Long Gunmetal Poems
Long Gunmetal Poems. Below are the most popular long Gunmetal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gunmetal poems by poem length and keyword.
Deep in the Badlands, are canyons that claim
many a man, who rides without name
He's hiding or runnin', from somethun' he's done
Outcast, or outlaw....without any fame
but keeping a lookout for someone to come
A hawk circles low, on a brown afternoon,
like a curious vagrant, in the land of the sun.
On the trail in the Badlands, while the afternoon sighs,
are two saddled horses, two men, and their packs.
Cowpokes done riding, with the sun at their backs.
with pall of white clouds driftin' over their heads,
from a rift in the cottonwoods, that frame the canyon's ledge
The riders have paused, under gunmetal skies,
searching the canyon, for a place to bed down
to un-halter their horses, before the stars fill the night
To stare at a fire, with meager a bite
and a place to find shelter, and rest up for the fight
They will drink in illusion, as the horses refresh,
as they prance through deep waters, on the next summer's day
They are thirsty for rest, wipe the sweat off their brows
Will be back by the sunrise.....when they're back on the trail
Keeping a watch, from the canyon below,
But moving along, as the tumbleweeds roll
.
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Cowboys In The Badlands Contest: Sponsored By Isaiah Zerbst
9/20/14
Twin eyes, twin perspectives
Pick your poison; they're both too hard to explain
The cloudy sphere raining down once again
While it's earthen brother quakes uncontrollably
Ten years passed as ten years started
A growling eclipse blots the sun and spreads disease
It goes by many names, many forms
As it eternally revolves far beyond my reach
The boy died in a snowstorm so long ago, it seems
Crippled from birth, stillborn, but didn't know it
As he took those shaky steps towards a dim white light
Collapsing with a crooked smile
She stepped out into the sun
Its flaming rays warming, not burning
Perhaps the first and last time Winter spurned the child
A more jealous lover than you'd expect
Through fear of failure was failure born
A butterfly's flap that would rend the very mountains
Expecting a sapling to bear the weight of a treehouse
It bends, it breaks
He lived to see his wildest dreams come true
Invincible behind his suit of armor
Light refracting brilliantly on that prism
Casting the darkest shadow behind him
Even in darkest shadow
Did the tiniest embers dance in the sky
Through foul black winds
Did a flame of hope still burn
And so they stood as the monarch of a kingdom of plague
As the world outside lay rotting, so they thrived
"Nothing remains static," the snow whispered unto them once again
Kings are oft hard of hearing
Twilight burned beautifully far from civilization
As the setting sun cast brilliant shades of scarlet and violet
Sickness and death continued unabated
As the world was told to simply ignore what they saw
Lead may be sweet, but gunmetal is bitter
Salvaging wreckage from a charred castle
The sun's rays were harsh, even in shadow
What else was there to do but wait it out?
And so they looked salvation in its prismatic eyes
Hiding from one and jabbing the other
Left there on their own
Without a rainbow in the dark
It's a dazzling high number to experience
For the one who thought they'd be dead at 15
Yet here they lay, twice that and half formed
Too scared to live, yet too proud to die
Rather than crank up the heat...
and ratchet up global warming
like bubbling vegetable stew
with tsk... tsk... heard
courtesy Greta Thunberg,
who would utter "how dare you..."
I bundle with layers to stave off cold
energy efficiency drilled courtesy
me late mother conserving
nonrenewable resources she extolled
now ewe best heed following suggestion
wool worth 3d printing than wearing
a sheep doubled over
along dotted line to fold
cuz expending (fossil fuel)
leaving carbon footprint
would immediately being lectured
by ecology conscious eldest daughter,
(a University of Pennsylvania
biomedical engineering alumna)
who would mildly scold.
Myself and thee missus holed up
here within Highland Manor Apartments
(unit B44 in case you wanna drop me a line)
we're here moost every cold December day
sipping warm cup
of our favorite beverage
exotic coffee latte brew
suits this muttering pup
actually yours truly
a doggone ole
long haired pencil necked geezer.
He can be found moost any given warm Green Day
shuffling along boulevard of broken dreams
overhead skies colored rosy gunmetal gray
occasional huff fro zen cloud slashing solar ray
heating inside cozy nook,
though outside temperature brisk,
nevertheless for winter quite balmy
while I sit here heavily clad,
hence yours truly quite toasty within
perfect weather for wedding,
especially one hashtagged December/May.
After dusk i.e. established misnomer known as sunset
occurs 4:36 Post Meridiem heavens quickly turn jet
black today - Thursday, December 10, 2020 (EST)
whereby darkness lulls one into sleepiness, I bet
dollars to donuts impossible mission
to keep eyelids opened, particularly if sleep debt
necessary to pay the sandman,
who knows maybe you gotta get get
comfortably numb vis a vis temporarily unconscious
state, whereby dreaming of a white Christmas
analogous to eventual Elysian Fields,
where divine creator
conjuring Nirvana and/or
a place called Willoughby
if a believer, said Almighty eventually met.
