Long Gunner Poems
Long Gunner Poems. Below are the most popular long Gunner by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gunner poems by poem length and keyword.
A bit flaky and distracted due to some muddle
I missed that all important first huddle
When the gameplan is borne of commotion
It’s hard to be regarded as the man in motion
In the big game of life running day and night
Often the goal posts are clear out in sight
Yet opportunities fly by like footballs meant to be caught
Hard to differentiate the ones meant for me and those not
I’d love to be the gunner and run an oblique as fast as I can
Carrying the ball past the ten-yard line like a crazy madman
Avoiding the pancake block at all costs, this is no time for the shackles
It’s a wildcat offense so avoid quarterbacks and all defensive tackles
Always being in the zone is exhausting, heads up on high alert
Lest you miss that perfect pass, it used to be much easier in a mini skirt
The game clock is ticking, I have to do what’s necessary
Finish the game with what else but a Hail Mary
AP: 1st place 2025
They won’t stop
I mean my friends
May be, we won’t stop
Think that is better
But for my Gunner friend
Charming light-complexioned
Fine boy, we all know
A smooth talking orator
An Engineer with a rare wisdom
With a posh car to cruise
Heaven was let loose on them his preys
A Gunner indeed,
Lost count of his prey cousins.
Cock barely crows
Before he landed on this day
Defying the heavy down pour
To come to a friend slaughter-alter
Smiling radiantly . . . un-endlessly
Suddenly became nice unusually
Why? Oh! He came for his prey cousin
She it who is at a friend’s wedlock.
His prey cousin whose name I know not
For her, he salivate . . . savor to Romeo
But he already has a Juliet
The one he ringed five moons ago
A dark-complexioned Queen
He ignited with a protruding belly.
Oh! On this day for the prey
He looked sportingly smart
In a Jean, T-shirt and a fez cap
He waited endlessly for his cousin.
Feigning to be calm
But obviously not cool
Despite heavy clatter of water above
For he desires desperately
To run gun shot on his cousin
What kind of cousin is this?
He paces round the Abattoir room
As her voice echoes in his ear
“I’m sorry, I’m coming
Please, wait for me love
I’m still in the wedding”.
Perturbed, yet pretends not disturbed
For there was no sight of her
He hissed countlessly
It was five hours past noon
Before I yawned twice
Time ran off me like a wild fire
Darkness took over the firmament
It dawned on the Gunner
No cousin prey to gun down today
A brighter day for the potbelly Juliet
It was a bad day for the Romeo Gunner.
WHEN WILL MURDEROUS SPREES END???
An unprovoked angry, bloody,
and deadly war zone
on an unprovoked whim
dispassionately, indiscriminately,
and nonchalantly killing twelve
innocent people
with vigorous vim
subsequently,
(the lone this round gunman),
a Marine combat veteran met
similar fate tim
morosely, or with
machiavellian bravado,
once again all to soon
invoking serum
min eye zing against,
an aggressive ploy
to STOP wanton
heart wrenching mass killings
leaving grievous survivors,
friends and family
of those mowed down
teary eyed with many,
a blotchy red rim,
when a scant
few hours earlier
attendees at Border
line Bar & Grill
in Thousand Oaks
Southern California
meticulously did prim
and prep countenances nim
billy giving a final
touchup oblivious,
how soon, a dozen random
lives and limb
would be brutally
wrenched asunder,
asper an anonymous Jim
Mead self made assassin
already on record
(purportedly police
spoke with him)
last spring, he
Ian David Long, 28,
(a former machine
gunner, and Afghanistan
war veteran) did grim
lee forsake his life
amidst the
bloody carnage
again forcing Americans
love affair with guns
lessons purpose driven
existence go dim!
I sit here
In a place where I have no fear
Will there be another score?
Does the crowd want more?
