Long Gun Poems
Long Gun Poems. Below are the most popular long Gun by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gun poems by poem length and keyword.
Silver bullets have no eyes
They care not who is hit
American schools where bullets fly
Terrorizing the staff and kids
The shooter often a kid as well
This time he is a 14 year old
His father arrested headed to jail
How much about his child did he know
The photo they splash on the tv
Of a blonde haired student teen
Surely a nightmare who could dream
So tender of age to be so mean
Two teachers two students gone forever
Killed by a teen with gun access
Families torn apart love is severed
How can you not feel distressed
As prayers go up we look now
To the parents of this young man
What reasons in his life will be found
That he would cause death with his hand
His mother surely feels regret
Obviously he was deeply disturbed
The nation again is utterly upset
Gun violence hits a sensitive nerve
curse be the day that gun was invented
the creation of gun
is like the born date
of the devil
this evil invention
is killing us in a hurry
so sad so many human
are even it best friend
like the gunman
with just a click
a soul is gone
so brief and in
a hurry
what a killer
curse be the day that gone was invented
is obvious we are dieing
in the hands of gunmen
everyday their is a report
of a gunshot
in the cities in the media
we can't escape the
nemesis of this invention
any longer
it lives among us
it is a part of the family
in too many homes
were hatred and ignorance
is never a stranger
it is killing a lot innocent
souls
what an invention of
devaluation
curse be the day that gun was invented
an invention gone too viral
a killer invention gone too deep
in the souls of the devourer
an evil invention in the hands
of criminal is equal to
a genocide of the innocent
victims of peace
I know that day it was invented
was Satan birth day
I realise is was his gift
to humanity
and now it is killing
the souls of mankind
curse be the day that gun was invented
my ancestors was intimidated
by gunmen
my forefather's was force to
slavery by gunmen
my people has lost a lot by
the fear of the hands
of the gunmen
it still never change
the world still got a lot
gunmen ready to devour
another innocent soul
so in my quest for
humanity I realise that
curse was the day that gun was invented
The crimson sun still up
as she woefully walks
in an abandoned rustic railways;
Her feet ~ as heavy as the stale steel rails
almost buried in forgotten soil;
Her hands as cold as tombstone plate
whilst holding a gun on her left hand~
She grips a quill pen
to write the obscure death
of the man in blue suit~
and the deaths of twelve passengers
still unsolved...
She was here some decades ago~
aboard in an old steam train
The memory of that macabre ride
haunted her for thousand days and nights.
She writes in scarlet ink
on a bloodstained scroll
that says like this:
" To all the victims who died here,
I lay my hands before this forgotten railway
and the weeping willows as my witness;
I never thought too much love would kill.
I killed my beloved man in blue suit,
the driver of that tortuous train journey...
Yes I killed him to save the three million people
dwelling on the final station;
Using the twelve infected people,
He was sent to spread that virus
that he thought would change the world.
I didn't understand till now~
Yes, I killed him with a silencer
and unlocked that explosive weapon
before it reached its final destination.
But I was spared~
not the twelve people;
Now, with this gun I’ll give justice
to all people who died here
by killing the undersigned murderer.
Till death,
Anonymous ”.
The gun silently flicks
pointing her head~
Darks clouds hide the day
as her blood flows
on the thirsty ground.
1 May 2021
Modified for “ Guns Poetry Contest”
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
11th place
It was four thirty in the afternoon broad daylight,
We arrived home after an exhausting shopping spree,
Pulled into our drive, turned off the engine, to our delight,
Home, don’t look them in the eye, dangerous, there are three.
No sooner had Hubby told me I had a gun to my head,
The other hi-jacker by my husband’s side, oh we’re dead
I said softly. Was wearing a lot of jewellery which they took,
My husband’s man-bag, with two thousand rand, the crook,
His cross and chain, our Rolex watches, then as quickly as they
Appeared, they left, I was devoid of fear, no emotion, I did pray.
Suddenly I noticed the same chap came back with his gun,
Was convinced he was going to shoot but they were not done,
Two more bracelets, can’t open the catch, this is scary, no fun,
So Hubby tugged and broke the clasp, fearing they would shoot
But hijacker happy with his steal, it was quite a catch, this loot!
To this day no one has news, or knowledge of their whereabouts,
It is still an open case, this happened 7 years ago or thereabouts.
It was now 4.35p.m the whole incident took only five minutes,
Their confidence and composure had absolutely no limits,
For us, we could not believe what an ordeal we had gone through,
This happens in South Africa, and other countries, to more than a few
They had followed us from our nearby mall, had spotted the Rolexes’
Called the Rolex gang, were really only interested in these watches
But got lucky as I was wearing more than expected, or projected!