The sky turned from dewy drab to gunmetal.
Pewter raindrops slipped down the window like mercury.
I went out onto the covered deck to smoke a cigar and sky gaze.
Iron winged grey geese had shed their metallic plumage,
ferrous sheets of sleet crashed into a low leaden haze.
Easy to imagine infinitesimal steel dioramas turning
within each particle of soaking spindrift.
I thought of space junk, not ours, but an alien detritus
drifting in from a thousand galaxies,
hundreds of space craft abandoned and defunct
all slipping, unmoored into fragments
falling and smelted small within times rendering forge.
Evidence of dead-end hopes and far explorations.
I watch this riven wreckage rolling in
apprehend through clouds of cigar smoke
its last landfall on our far flung world
as a dissolved ore in a backwash of rain.
I fondle the brush strokes of a brown afternoon,
inviting me along, to the land of down under.
I will take a small journey, under gunmetal skies,
through country as rough as the crackled veneer.
On the trail of the outback, while the afternoon sighs,
there are three saddled horses, two men, and their packs.
Roustabouts are riding, with the sun at their backs.
A pall of white petals drift over their heads,
from a rift in the cottonwoods, that frame the river’s bed.
I will drink in illusion, as the horses refresh,
as they prance through deep waters,
on that calm, summer's day.
I am thirsty, and eager, to reach out and touch,
and to ride in the outback, beneath silver skies,
on the one extra horse, that lingers nearby...
________________________________________________________________
Based on the Painting "A Lil' Bit of Aus..."
_________________________________________________
Huddled together in this abstemious grey chamber
no windows or means of escape walls closing in
trapped where the un-sanctified transactions are made
Daunting without exit the silent screams go unheard
ashen skin with darting eyes never looking up
forever too frightened of seeing the truth reflected back
In the unholy grail in visions of comrades within this un-sacred act of ransom
the collective voice of the masked chorus urging them on wards
then the integrated tragedy of hidden fears and secrets
A living sacrifice under this bargain where no one wins or gains
without boundaries of mortal limits there exists in this gunmetal airless demise
unfettered woefulness and vainglory vie for victory
The innocent victim's now the pawn's forgotten as pride twists obscurities
severing the umbilical cord drowning breaths of existence
the sterile smell of unfinished lives permeating into the coal and ice
Tiny little footprints always remain's inside the womb's silenced facts
the living water of life breaks no longer flows through the natural cord
leaving a chorus of continuous phantom's chanting in mendacious unity
Opening the door of perdition where the tactical glare of a butchers knife
held under a ghostly specter of a child that might have been treasured
a face imagined but never seen and names never uttered
A tortured remembrance of a pardon held precious beauty once
soon the vapour of shame burns off in an emptiness that still remains
glazes over a ruby rare passion
Where fear & the constant loathing cannot fathom the uncertainties
this future brings forth in the immenseness of what might have been
not touching the soul properly
The unborn yet to speak?
silenced unadorned gone forever jewel's
always held within prayers of the faithful loving grace
a co written piece by Donna Loughman and Liam McDaid
I've made promises to survive before
To those I'd never see again
To those who couldn't keep it themselves
To those who don't know I exist
And here I am on the other side of 27
Having known the taste of gunmetal
Having felt the sting of overdose
Having gravity's cold embrace weigh me down
And it's nothing special
There was no celebration, no confetti
No one to play me off as the credits rolled
Things didn't get any easier
And yet, here I am.
Is it something to be proud of?
Was it simply being too lazy to die?
Less a desire to live and more a fear to die?
What was it that pushed me forward?
Love? Don't be silly.
Desire? I was willing to lose it all at points.
Pride? I understand it means nothing.
Pretentiousness? I haven't done enough to merit joining that club.
Half a year later, I don't have an answer.
A path forward perhaps, but no answer.
A lifetime ago, people danced to my tune
And I built a profession based on those skills
A decade later and that city's in ruins
With nothing behind me but salt and ash
With a Porcupine's Curse, I can't take the easy way
I don't want them even if they wanted me
I chose solitude assuming I wouldn't have to live with it long
But what choice do I have but to commit now?
28 is a higher number than I expected to experience
But so was 27.
22.
16.
But hit with the long plague, 60 seems like a dazzlingly high cap
With a wounded heart from the jump? Maybe 50's optimistic.
And in the womb I'll build for myself
I'll be stillborn when they find me again
Join the club? Sorry, I've gotta get home and do nothing all night again
And thus did 27 pass despite their best efforts
Come 29, I'll be an unstoppable god beset by nonbelievers
With a dead universe behind me and a handful of soil to my name.
