Long Loot Poems
Long Loot Poems. Below are the most popular long Loot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Loot poems by poem length and keyword.
The day Mitchell Malden became a hero
he had only meant to go for a drink,
paced slowly into Slimbed’s only saloon,
where he noticed an unpleasant stink.
He saw Delaney Hannigan at cards
and figured that explained the bad smell,
that rustler spent his days out in the bush,
scum like him never did come off well.
He only came to town to spend stolen loot,
and for some reason the man liked to play,
Mitch himself could not understand why,
the fool just lost all his cash in the games.
So Mitch ignored him, enjoyed his drink,
tasted fine after a day running cows,
then came a loud roar, and angry howl:
“You damned cheats, throw those guns down right now!”
The poker table then crashed, upended,
Mitch look back, saw Delaney with a gun,
“I’m tired of this bar stealing my coin,
so y’all put your hands up, everyone!”
For a moment nobody dared a move,
Al knew Delany was the type to kill,
Nobody else had a pistol drawn
So they coolly acquiesced to his will.
Delaney stalked closer, saw Mitch’s old colt,
said,”Listen close and you’ll suffer no harm.
You take that iron out of that gunbelt
and you lay it down real nice on the bar.”
Mitchel did what the bandit desired,
there was no other way he could figure,
but Mitch’s hand shook, and when he put it down
his finger brushed back against the trigger.
The gun fired as it touched the bar-top,
the slug pierced Delaney’s big forehead,
he pitched backwards, the folks looking on,
when he hit the ground he was stone dead.
A moment of stunned silence fell on them,
then came a storn of folk shaking his hand.
“Making that cool think you would go alone…
Now that there’s the play of a clever man!”
Mitch was stunned, but he said not a word,
just let the procession bring him to the street,
soon all of the town knew of his brave deed
and heralded this heroic feet.
The newspapers even picked up the tale,
earning Mitch a good measure of fame,
soon enough he found himself the mayor,
and got a pretty girl to take his name.
All though he was the smartest gunfighter,
and all his life he was a sensation,
the bar where this happened still stands today,
visited by folk across the whole nation.
It’s only I, his great-great-great grandson,
who knows the truth of what happened back then,
but who am I to tell it like it was
when everybody does so love the legend?
I struggle to recall at a ragged bus stop
Writing memories down on a brown paper bag.
The discarded pen I picked off of the weed grass serves
As a key to my past, the paper bag the door.
My memories gush from the back of my mind,
Long lost in the torrents of tears
And the literal shattering of my heart
Between my breasts.
This was not planned,
This living on my own means,
Struggling to make ends begin.
I’ll worry about them meeting
When the time comes.
The memories I loot
From the locked treasure chest
At the bottom of the barren sea
Of my mind
Seem irregular and appear to belong
Elsewhere, to someone of fiction.
Emerging from somewhere,
I sense a longing.
For what, I wouldn’t say.
Saying what I could say would slow me down.
I’ve struggled to progress past the memories
And until now, the longing has been stifled.
But my memories have broken
Through the dam I built
And they charge like an army of Trojans,
Fighting to the surface of my mind.
It appears I’ll have to drown them...
Again.
It is said that after the first time of anything
That thing discussed becomes easier to do
Without fail.
Well, it’s not.
I examine the brown paper bag and the words
Scribbled on it, much like the rants of rudimentary children.
I take the pen and wind my hair around it,
Pinning it on top of my head, since all my hair bands
Were left behind, like my memories, my spirit,
My smile.
It’ll have to do for now.
I see two yellow eyes in the distance,
Eyes from another world,
That glow with radioactive promise;
It’s one of those grand busses of leisure
Where anyone could have a seizure
in peace,
Coming to me, to take me away.
"Come to me, metal extraterrestrial,
Take me to your leader.
Whisk me off to your world,
To your life, your memories.
Everything is better than this."
It slows to a stop in front of me,
And opens wide, it’s abnormal vertical teeth
Directly in front of me.
A familiar sound emotes from within:
“You coming or not?”
The brown paper bag slips from my hand
And falls to the dying grass.
It stays to pass with the grass,
Or to be found by the Nameless
Of my past.
I once carried my life in my arms,
But I’ve abandoned it
On the side of the black tar road.
“Well?”
It’s that sound again.
Well, here’s to my future.
Take me away, Mr. Alien;
New troubles await.
"I ain't gonna be nothing,
Cos it seem like f'ever I've been longing."
Tears in the eyes, phlegm in the nose,
Skin so sore, malady of the toes.
Helter-skelter, yet, nothing to show for,
Studied chemistry and physics what have I got?
I've got nothing, but walking,
Turning like a wheel, with no Boris,
Fishing and hunting, yet no prey,
A thousand padlocks and just two keys.
Governments say what they won't do,
Making us seem as big fools,
Manifestoes, flap-doodles;
Serving trimmed rubbers as noodles.
"Eat, eat, eat" they bade us,
Proud to champion course unjust.
Queen of s, Lord of tongues,
Sharpened bolox, Seasoned guts.
Now they stand as the saviours,
Voice so high, dreading as thunder.
