Long Gunning for Poems
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The first was a wee bird
How clear the glass
Its thud was loudly heard
Rendered it to the earthen grass…
The second was the pig, squealing
Yielding its life in a blood-letting, crass
Still heard inside, the porky-pealing…
Swollen turtle mommy was to shed
Ocean tears before her eggs boiled - unappealing
Mealy-mouthed slurping of yolk-sloppy dread
Even now, such distaste, recoils…
The chicken heads chopped-dead
Headless guillotine shudders, roil
In an abrupt death paroxysm
Next, after panic-eyed goats, humans
Gunning for the body-soul schism…
(1/8/2020 Inspired by the contest: how death has affected you
Regal 2001 Commodore 2960; DMS)
I really kept no score
Yet the signal contest wore
Give us your best, give us more
Let the bore of your gun be forty four
A no holds barred Wild West contest
Gunning for the heart in our chest
Some wore a bulletproof vest
Shot in head, laid to rest
Out in the open, no refuge
Gun equalises small and huge
Some contestants used subterfuge
Single bullet more potent than a deluge
Doc Holliday legend was dying of cancer
Long barrelled 44 had all the answers
Lighting fast was flicker of trigger
Steely eyes that did not waver
23-April-2021
Guns poetry contest
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
...Burke grabbed Aura and they both ran out,
riding double on his trusty horse.
The word raced quickly through the town,
a posse was formed, as a matter of course.
So Burke pushed his mount, more and more.
They couldn’t go back, despite acts justified,
not when two men, one a sherriff, had died.
So they rode, pursuers hot on their trail,
until they reach a ranch high the peaks.
Burke pulled a gun while Aurelia seized
a new horse, both study and sleek.
The rancher fumed, too angry to speak.
Burke apologized, gave him all his gold,
then sped off again into mountains cold.
Two days passed, the posse drew close,
and both their horses started to flag.
No longer able to outrun their hunters,
Burke mad camp high up in a crag,
where he could shoot safely if they attacked.
The posse appeared in the meadow below,
lead the by the sherriff’s oldest, known as Milo.
“Surrendor now, or we’ll shoot you down!”
They shouted it as they stared to climb.
But before Burke could even open his mouth
the air exploded with shrill, Indian cries.
A horde of Bannocks their arrows let fly!
They swept into the meadow, circling fast.
The posse died quickly, not long could they last.
Burke and Aurelia hid low in the rocks
until the last of the Bannocks had left.
Not much was left of the posse below,
they lay still, and were mostly scalpless.
But one figured crawled amongst the dead.
Burke climbed down, still clutching his gun,
and loomed over the sheriff's bloodied son.
“You won’t believe me, but I’ll say it now,
I acted only out of self-defense.
You’re father and Grisby were gunning for me,
and Grisby was putting his hands on my friend.
There choices brought them to their ends.”
But Milo just snarled, and crawled away,
Burke and Aura sighed, and left him that way.
No one from Tillico ever saw them again,
even when Milo put a bounty of their hides.
Some say they made for themselves new names
and peacefully lived out their lives.
Others said, like most outlaws, they died...
And if you all liked this tale that you just heard,
Tell your friends about me, Bruce Bowden the Third.