Chelsea is on top
While Arsenal should not want to stop
The cheery contingent wants the action
And the goals in this spectacle is the attraction
If the favorite ticket ends up a pay
The pub fly will gladly say
“The pensioners are here, and they will gladly pick up the tab for the beer”
But there is more time to go, carry on let’s get back to the show
A penalty kick was the trick
And the home team was able to gleam
One nil that was a nice fill
But them Gunners made up for that bad mistake
Getting a break away that left Chelsea in their wake
One to one was the score
Will there be more?
As the gunner goalie picked shots off
The beer settled making the blue shirts wonder who’s at fault.
As I leave cash for my mealtime turkey
Chelsea needs a goal without Arsenal doing another thing dirty
Time ticks away
I do say
This match may be a push which would be pain in my toosh
But during the late stage
A goal was written by Chelsea on the EPL page
Not much later the gunners stole the sporting pen
And the blue shirts were not able to defend
Having two shots on goal without a miss
A clear message was made that the game that doesn’t use hands or a fist,
This was not done
And in the stands, those wearing red asked the blue shirts ‘are we having fun’
These gunners do not need a lot just one good shot
To be honest damage was done with only the one
Making the Gunners walk away with all the fun.
Giving questions about those leaving with outbursts that were steaming
Looking about hearing those chanted shouts
The blue shirt cheers who had to pay for their beers
Thought this London Derby was not going to be a fight
But to those who were just watching it was exciting, right?
Two to two is what the scoreboard flashed
And the blue shirts only had a draw ticket to be cashed
Granted this was more money
For those who shed out more pounds just in case something happened that was funny
Chelsea and Arsenal find themselves tied
And hopefully no one cried
Since it was a nice entertaining evening where everyone gave it a good try
Yes it’s like that,
we are dealin’ with real fake facts,
dealin’ with smokers actin’ like smoke stacks,
livin’ face to ace with a gunner out in a pack-
dealin’ with cats,
and real hate acts,
in other worlds,
not countries with borders and backs.
Yes it’s like that!
Winning the Warner's over with shiny take backs,
givers of gonad's come home to be shoveled back!
New age drama solving all of the slaughter,
out on the ****,
with a new lover of money and ribs-
...it’s like this,
i’m a gunner but also a runner who’s fast as a swinging ax!
It’s like this...
I’m done with the bummers got to be funner than all that fake fact!
Just like I’ve done her,
now I am a lover and now I’ve gotta
hate that **** back!
They old, they breed, they lie, they attack!
So fake that,
so make that!
Come on and shun um’,
we’re a lot more than what is comin',
we have bits and pieces of whats fumblin',
and it’s all for us to make into somethin'!
To break glass!
To tap ass!
And learn about a world that’s the same as we made it act...
I didn’t want to join as a pilot, and could wait till next Monday,
To become a rear gunner, but I choose to be a wireless operator,
By waiting another three months. There were 30 men in array,
And we trained at Bridgnorth and Yatesbury to fly on a bomber.
I’d joined with Keith, and we were selected to fly on Lancasters,
And because we’d done well in the theory exams, we were chosen,
For radio jamming the Luftwaffe’s signals on equipment of ours,
Called ABC, and we listened into Nazi transmitters, the conversation.
We chose our pilots, but the Adjutant made us into Pilot Officers:
We wanted more training, because at stake was our life and death,
And, indeed, we went through many pilots, and some had blinkers,
Especially the Canadians, unaware of Europe’s mountains and breadth.
We flew raids on the Ruhr from base to Reading to Beachy Head,
To Le Treport, then across France and into Germany the target;
Once Keith’s plane did not return, and i wrote to his mum, not dead,
Just missing in a POW camp, to Florence that was my true bet.
On the 50th anniversary my wife and i travelled to Calais to see,
My friend’s grave, which was in Cambrai, found a UK gardner there,
Who directed us to the German cemetery where Kieth was to be,
One of 40 graves that lay serene and peacefully with no palaver.
His body was still in uniform and on the headstone it carefully said,
“Proud and treasured memories,” must’ve been Florence’s words,
But I was strangely upset because on the stone “Pilot” was read,
Why should it say that when he was a wireless operator, i had words?
