Long Guns blazing Poems
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Verse 1
Stranger rode into town,
A stern look on his face,
Gave thought to his grim task,
Sworn duty on his mind and dismounted.
Verse 2
Examined his two six guns,
Moseyed to hotel bench,
At noon stood and with care,
Tied holster to his thigh and reflected.
Verse 3
In saloon spoke a name,
Outlaw threw down his drink,
Knew why stranger was there,
Each drew down, guns blazing, unabated.
Verse 4
Fight was o’er in a blink,
Outlaw dead on the floor,
Stranger left the saloon,
Went over to his horse and remounted.
Verse 5
Rode from town at full trot,
Same way that he came in,
Town knew why he had come,
His tin badge told the truth, deputized.
Inheritance
We are guardians of the future are trustees for
posterity though wars galore are our legacy
We leave to our children the genocide in shining armour
destruction that we vowed not to happen again
Its all in the mind and however we feel not involved we
soak up the human condition promote it in our thoughts
At the airport I picked up two of my triplets 23 now and
with one staying behind 23 plus 23 plus 1 = 47
It should have been easy to remember my parking lot number
2 K 47 two kind children and one loved one missing
My age when I met my lover 47 the writers ‘group 47’ maybe
the white death hunger winter in Europe that time
47 days until Christmas and 2 Kinfolk to arrive yet I however
instead chose 2 AK 47’s as my mnemonic automatically
As in 2 angry Kalashnikov guns blazing me back to that dark
gloomy place where my car had been rested for later
What kind of light what remembrance and outlook on life has
been planted like a bomb in my destructive perception
Do I accept when words convoluted connotations sinister
aberrations seep and creep the into the percipience of what I call home
Or must I refuse not to become guilty of killing by proxy
of destroying the heirloom in mind and in spirit
By not standing up to that covert insidious manipulation and
domination taking place in my head I suppose I am guilty as charged
14th November 2016
The Champion
Controlled by remote desires I trip the laurel fuse of longing ancestry
My Mom had been chosen to compete diving from the high platform of
Hitler’s mania for ‘Kraft’ ‘Freude’ living space terror raised arms and all in
guns blazing a misplaced childhood offered on the altar of manic delusion
Wreaths gathered dust on unmarked graves white crossed monuments
administered torches blazed parades marched lined the ‘Higher Faster
Longer’ ‘More Ideologically Corrupt’ abuse of innocent festival of youth
Replaced demounted sacred Mount Olympus for Auschwitz and Stalingrad
My mother was no Jesse Owens who blackened Nazi dreams of whiter than
white no ‘Black Consciousness Runner’ shoving gloves to the sky in post-fascist
Munich 1972 quite close to Dachau where Jews Sinti and Roma vanished
at the hand of Swastika’s psychopathology for denial distanced denied memory
A colour TV to watch remote from a distance was the closest she ever got to
her dream of honour and glory disgraced by politics assassinated like Israeli
athletes in a continuation and preview of fanatical devilish monsters high and
low jacking innocent sports for propaganda politics malignant ideas and ideals
In 1944 there were no Olympics titanic battles were scrambled instead in
General’s Admiral’s chessboards and tactical blood baths no dives into chlorine
and water just rotting gassed trenches exploding the dreams pawns in the Games
crushing to bone meal the Peace with their tanks and grenades fusing demise
1948 came to London awaking from ruins and rubble and the brain washed
German Olympians were banned from all sports had they not spread eagled
their passion prostituted their vigour for eugenics death Fuehrer and Fatherland
My mother tainted blemished in blood and in water a fallen hero on her sword
09th August
Written for Healing Peace and for the contest 'Olympic Mania'
Yes, my good friend, I am a pirate, a rogue, a lone wolf
Irritated, I howl, snarl, and I yell.
Fortunately very few know this about me
To you I am sincere, unassuming, and sweet
Oh, yes, a darling one
Until I feel duped, double-crossed, or hurt
That is when the real me comes out with guns blazing, blades swinging
Lasers shoot out of my eyes
I am in destroy mode.
My fangs and my claws work overtime
To slice you to ribbons.
If you are lucky, I might make you walk the plank instead.
Feeling a bit of tiny satisfaction
When I see the hungry crocodile floating past
Ha Ha
Howling in happiness when his jaws slam shut,
Taking you away forever
No, you do not want to cross me.
I am a scoundrel.
...Then working with the government,
who always liked more western cash,
they set up an agreement that
they hoped could contain this backlash.
Two scientists could see the arc,
and work to verify its age,
one from Harvard, and one Cambridge,
and to Axum both made their way.
The American, an old man,
Professor Hammond was name,
the Brit was a young grad student,
named Alice, with a genius brain.
As they settled into their work
neither of the scholars could know
that in neighboring Somalia
an evil man plotted a blow.
He went by the name Ibrahim,
whether it was real, no one knew,
established as a terrorist,
an Islamist, quite tried and true.