No longer have any gold jewellery, sold it and gave the money
To the needy, whose lives may become a fraction more sunny
Contest : Our Last Thoughts
Sponsor Unseeking Seeker
Dated 24th April 2021
Your day wasn't bad enough.
You had to work late,
on a job with no
time and half for overtime.
On your way home,
waiting for the bus.
Only to be held up
by two members
of Thugs-R-us.
There's never a Cop around
when you need one.
They wave a gun
in your face.
Knowing you won’t make a fuss.
You said look man!
You must be practicing,
because I’m broke as hell.
They laughed and took
Your cellphone, wallet
and bus fare as well.
But they weren’t through
They took your over coat too.
They were laughing
As it began snowing.
Then they got on your bus.
And only because it’s Xmas season,
they rob everybody on the bus.
They left you standing there
in the freezing cold.
You saw the whole thing
and they didn’t care.
Because this didn’t really happen.
Only because
you picked this day,
to called in sick.
The Black Hills wept for Thee
East of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota,
Part of the Great Sioux Nation.
On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the GarryOwen,
was such a sight to see.
While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte.
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe,
the chief of the Minneconjou.
Five miles West through the cold day they walked,
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh,
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,
that would turn the tide of chance.
Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,
as the women and children fled to a ravine.
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.
Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains,
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains,
of tears and laughter forever silenced.
In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain, ingloriously.
In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory.
“Let us put our minds together to see what life we can make for our children.”
-Sitting Bull
She cleans and polishes
Her revolver
A prayer on her breath
She prays that God stays with her
As she makes this difficult arrest
She is the lady police officer
Her life is on the line
She needs friends who will care
When her finger brushes the trigger
And her mind whispers “deliver me”
She battles with depression
Worry and fatigue
She understands that hatred
For her and her gun
Flow viciously with malice and cruelty
She is the one I turn to
When I’m weak and afraid
When no one will listen
To my plea for protection
Still, do I whisper a prayer…
For this lady who defends and shields
Gives me security in this malicious
Wretched place
Where we always need grace
To fall across her face
Guns can be used to kill
But they can also be used
To do God’s will
Guns poetry contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
April 23, 2021
a perfect shot, to the head,
trickle of blood, he is dead,
the smoking gun, in my hand,
justice done in lawless land,
father of two, middle of street,
his widowed wife, revenge sweet,
ageing mother weeps for son,
in my hand, the smoking gun!
score is settled, bullet fired,
job completed, I was hired,
reason why, I do not know,
nor the problem nor the row,
feelings for him, I have none,
in my hand, the smoking gun!
shoot to kill, is what I do,
paid to do without a clue,
list of names in the docket,
each dead man, fills my pocket,
blame me not for what I do,
curse me not that hell I rue,
I hear the cops, time to run,
In my hand, the smoking gun!
man kills man in various roles,
innocents dead, bleeding holes,
soldiers kill on battle grounds,
cops on streets, bullet sounds,
gun kills people one by one,
yet words can kill more than one,
If our words and deeds are sweet,
there won’t be guns on the street!
another street, new job begun,
In my hand, the smoking gun!
5th placement
Written 27/04/2021
Guns Poetry contest
Anthony Biaanco sponsored
7/8 syllables each line.
When under the gun how can one
not be outdone by nepotism
or overcome by favouritism
altho' the norm they're no more
than a form of terrorism
a nebulous opponent none can fight
on the human landscape
naught but a blight
from which we can't escape or run
any self-respecting someone would shun
and as for me you see
I was obviously yet definitely
born in the wrong place
at the wrong time with the wrong face
seeing promotion from outside in the cold
not a foot could I put over the threshold
what with doors slammed progress jammed
out of my depth in over my head
can't get a look-in may as well be dead
Henry McCarty (1859 – 1881)
a.k.a, Kid Antrim – ca. 1876
a.k.a., William H. Bonney – ca. 1877
Of Irish ancestry
New York-born
orphaned at 15
from his family shorn
repeatedly asking '¿Quién es?'
around midnight 14th July 1881
entering Maxwell's bedroom
their mutual friend but Billy without a gun
in Fort Sumner where by Pat Garrett
(1850 - 1908)
take my word I kid you not
age 21 sadly Henry the outlaw
in the chest was badly shot
for reputedly killing nine men
but for the posted bounty of $500
it took the Sheriff 369 days to collect
the reward promised by Governor Wallace
(1827 – 1905)