In the pit of the darkness it's midnight
Cross horizon lots of new day
Fluorescent wrong casualties of war
Spun out tires the interstate grows
Infatuated with the debacry
Fathom crew it's all that's lost to me it's new
In the pit of the darkness it's midnight
~
On the clouds of righteousness none of this fits
Caught up in the mirage of prayers
While even in the darkness they pedal their wares
While being strung out on life, embracing your strife
Providence is gunning for you infatuated with the democracy
Fathom cruise it's all that's lost to me and it's new
In the pit of the darkness it's midnight
~
Shall I get up to heaven in this fleshy tattered frame
While it's not about getting their it is more about staying there
For our God has unequivocally has said that there's nothing new under the Sun
For one day when the Son sets down on this terrain ground
Bringing with Him His warring angels to battle the sin ful strangers
~
From the clouds of His righteousness He commits
His merciful salvation yours you should accept
While being strung out on life embracing this strife
Providence is gunning for you infatuated with the bureaucracy
Phantom dues it's all you have left and to me it's old it's new
In the pit of the darkness it's midnight
Callus prospective hues what's true what to do
Turn on the lights, Why? Cause...in the midst of in the pit of the darkness
1/1/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
It's too many different spirits within me
My personality is constantly shifting
I'm the most humble but act different next minute
I'll admit it I'm twisted
Tell me to act innocent on my living sisters I'll kill it
Dead ass until the point we get to speak and I kill it
Looks are deceiving no kidding
But we all have our days
And we all have our ways
Different character traits, we all have a part to play
We all got something to say
A Piece of me I can share
The rest of me I'm ashamed to show I pretend it ain't there
So I pretend to be open
I pretend to be clear
To the piece of you that's probably just pretending to care
When there's a piece of you judging me I can hear it in there
Hiding from a piece of me that a piece of you fears
Words they fly right out my mouth
But not as good as they sound
You pick it up where I put it down
You just another one down..
Yeah
You have to see where I'm coming from to get what I'm gunning for
I'd have to open up my heart and show you a couple sores
But until you uncover yours
I'm overprotective with that
I won't let you touch the soul
I won't let you judge the core
I'm sensitive
I know betrayal like I know my siblings
Like an insecure girlfriend knows a hickey
So it's hard to know which person to trust
So when you ask me about the personal stuff my response is always good as scripted
I choose to trust I don't owe it to no-one
Figured I might just be better off as a loner
It's crazy, world's getting colder and colder.
We might have lost a couple battles
But We’re still here to fight the war
All these soldiers fighting and they
Don’t know who they’re gunning for
And the killings indiscriminate
Shooting at civilians
Laughing as they murder
Cause they never heard of discipline
And there isn no longer in control
When the protesters hung for treason
They’ve took the reigns now
So wave bye-bye to your freedoms
But the last rebels never died
And we’re coming back for more
Now with bigger cannons
Since we witnessed atomic dawn
And the futures not so bright
When we’re killing for our country
Bombing on civilians
Who are dying cause they’re hungry
And too me
Its kind of crazy man
That the rats will fight each other
And not rip off the feeders hand
And see me?
I’m sick of this existence
And if you’re angry too
Stand and let’s form our own resistance
And my belief in God
It is now diminished
This is the final chapter
I am finally finished.
The debate between free will and fate has taken a hard right
turn to neuroscience, Brodmann area 4 the primary motor
cortex of the brain located in the posterior frontal lobe
(the one cut out of the one who once flew over the cuckoo's nest).
This area of the cortex has the pattern of an homunculus!
a little man, a troll, the all-wise, mandragon, the golem of Jewish folklore.
This little man has a that, when fully engorged, is
equal in size to his entire body. However, diseases
such as Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, Huntington's, Lou Gehrig's and
Creutzfeldt-Jakob
are gunning for him. His basal ganglia are garbled
and he ends up giving poor advice and making bad decisions.
Who can say what happens to his soul or cells or if all will be given or
well?
I was listening to the famous astronomer on public radio
who expressed the certainty there is no death, your soul
is immortal, it exists outside of time (but not space?). That's because
time exists only in the human mind (as does the universe
including the professional baseball season which is canceled when
you're dead).
By Spring, my problems will be solved or ignored, either way is good.
Groundhog holds the knowledge of death without dying
for man needs help from every creature born.
Will the holocaust wipe the smile off the face of our romantic comedy
or will laughter outlast the outburst?
About the dark times will there be singing?
Yes, there will be singing and some of the songs will be sidesplitting.
Solving the murder reveals the city. Nature of kinships and economic
sustenance,
who loves whom and why, when things happened and how they lost
and found themselves
in what happened. Because a meter-making argument cannot appear
from nothingness, purposelessness, just cold.