He’d built a name in civil wars,
the kind that always racked that place,
made a reputation with force,
he left death, and people displaced.
And though the man gained followers,
he was frustrated by his land,
ruined and lacking resources,
Ibrahim was an ambitious man.
When he heard the arc had been found,
an idea grew up in his mind,
Christians and Jews worshipped the thing,
a route to more money he found.
He took with him one hundred men,
slipped the border, went to Axum,
keeping his people outside town
until shadows of nightfall had come.
Then they attacked St. Mary’s Church,
stormed the building with guns blazing,
killing priests, security guards,
anyone they found resisting.
Quickly they sieved the old relic,
took Alice, Hammond, and four priests,
hostages until they got paid,
at which point they {might" be released.
Chased by police they all fled east,
back into the Somali state,
where they hid amongst the chaos,
where all involved did celebrate.
A scheme pulled on the infidel,
they would now pay to arm their foe!
They had no choice, if they did not
then to hell their relic would go!
Ibrahim put out a message,
a video, as such types do,
demanding millions for the arc,
it was seen by more than a few.
And there was a bunch of chatter,
amongst talking heads on TV,
talking of how such a relic
just found, could soon be history.
Religious types the world over
spoke of how it would be a crime
if such a thing would be destroyed,
the loss of a wonderous find.
All knew some action would come soon,
too many folks were up in arms,
talk of commandos, and or raids,
to Ibrahim it raised alarms...
CONTINUES IN PART III.
I will be coming with the guns, blazing like "blah!;blah!;blah!" Oh yes lam Black is that bad?
My skin tone perceived dirty ,are we not all Pink on the inside?
Answers please Mr Pride! Live a little, smell the roses beneath your shackles! Let go! Together we are Modern slaves.
Break the chains of sorrow!
The chains of temptation, sickening the aroma of a rotten pear. Don't despair you not incarcerated! You are free.
We are all free for love is capsz to all hearts....Hearts speak the truth , "Love yours' J.Cole once said cheers to Humanity , Love , Wisdom and the beautiful stew tantalizing your nostrils....Mmmmm...... Freedom tastes liberating.
Oh yes we are doomed , but the Time Machine says live , go for it , preach , teach reach the truth to the top!
Elude yourself because you know you can.
Allude to yourself your master plan.
Don't go guns blazing or you'll lose the day.
Better to find another way!
Remember once that you had respect.
Remember once that you could respect.
Remember that they take it all away.
Friends of one time will inevitably betray.
Selflessness has lost its way.
Selfishness is here to stay.
No one cares deep down no more.
Close their lives behind the happy door!
Survival asks questions of our souls
Turn your back when the heat scolds?
Where were you when I was down?
Where were you when I was lost?
Promised all, at any cost?
Delivered nothing, your promises lost?
Now alone, I'll find a way.
To rebuild my life a better way.
Mister President It's Rumored
By Franklin Price
3/8/2017
Mister President it's rumored
That you always say what's what
At times sounds like the words you speak
Are coming from your butt
You must be believable
With all the words we hear
Always speak them from the mouth
And never from the rear
We know you're not political
It's not why you're President
To make this country great again
Is the reason you were sent
If you sound ridiculous
When you tweet or when you speak
We will not be behind you
In anything you seek
The establishment, guns blazing,
Shoot down everything you say
Don't need more ammunition
From what you speak today
Stop, think, and be the President,
The one that you can be,
And we will get behind you
Think before you speak and see
Facing life the best I can , standing tall
Got my back against the wall
But here I stand
Holding the dead man's hand
Dancing to the devils band
Six guns blazing
Bullets grazing
Maybe my last fight
And I'll probably die tonight
But untill then got you in my sight
Holding the dead man's hand
Dancing to the devils band
But I won't go down
May be my last trip to town
Riding the outlaw way
May end today
Boots on mind clear
Forgot what it is to Fear
Or hold someone dear
Lost to all I see
Dancing to the devils band
Saw I held the dead man's hand
As I lay dying
I thought I heard crying
Angels crying for those Holding the dead man's hand
Time stands still
My body pays the bill
Lost to tomorrow
Beyond the sorrow
Long as your Holding the dead man's hand
You'll be Dancing to the devils band
It's time to play, your chance to tease,
massage my mind and gently squeeze.
Seductively, you'll dance for me,
attentively, you're all I'll see.
Your tempered touch will fuel my dreams,
invade my world, ******* my screams.
My blood will rush, my body yearn
to taste your heat, sizzle and burn.
Your whispered words will scream and shout,
your tongue will probe, your lips will pout.
You'll fondle flesh and slowly strip,
your fingers will splay, stroke and dip.
You'll take my passion deep inside,
unleash your hunger, own the ride.
We'll fight fatigue's ferocious kiss,
all guns blazing... We'll die of bliss.