Holsters Poems | Examples

Confederate Blaurt vs Police Academy

Billions in property lines
Child hostages 
John Candy and male stripping?

Owners of school holsters
Ama Jewish norigins










Watered ears kneeling 
Complicated boarding times
And unfinished conversations 
When and won't
Built a school
Running out of jobs together 

American Debts we can't shove 
Out of the paperwork

behave!!!

it not in the way you make a man
even the quality of living is unstable
new zealanders are flooding into thousand oaks like
similar valleys for the corruption entrees
soo many spill outs from the economic offerings
please bring the handsome warrior of sex with!
amazing
the spending habituals of teenage frolicking
60-80 and 90 year old rotted l death ven diagram
oasis retreat me never gossip gotherians
and the make a move already boys with holsters attache me now

Cowboys and Indians 2023

The cowboys always won
    The Indians always lost
       I yearned to see a cowboy
       with an arrow through his chest

    But then I read a story 'bout
    a cowboy who'd been scalped
       Promised to myself, I said
       Now I'd see a red man dead

    Put on two toy store holsters
    Courage blazing from their guns
       Bagged me the bony remnants
       Of a graveyard skeleton



         Blood-curdling Scene ~
           Happy Halloween!

The Lonesome Life of a Cell Phone User

two cell phones ran into each other on some street
friends I think world has changed though
and stood side by side known yet unknown
an awkward greeting then sliding into silence
like an old western gunfight suddenly
a duet of ring tones that has taken music hostage
they reached for their souls lost in a maze
to see who had the quickest draw
and to their relief a touching moment
quickly typing with insane joy
their thoughts playing the keys like a piano
in the end they acknowledged each other with a nod
with a good-bye slipped it back into their holsters
patting it like a baby's bottom waiting for the burp
they walked for a moment but like a pack of cigarettes
they reached for their cell phones lighting and inhaling
staring at the screen to see if their popularity was still intact
as they were staring downwards the cell phone they were tweeting
walked by without a peep just a nod

Firearm Requiem

(In memory of the 19 children and two adults killed by gun violence in Uvalde, Texas on May 24, 2022…as well as the countless others who have and who will suffer similar fates.)

Firearm Requiem

By Mark Stucky
In the U.S., guns outnumber people
and sales outpace population growth.

Guns under beds.
Guns in closets.
Guns in cars.
Guns in trucks.
Guns in purses.
Guns in holsters.
Guns in forests.
Guns in offices.
Guns in classrooms.
Guns here.
Guns there.
Guns everywhere.
Guns pointing at them.
Guns pointing at me.
Guns pointing at you.

Why let so many fingers on so many triggers?
Why protect guns more than lives of children?
Why choose gun wrongs over gun laws?
Why is America the monarch of mass shootings?

Did gun rights come from Mt. Sinai,
written by God’s own fingers?
Did (not) guns (once again)
make America great(ly pained)?

When will we as a nation
collectively have courage
to save generational blood
and beat guns into plowshares?

(First published in Agape Review, 15 June 2022. See also my poems “Hate Vacuuming” and “Weapons of Wonder.”)

Eunuch Encouragements

Elephant trunk palms column, canopy claps hands
   Undergrowth glad heart shape leaves spiral 
   Navigator vines map branches, brace boa banyan 
   Utile duenna diary with my duties conspiring 
   Chaperone rope binds silent beside my grand plan


   Helpmaster holsters my faltering stride, hips squared
   Essential weapon for war against mediocrity
   Netted fruit bag binds ideas, ripe inspiration shared
   Collaboration binges exchanges evocatively 
   Oversees growth, buffers fumbles, humiliation spared

  
   Unbias advisor straddles drama, miniscule mosquitos
   Raised beyond current, stilts lift clear of silt
   Above ravaging river, twig leg log cabin cosy kudos
   Guileless sunrise server castrates lumpy guilt
   Enmeshed mirror wishes bud symmetrical smiling rose

 
   Mentor each moment monitor prods my furtive dreams
   Enlivens rainblur haze, unravels twisted maze
   Narrows channel between now and zany zone supreme
   Twines possible to present, pours zesty praise 
   Strengthened, gender invalid, my meridian self esteem





                           9th June 
                    Carbonised Agenda

High Noon In Armadillo Texas

It’s high noon in Armadillo Texas Sheriff cat announced in her way.
Her sidekick, Deputy Mouse Whiskers smiled and decided to stay.
They strapped on cowboy hats, holsters, belt buckles and a gun.
It was 1959, when outlaws were arrested, and TV westerns were fun.

The Weather Lorax

Just before Christmas 2021
A historic wind storm
Setting a new norm
Swept across us all

Continental Divide sigh
I told you so

Tornadoes spun from Minnesota snow
Blew out a Kentucky candle factory
Days before

Tropical hurricane here in Michigan

My lit up life-size Christmas bear
Wobbled around the bare backyard
Side to side
Like an old man on bad hips

Or a bow-legged cowboy
Hands on holsters
Pacing steps to the final showdown

I draw

In shorts T-Shirt and Birkenstocks
Santa cap

He howls to the ground
Upside down
Shaking in the foreboding wind.

