanting to be them
Eyeing up my sweet gem
Tell the truth, you just want a toy boy 

Well our future together would be bright
Injets, pens and cartridges in sight
You’d color me in
Goodness what a sin
As I would always do the best write

Hang up your gloves as your are weak
You are also classed as an antique
A low blow I know
Don’t cry, don’t go
You can come back with a new technique.

If I don’t hear from the poetry cop 
I will know I have come out on top
Good bye little girl
Give us one more twirl
Now, this should be the final full stop (.)!

P.D, this is the first one ive done. Took me a while. Very good fun though. I kind of limit’s 
the write.

If I Were Older

I want to be a hero and
go to heaven.
I want twenty three virgins and a palace made of brick and mortar;

But our leader says I am too young yet to strap justice to my chest and die for Allah.

So patiently I reload spent cartridges and make beds and prepare food for my brothers.
brothers who march to what fate may greet them.

Death come like splinters from a soft-speaking man with a massive stick.

          -For my friend Sgt. Brian Smith

Cant Keep An Umbrella

I live in a family
who can't keep an umbrella
a flashlight
flour
superglue
post its
ink cartridges
ice cubes
ice cream cones

who can't find
checkbooks
gift cards
phone cords
appt reminders

who never has
extra cash
maps
penny rolls 
the doctors number
the date of surgery
a camera

so we're always
wet 
hungry
cold
late 
early
lost
behind
thirsty

Vigilante

Vigilante


He walked in the door
a little John Wayne
a little Jesus Christ 
six foot tall 
giant guns on his hips 
so emaciated you can count all his ribs. 

twelve bullets flew and 
twelve persons fell  

reload  

repeat

the deafening clash never ended 
until all you could count was the dead.


He stood among patrons
of the local pub 
and made a decision 
like he always does 
that he would never do this again, 

never again 

see the blood on their faces 
and blood on the floor 
but forever carry 
their blood on his hands. 

He sighed, 

sheathed his hard steel 
turned on his heel 
and walked right back out that door.
 
That wasn’t the first time 
and wasn’t the last 
that he shot the hot lead 
and dropped steaming brass 
leaving no trace 
but the spent cartridges strewn about. 

He knocked the dust off his boots 
and kept walking on 
humming a tune 
couldn’t remember the song 
unsheathed his steel 
and just let them play on 

that deafening clash never ended.

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