He does not go where he was supposed to go. He is in the desert,
Sonoran desert, counting cactus buds and ocotillo blooms.
This is the afterlife for which he has always longed.
I saw my first killing
At the tinder age of thirteen
Two men fell outta the towns saloon
And commenced to fighting in the street
It was at that very moment
My Momma she grabbed me
But Momma couldn't keep me from seeing
What it is I seen
It broke my heart when Momma
Stood on that dusty street and cried
But I still went about my business
When she covered up her eyes
I grabbed the dead mans gun
That's when I told my lie
I told my Momma that I'd be home
Later on that night
But my Momma she never saw
Her young boys face again
'Cept on the wanted posters
Nailed up by many a lawman
Many a lawman lately
That's gunning for my hide
'N' to think it all got started
When the first owner of this here gun of mine died
My killing spree started in Colorado
Then went south for a spell
Every town that I rode up on
Became a living hell
A living hell that no one ever
Had the nerve to give me back
I almost feel sorry for the men
Who ever dared to cross my path
No matter how far or fast I ran
Death was always close behind
In his right hand he holds a flaming sword
On the handle engraved the name is mine
The name is mine
And he knows it well
Deaths one desire
Is my soul in hell
I was twenty one years of age
When a coward shot me in the back
Shot me in the back
Cause it was courage that he lacked
The courage that he lacked
Stopped my deadly run
As fast as it all got started
The day I pick up that dead mans gun
The Mets figured they already had a pitching ace.
They badly needed a competent man to play third base.
A righty and a lefty were considered better than dependable.
The management considered another right-handed pitcher expendable.
The Amazin’ Mets felt they had minor league talent galore.
After the win in ‘69, they were gunning for one more.
For this expendable right-hander, a converted shortstop the Mets would get.
This was a deal the front office and fans would regret.
The outcome of this done deal proved to be a shame.
That expendable right-hander went on to the Hall of Fame.
Good morning Poison Squirrels,
Today I am going to address your bowel problems
My class groans.
We don’t like to think about them.
We are teens.
Your mouth chews up food, right? Asks Mr. Lee.
Our science teacher is way too cheery in the morning.
One student out of thirty-one nods.
Mr. Lee focuses on her.
Saliva lubricates the food then sends it down the esophagus.
He draws a saxophone-looking cartoon on the board.
Muscles of the esophagus propels the food into your tummy!
He says this with a flourish, and shakes a couple of red pompoms.
One girl laughs. Same girl.
She must be gunning for an A.
Your stomach muscles breaks the food down into smaller pieces.
Actually, turns it into a paste much like poi, it is called chyme.
“Why don’t we call it poi?” asks a student who never is interested.
“That’s an interesting question!” Mr. Lee says.
“A very interesting question.”
A small giggle starts from somewhere.
He gives me a sharp look, and I realize it was from my throat.
“Sorry,” I say, not meaning it at all.
He nods.
As if I was serious.
Maybe I can still keep my C
“Next we have the small intestines,” says Mr. Lee.
He has continued to draw on his cartoon.
Does anybody know what organs add the digestive juices?
“OOOOHHHH!” someone says in a disgusting way. Dang it! It was me!
“Liver?” Miss I-shall-get-my-A says.
Science guy nods.
“Anybody else?” He asks hopefully.
“Heart?” our other class clown says.
There is a shriek of laughter.
Actually, several.
Now I wish I had said that.
Mr. Lee is not looking quite as happy.
“Pancreas?” Another brown-nose yells out.
Mr. Lee nods. “And Gallbladder,” he adds.
The drawing looks almost done, and he is getting toward the bottom.
“The large intestine is next,” he says.
“Anybody care to guess how long it is?”
“Seventy five feet?” the clown yells out.
We all laugh.
Mr. Lee is looking a whole lot less happy.
We finally get down to the part where the rectum evacuates.the waste.
I wisely put a hand over my traitorous mouth.