Rubbing boys shoulders with sunburn oil. The sun smiles at the pain, the brush of fingers against raw flesh. But like a war wound, those boys be proud. Offer them a salve and they scoff, don’t need that stuff. Head back to the beach. Nudge them with a board and a wave, and they take off, up to their knees, casting themselves into the sea. Cheeks and hairlines have enemies, but the boys will wait for the tan that turns them brown, puffed up, back to tell the tales to jealous schoolmates.
They won’t speak of palm trees, nor the hot sand; perhaps they will not even remember what to say, until a prompt. Perhaps they won’t shut up about the knock down, drag out fights with the ebb and flow of riptides.
They might not remember the food that filled their empty bellies, but they enjoyed each bite of burgers at Ford’s Garage in the oldest city in America. I heard from an eyewitness that it has ghosts, the city, not this particular haunt.
Packed like fish, we headed to Florida, having to use one of the back seats for the overflow of things. My oldest grandson had to endure his seat, likened to a ball turret gunner. But this pubescent heartbreaker, though cramped, loved the isolation.
Speed traps, speedy biker, ear-splitting emergency vehicles, pelicans;
and a swift breeze upon a chilly-sunburn covered up with a soft blanket and cozied up to grandma (of course this is the nine year old).
Trip back as the GPS constantly pushed us farther from home, not in miles but in minutes and hours. But the miles moved quicker than a remembered icestorm where I couldn’t get home (only 10 minutes away), so like all long travel, the kids got their first taste, and survived.
So much to say, but signing off…
This is the crews final flight, their twenty-fifth mission.
"Lord", they pray, "deliver us one last time from this perdition!"
Thank You for Your guiding hand upon the yoke thus far.
We ask for Your protection, nothing this mission to mar!"
They get the green light from the guys in the tower,
Then roar down the runway, engines straining at full power!
Crew place their trust in the Lord and their venerable old queen:
Their durable, faithful, war-weary B-Seventeen!
They climb steadily from their British home station,
Joining other flights in a protective box-formation.
Gunners on the alert and the bombardier at the ready;
Navigator charting the way, pilot keeping the plane level and steady!
The target is sighted, shot and shell fly as thick as hail.
Over the intercom is heard an anguished cry from the tail!
The gunner is wounded, please God, don't let him die!
Two engines are gone, it's becoming difficult to fly!
Two little buddies, P-Fifty-Ones, close in to escort them home!
Flaps and wheels are lowered, they land smoothly on the drome!
The gunner survived, they thank God for their salvation,
Each full of jubilation, ready for home and joyous celebration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Weekend starts to close
And the football shows
Lily in her white
Invites the gunner for a bite
Granted she is one point behind
Needs to move up in the line
Being very nice gives a goal to him
Lily in white calls good friend Min
He puts one in
Score looks the same, identical twin
As they go to break
Lily in white took all she could bake
Near the end to this match
There was a Spur catch
Lilywhites enthusiasm was pumping
Before going table jumping
Gunners walk away gentlemen
Chivalry today shown and defend
As for Mr. Bourne he had a mouth
Really upset about potential plans to go south
Then the foxes came to pick the cherries
Getting a netter in a hurry
This did not sit well
Or gel
Instead it sounded a bell
Picking up his rake
A scene he did make
Scoring four
He was not going to be ignored
When things were done
Foxes were stun
Cherries over taking Aston relaxing
In his villa after a day that was taxing
Two upsets kept the plot going
In which team was lowering
Their competitive degree
When being relegated to another league
Fu#king hell, I can’t hear - these screaming shells, this banging everywhere!
Jesus Christ I can’t even see the enemy over there!
Lock and load, squeeze the trigger and go these streets of brick and rubble, no cover or safety anywhere!
I can’t see or hear or be a fighter in this hell, what the hell am I doing here?
The thunder bangs, machine gun rounds, smoke and screaming everywhere..
Trapped between these walls the Tiger Tank seals the exit hole, I’ve emptied my gun on steel - the gunner turns his sights on me. Have I used up all nine lives… I watch his barrel turn, this god damn broken ankle hurts…
Oh my Jesus Christ..
…this is the end of me!