The day rises again over my bitterness.
The birds have not yet begun to sing,
I am already angry,
still in a bad mood despite financial security.
At the slightest provocation, I know I’ll end up handcuffed in a prison van.
I’m afraid I’ll eventually break.
I am not afraid of dying, but of living.
I come from hell and walk upon a hostile land.
I am full of rage: the human species does not deserve this generous planet.
Once, I had gloved hands and a hooded face,
a Kalashnikov under the bed and the windows always sealed.
Today, I am far removed from the illicit,
with my scars, my skills, and my convictions.
I know how to get rich quickly,
and I am aware of the consequences of my actions.
I live with my nightmares and my regrets.
Categories:
kalashnikov, 12th grade,
Form: Free verse
He played in his father’s shadow
with a wooden Kalashnikov.
Meanwhile the goats needed milking.
The sun daily entered the sky tower
calling air to prayer.
His father has been gone too long
his mother cries
wails
beats her chest.
He follows the ways of his older brothers.
“Put this finger here,” one says,
“this is how you milk a she-goat.”
Another says, “Put your finger there,
that is how you pull a trigger.”
Soon he will put on the robes
of a shining martyr,
shave the hairs off
his hairless body
then far from the village
wash every inch
of his 12 year old life away
to become the very shadow
of his father.
Categories:
kalashnikov, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Oh, how sweet you are, Russian poetry! How unapproachable! Let the poet up to your balcony while no one's looking. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, that…* But why don’t you send your nurse for a rope ladder? Why do I see doubt in your eyes? I swear, I’m not going to tease your bear, drink your vodka, play balalaika and shoot Kalashnikov. And even if they say that love is too rough, too rude, too boist'rous** - I'll be gentle, delicate and quiet: Russian poets don’t pick kisses by force.
you won’t then maybe
your english speaking sister
will take poet in
*The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene II
**The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene IV
Categories:
kalashnikov, poetry, poets, relationship,
Form: Haibun
In your modern nation
Your civilisation
Is under a threat from miniaturisation
’cause one day they’ll make it, in China they’ll fake it
A nice compact nuclear bomb...
That Clips on a rocket
That fits in your pocket
And no one cares where it comes from
Taiwan or China or what could be finer...
A genuine one from Hong Kong
Global destruction
With basic instruction
For people in banks, shops and farms
Wherever they’re working there’s somebody lurking
Demanding the right to bear arms
Your forefathers voted
And thus it was noted
(In spite of a future not reckoned)
They’d keep arms resplendent, and wrote an amendment
And this one they numbered the second
But when they discussed it
Sword, cannon and musket
Was just about all that they’d got
Rather less keen, if they had foreseen
Machine gun or multiple shot
If you need to clobber
a thug or a robber
Here’s what I can’t help thinking of
One shot at a time can stop them just fine
So, what’s with the Kalashnikov
So when they invent it
And fakers have bent it
And nobody cares who it harms
I hope you have fun with your nuclear gun
’cause you have the right to bear arms
Categories:
kalashnikov, usa, violence,
Form: Rhyme
Methinks pilots are such superior mortals
For their ability to make metals fly like fowls,
And soldiers have such an impressive mettle
That makes you salute their daring prowls.
Surgeons are such a precise and thoroughly seasoned breed
That will dumbfound with details of capillaries and veins,
And commanders-in-chief such colossal powers wantonly wield
Till they addict themselves to honor and extend their reigns.
A charismatic preacher will yodel tunes and heal the lame
And win a hefty standing among their peers in a moment;
The teacher is the final light and bearer of the last opinion
And their learned views sail without a single opponent.
But the poet is the chariot of thought that inspires them all.
He’s the silent roar of the Boeing with the pilot in,
He’s the muffled ricocheting of the soldier’s Kalashnikov;
The unspoken overtones of the preacher’s condemnation of sin,
The subtlest incision of the surgeon’s authorized blade
And the president’s solemn inspection of the honor parade.
Categories:
kalashnikov, art,
Form: Verse
SLAUGHTER
(for Emmanuel)
It was Saturday morning,
He went out to play
On that dusty patch in Ebutte Meta
And we never saw him again
We looked everywhere
Even in the sewers and roadside drains
We never saw him again
Until
Thirteen weeks later
He looked like a confused ghost,
He still had the dark birthmark
On his left breast
That one that look like a napple leaves,
His hair and finger nails had grown longer
All else was intact except for his navel
An arrogant bullets hole was in its place
Then they told us many things
They us members of his gang
Men who looked wicked even in the death
They told us he killed a policeman with Kalashnikov
They showed the gun.
But there were few things they forget to tell us
There were a very few things they forget to do
They didn’t tell us he had a football under his arm
They forget to shoot all the passers by
Who saw the wayward slug stray to him from?
A drunken patrolman’s gun
They forget the weight of the a Kalashnikov
They forget the size of his hand
Emmanuel was thirteen years old
He now lies in the garden
Behind our house,
Quietly
A little flower over his grave
Where no police bullet will touch him again.
Bode Asiyanbi
Categories:
kalashnikov, death,
Form: Elegy
‘A’ for agonies great;
‘K ‘is homage to Kalashnikov its genius maker, late;
‘4’ is the damned exponent of its murderous power;
‘7’ are the days in a week it kills, and every hour!
Categories:
kalashnikov, funny
Form: I do not know?
Your fangs open like lips.
I am ready for the kiss of death
at a war zone, where I was adrift
holding the flame, moments
stabbed by hot bullets.
Black and white words break the
embrace, I cannot study the bandona now.
Eyes winged, were sailing to distant
lands of smugness, a darkening calm
taking over the poems.
The pungent stink hurts, I swim
without water on dry riverbed, becoming
target for kalashnikov, the courtyard
filled by encroaching blood,
dominion of silent sobs.
Satish Verma
Categories:
kalashnikov, adventure, allegory, angst, animals,
Form: I do not know?