Oh please for the sake (and sock e)
of brethren deemed friendly, i be
see-ch ye with genuine humility
to desist launching nuclear missiles.
This American bloke put his lock,
stock and barrel of gunmetal faith
in mister Dennis Rodman to serve
as a figurative lightning rod against
any aggressive actions that would
set in motion the end of civilization.
Not only would the majority of homo
sapiens (yes, some clusters of earth-
linked yahoos might still remain a
live) suffer a nasty, short and brutish
death, but also other flora and fauna
could be equally annihilated. Under
stand able, those grievances against
sanctions against the populace of north
Koreans (who most likely experience
unfair hardship) fuels resentment against
the hegemony of western powers. Many
of these societies authoritatively bran
dish their devout pledge for concurrence
with democratic principles. Any endemic
protestations declaiming objection to
the American way affect an immediate
alarm. Imposition of so called "puppet"
regimes get forcibly installed those
countries leaders who run counter to
capitalistic productivity. This one anon
a muss citizen of those fifty states also
takes umbrage how might of american
to predominate and demand that other
nations follow suit solely based on what
agrees with those like minded in power
sans the brotherhood/sisterhood of vast
swaths of the global population. No
great expectations (by dickens) to affect
passionate sentiments per those pea
poles somewhat hermetically sealed
off and separated (viz - by the demilitarized
zone) from the billions of other human
beings. Thy sole missive from one older
mwm dreads locked linkedin catastrophic
chain reaction of events once atomic war
fare triggered by the disgruntlement over
some differences in outlook could possibly
resolved via "active listening" and access
to exchange a word of reconciliation. As
one flawed chap prone to his own bouts
of anger, he attests that more positive plea
sing results can prevails with the treat of
world war three diffused in a manner that
plays less havoc once unleashing of weapons
of mass destruction occurs!
Form:
Thralldom etched in *****sapiens (mine) DNA
Though your true blue stated civilian
never enlisted nor impressed,
nonetheless I own an opinion
originally embarked on poetic quest
to express purposelessness,
when soldiers rest
at peace i.e. eternally,
many attired courtesy
smart uniform strong with zest.
Psyche steeped, macerated, brewed
as token scapegoat, cue
trumpets Don to toot
courtesy more'n one
nasty shortish brute
weasley chastened me
round mulberry bush
said monkeys chased scaredy
cat me... point moot
regarding... rung me
ragged standing astute
adjacent Thomas Jonathan
"Stonewall" Jackson
(Confederate general during
American Civil War),
his own troops accidentally
fired on him during
Battle of Chancellorsville
in Virginia doth not compute
"friendly fire" unleashed during
one among many hot pursuit
part and parcel of wars,
since time immemorial
gung ho practiced soldier and/or
scared cat neophyte unwittingly shoot
pellets traveling speed of
sound bullet out - gunmetal chute
ordinarily pardoned distinct mistake
versus homicide statute
nonetheless...about
thee (rhetorical question), wherefore
art thou purpose to war,
those slain now paid tribute
since major hostilities of
World War I formally
ended at 11th hour of 11th
day of 11th month of 1918
yet... I question military conflicts
battle hymns constitute
legacy e'er since Homo
sapiens stood erect,
many soldiers of misfortune,
sons of destitute
versus wealthy heirs accepted perception
that war was "a rich man's war
and a poor man's fight"
countless generations ago
deserters fate would mean execute
"the bastard," even second decade
into twenty first century
once sworn in at basic training,
getting discharged (vodka luck), but absolute
zero tolerance quitting before
duty commitment desertion flagrant violation,
no easy task leaving service minus
tribunal meeting severe to prosecute,
thus joining military unlike
accepting any other job
punishment greater than Das boot,
yet patriotism, née jingoism
not ideal, viz conflict resolution,
verstehen, or did this wordsmith convolute?
A silent figure stands on the edge of a cliff,
the wind is sharp, winter is in its heart.
Its thoughts are lost
in the sterile Point of Finality,
the hollow point of all…
The harshness of an indiscriminate sun.
Wind pierces the tumbling absent rhythm of clouds,
ruffles its black raven's cloak, like wings, fluttering.
Emerald eyes stare focused far
and wide the mind drifts into the distance…
Down below the long jagged rocks,
fathomless water turns churns darkly and disturbed.
Glancing along the razored edge
of the horizon, the figure beholds a rusted hulk,
a mechanical beast.
That once dug into this ephemeral earth,
a pale blue orb in the distance of black space.
A white, hot sphere burns cold
behind gunmetal clouds
along and on horizon wire…
Over waters turning, churning the surface
thoughts ponder the depth of Emerald Eyes narrow.
As the somber sky reflects
nothing but this figure upon stone…
As waves lap, crest,
come to rest where storms are born.
A figure stands alone…