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.
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
It ain't the Gun
Never was it, that I was told I could be loved.
It was yesterday a host of roses fell,
all blocking our paths.
sincerely, you said, am all yours,
but that was my epitaph.
On our grave yard, they wrote, it ain't the gun
Killed like Romeo and Juilet.
Dying one by one, same day same session.
Where is the love?
Beauty been buried, riches turn to dust.
Why killed us ? ain't the roses romantic for us?
Ain't the riches enough for us ?
Why the gun?
Curse you, curse me, but all my fault
Love was the man behind the trigger.
They gave us a gun and called it freedom
So when you tell me you care
I dont believe you
Your performative allyship
And yes talking to you white liberals
This 'white saviour' act you've got going on
You can end it
And stop pretending
Let's call it what it is
It's your guilt manifesting as being seen as 'progressive'
But really it's just you trying to be The 'centre of attention'
Because it was never about us
It was about proving that you are better than white Conservatives
But in reality you're just as bad or even worse
Because you fake activism
Just to boost your ego
But we see right through you
If you cared about black lives matter
You would do better
By letting go of your pride and ego
Instead of boasting on social media
How about you educate yourself
On the real problem like racism
Instead of boosting your platform
Instead of posting a black screen
How about rallying behind black communities
Let them take the reins
Whilst simultaneously still supporting
Because contrary to popular belief
Not everything is about you
But your Whiteness is a privilege we don't have
So the best act of real activism
Is actually you using your white privilege
To get us Justice
Because that's real allyship
So instead of giving us a gun and calling it freedom
How about you stand up against racism and help us get freedom
Instead of making fake promises
(This is something different. Playing around and having some creative fun. One word per line, three lines per stanza. What do you think? Tear it apart and share your thoughts, opinions and criticisms. Thanks)
Another
Work
Day
Alarm
Shower
Coffee
Husband
Wife
Goodbye
Driving
Car
Work
Neighbor
Wife
Bedroom
Coffee
Sex
Cigarettes
Forgetting
Husband
Laptop
Taking
Off-ramp
Next
Crawling
Traffic
Congested
Turning
Car
Around
Driving
Home
Again
Parking
Driveway
Home
Panicking
Wife
Disbelief
Hiding
Neighbor
Closet
Approaching
Husband
Door
Greets
Husband
Door
Kisses
Wife
Entry
Smelling
Husband
Cigarettes
Smoke
Wife
Doesn’t
Searching
Husband
Suspicious
Increasing
Husband
Anger
Backyard
Cigarettes
Found
Questioning
Husband
Livid
Denies
Wife
Tears
Investigating
House
Yelling
Following
Wife
Pleading
Searching
Bedroom
Threatening
Approaching
Husband
Closet
Intercepts
Husband
Wife
Pushing
Wife
Floor
Tearing
Wife
Hysterics
Opening
Husband
Closet
Standing
Neighbor
Closet
Pleading
Wife
Tears
Holding
Husband’s
Pistol
Trembling
Neighbor’s
Hands
Infuriated
Husband
Roars
BANG
BANG
BANG
Ringing
Ears
Smoke
Hysterical
Wife
Crying
Stumbling
Husband
Floor
Closing
Neighbor
Husband
One
Head
Shot
Pooling
Blood
Floor
Bleeding
Husband
Dead
Shot
Own
Gun
Sharing
Husband’s
Bed
Adultery
Wife
Whore
Coward
Neighbor
Murderer
Scarlet
Wife
Accessory
Awaits
Prison
Both
(Based on a true story. This happened a few blocks from my previous residence. I took some creative liberties with the story, names are fictional.)
If love was a gun, what would its bullets be
would ammunition be the cure for poverty I
see, would every round that pierces minds
be the missing link, would every
round pervade our hearts and
change the way we think
If love was a gun
then would love
be everywhere
would evening
news be filled
of hope for
everyone
to share
I suppose I should feel lucky to be your son, a fortunate child soaring on the soft wings of your nurturing care.
But your whispers of motherhood, filled with cunning connotations, mask my feelings of inadequacy and total reliance on your good grace.
The shame you cast upon me, harsh and barbaric, burns like a fierce flame, weighing me down with your heavy expectations.
Oh, what a challenge it is to reconcile being your cherished son, when moments of maternal warmth often feel like chains of shallow shame, as you lay blame from your lofty throne, spreading your chaotic reign from atop your high horse.
It seems you view me as a dull, fortunate son, sucking at the teat of your trauma and despair, feeding your need, hoping to satisfy your greed, while it somehow offers you freedom from your own soul.
I am no fortunate son; I don't feel like the important one.
like the morning sun, you push me into darkness, so it appears you have won.
You wield your jabs and slighted words like a heavy weapon, until the clips run dry, much like an old gun.
In the end, the less fortunate seem to have won, for as your fortunate son, I feel like an orphan on the run, ensnared in your eyes of indulgence filled with deceit and despair.
I am simply your fortunate son.
Spilled gasoline smell and your view
Terrified - I can see from the metal cage.
How do water drops are kissing and flowing down
hanging around your blonde curls.
*
The thought, restlessness
sorrow, love, desperation ...
All that drills my skull and enters the brain.
Road, dream, tiredness, and fervor of yearning ...
I became a piece in the dragon's womb.
*
Crawling in the muddy universe
I'm rolling through the memories,
Hypnotized by your heels
as they leave the circle where I lie.
*
The tired rain is washing my consciousness
on the shore of a sleepy lake.
While through the bubbles of hope
love gets out the lake huge and slimy
and eats me hungrily and quickly
with the creaking tooth.
-----#-----
The Bullet from My Gun
I am propelled like a bullet from a gun barreling through space,
Through your flesh,
Through the time you have misspent on this Earth now ending,
Too late to regret the bending trigger of my gun.
I penetrate your vagina,
Your mind,
Your sense of inner self,
Tearing through your false resistance like a runaway train.
I cannot stop, I am momentum now.
Ripping through your many lives,
Decimating your hopes for the peace tomorrow that now will never come.
Because my trajectory is certain and yours is a wet pipe dream.
You are obliterated into fragments by the curling of my finger.
Now Isis will never find you.
Fear is still a man’s best friend:
And a little pressure goes a long ways.
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
It was Christmas Day and a horrible incident was about to unfold.
When it happened, I was only four years old.
It was Mom's last Christmas, she'd never have another.
I found my dad's gun and I shot and killed my mother.
When I found my dad's gun, I thought it was a toy.
I pulled the trigger and I learned that guns destroy.
When I shot my mother in the chest, she fell to the floor.
One bullet ended it all, she wasn't my mother anymore.
Dad should've kept his gun out of the reach of children but he did not.
I have severe emotional problems, because of me, my mother was shot.
As my mom was lowered into the ground, it brought tears to my eyes.
She died because of a mistake and her death was sure to traumatize.
I wouldn't have pulled the trigger if I had known the gun would kill.
Because of that horrible incident, I hate Christmas and I always will.
Some people tell me that Christmas is a day that I shouldn't hate.
But I lost my mother and Christmas isn't a day that I can celebrate.
My story is a tragedy that truly chills to the bone.
If you're a child and you find a gun, leave it alone.
(This is a fictional poem but parents really should keep their guns out of the reach of their children)