Tucumcari

As I ride across the high plains desert
large gaps of open, arid scenery whisk by 
burning sun is heating up old rippled windows
jostling riders jiggle and jump, jerk and sway 
to the click, clack, click clack of wooden tracks
towards Tucumcari, New Mexico; Gateway To The West. 

Sounds of the Old Wild West stir up the imagination 
stories linger, like the great train robbery of Black Jack Ketchum 
that occurred in 1897 near Tucumcari
where he and his bandits secretly hid the stash of gold
long before the train whistle blew near the station. 

Clickity, clack, clickity, clack, or could that be horses’ hooves
galloping alongside the old steam engine tracks?
As desert dust kicks up, I envision ghosts of riders
wild west cowboys catching up, with guns out of holsters
shouting, “Stop the train! Get the gold!”

“Next stop, Tucumcari!”, calls out the conductor
I am shaken out of my daydream and look around 
I view humble buildings huddling within the arroyos
these people are proud of their Southern Pacific heritage 
for here in the desert you’ll not find a heartier folk
than those within this land of grit and sizzling sun.

The Range Was His Home

You couldn't rattle Tex
  Ice water in his veins
No one ever saw him wince
  let alone complain

Kept to himself, he did
  Felt life was meant to be hard
Carried his lasso and holsters proud
  Tackled fool rustlers, no holds barred

The range was his home, an honest calling
  One where he gave his cattle free rein
'Til sundown was nigh, when he'd change his tune
  Call in his options, by the light of the moon

Came a day when his ten-gallon hat
  No longer was seen on the range, working at
The craft that he loved, more than life itself
  Tex had roped his last steer, put his reins on the shelf

Baku

Baku 


In Baku ( the then Soviet Union)
I found the individual Russians a friendly people
we drank white wine which was a bit sweet
but otherwise tasted good.
The restaurant looked like 1930 had a white table clothes
of course, Lenin and Stalin were looking at us 
either as a bust or a picture.
The suits the men wore was also 1930ish but so what
we didn´t have to pay.
The Russians liked to hear theirs was a wonderful country
as I indeed did in, say, Texas wonderful state
and was told the blacks were all communists
Strangely enough, I was more frightened in Texas, so many
guns in holsters.
The individual Texans were polite, well-armed men often are
and we drank lone star beer served cold.
The British took years before serving cold lager. 
I live in Portugal now, a good place but I wouldn't say I like the unholy alliance between politicians and the business class.

Steampunk Maggie

Steampunk Maggie with her flaming purple neon hair
Showing a gung-ho attitude that scares men off the planet.
Guns should be hanging off her holsters; not sure they aren’t.
As she faces me down with her charisma I laugh. She is mighty!
I add some yellow daisies to her top hat to smooth her out, calm her.
Rather than softening her attitude, it makes her more formidable.
I adore her now more than ever.

Where Are Your Guns

Where are your holsters?
I don’t have any.
Where do you keep your guns?
I don’t have any.
What is wrong with you?
Lots of things.
He gives me a smirk.

Seconds later….
Do you have knives?
This is asked hopefully.
Sure.
Where are they?
I stare at this four-year-old I agreed to watch for a few hours.
Why do you want to know?
I want to be able to defend myself.

From who?
The bad guys?
What bad guys?
The BAD GUYS that are everywhere.
Let’s swing, Want to?
No. I want my tablet.
Why?
So I can kill bad guys.
I hid the tablet after a bit, so he was forced to swing and slide.
He professed to hate it, as he went down the slide giggling like a hyena.

Wanted Dead Or Alive

Shots fired 

In a western town

Smoke clears

From the barrel of a gun 


Two arch rivals 

In a duel of death

Who's the better gunslinger

Will be put to the test


Bullets fly 

On a mission to kill

Only the Bulls-eye shooter 

Holsters his weapon again


Sheriff falls 

To bite the dust

A cowboy escapes  

Trailed by bounty hunters and hounds


A reward is set

On church walls and saloons

"Wanted dead or alive"

Reports Tombstone daily news

The Gunfighter

The Gunfighter
By: Tom Wright
1997

I knoweth not
From whence he came.
He just appeared
He gave us no name.
He had close-set eyes
That gave but a glance.
Immediately I knew
I had no chance.
The tied off holsters
He wore on his hips.
Held two forty-fives
With faux pearl grips.

His hat-shaded brow
Held beaded sweat.
His trip into Dodge
Was to settle a bet.
With a drawl he then said
I've come to see.
If It’s like I've heard
That you're as fast as me.
Then at twenty paces
Both solemn faced.
We each knew soon
One would be erased.

We both drew and fired
At the count of three.
Then I felt a sharp sting
As his bullet struck me.
While I searched for blood
With his drawl he spoke.
Pick yourself up old man
It was only a joke.
From the ground I arose
Having but little to say.
For this strangers gun
Was quickest today.

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