More they speak, more they hunger,
Nourished with lies, growing fatter.
What do we do, what are should?
'nough of savagery, 'nough being fooled.
Hey hey hey I'm talkin' you.
You you you you you you you.
Y'all wake up, wake from slumber,
'Nough of dearth, 'nough of hunger.
We goan be sleepers death after,
Now eyes are open, why the scar?
If its dirt they're tissue papers,
Come for bucks, here is a dollar,
Buy the one which is cleaner,
Use it on your eyes and see clearer.
You should now see, yea better,
Humans like you claiming beggars.
Those then begging, now are loiters,
Those then loitering, now are robbers,
Those then robbing, now are killers,
Those then killing, now are prisoners,
Those then in prison, met their demise.
And on and on, Same thin' O'er and O'er.
And we live on in myopia,
Till perhaps come the rapture.
Now we need revolution,
Bundle up and throw out corruption.
Right in our palm is solution,
But we've been feared by confusion.
Change prior to conviction,
Let's agitate for lib'ration,
Kill who should die as oblation ;
Those who're swimming in corruption.
For e'ery bribe they get commission,
E'en loot their congregation,
Loaning 'em to indecision.
Spare no seed of transgression.
Even the bible make no exception ;
The book of proverbs even in extension,
In chapter six verse eighteen makes a correction:
Only the death of the innocent is a transgression,
But of the wicked? Sure purification.
The first two lines would come no more,
If we do what is right as we ought.
19:08:17:18:35
Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. We, You, I.
One December Night
(Continuation to the End)
All that year Santa had hoped and had tried to find a child's love that would strongly abide.
But month after month he was given the boot. It didn't matter whether he showed magic or
gave them some loot. Many children were selfish. Not one gave a hoot.
Until one cold blizzard night, in a stormy plight, the frog rang the doorbell and walked
right on in. In the warmth of the house, after ousting the mouse, four children accepted the
frog for his good. It was a happy sight for the frog there that night. Yes, they showed him
great kindness and genuine love, the
spirit of Christmas shown down from above. The purest of love without expectations turned
the frog into Santa who promptly gave each one hugs. “I'll be back with my sleigh to leave
gifts on Christmas night. Thank you dear children for your gifts of love tonight. Leave me
some cookies. I shall eat no more bugs! He laughed as he juggled three gifts in the air.
Then, soon disappeared out of sight by the moonlight.
The children, still laughing and squealing with joy, had broken a spell put on Santa
last spring. And the mean old witch that had made him a frog, sat sadly outside all alone on
the log. She had made him a frog with a croak, out of tune. She wanted his voice instead of
her own. Christmas carols she had heard bring so much joy. She could not carry a tune for
one single song. She had hoped she could sing if she stole Santa's voice. But the love from
the children left her no choice. The spell had been broken by love's sweetest choice.
But while they were happily playing about, they noticed the wand from the brown bag lay
out. So they went to the witch and gave her a voice. And taught her that goodness over bad
is a choice. So together they played with the now happy witch. Who gave up her evil and to
goodness did switch. The gift of pure love and light in the world is a gift to all who give
heaven a whirl. For even the wickedest of wicked have some goodness in them. So,
encourage the right and to evil say, “Take a flight!” (And let God be the judge…)
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
December 5, 2009
Inspired by:
Poetrysoup member's Contest Anything Goes!
Sponsored by: Constance La France (I took you at your word... It's a LONG story.)
Today, we saw the handwriting of imperialism
On the walls of our democracy
Today, our sovereignty is on the scaffold,
Pilloried by a white supremacist,
Who threatened our country and her people.
Mr Secretary has written a long list
Threatening our leaders from venturing on their soil;
A proclaimed God's own country,
Where God really does not matter,
But desires that are too alien for a normal thinking mind.
On Blinken's List
Are names of men who bear our names and culture
And the Africanness that we portray.
We are no second-class people
Whose leaders can be threatened by the power of arms by America.
Blinken wrote to teach us right from wrong
But right in His backyard, more evil looms,
The US election is under scrutiny,
The Texas shooting is still fresh in our minds.
Blinking or Blinken
Mr. Secretary, stop blinking
For we are wise enough to know your inkling;
The lands you have ravaged,
And the people that have gone back to the dust,
Through the power of ammunitions you wield,
In Afghanistan and Iraq
And your love for the zionist oppressor.
A Visa Ban
One meant for your barn
And your land which will
Never be close to the beauty of paradise.
We no longer believe in you and your values
And we have no resources for you and your cronies to loot.
Tell us what good is in your country;
Hell packaged in a pleasure box
Sought by those ready to be doomed,
All your men are fast becoming women
In the name of being gay.
And your fallen dollar value
Should be a headache from the BRICS.
Tell us what is good about your land,
The drugs and the constant shootings that have become a norm,
The vices and the oppression of which your castles were built
Are issues enough for your table.
We are Africans
We are a people of worth
Who will never bow to any bully,
We are a loving people
And we can't be forced to roam our streets like your naked ones.
The days of colonisation have passed,
We can no longer accept your acts of re-colonization,
Through your list of deceit,
Where our professors are being pummelled
And our leaders are being accused
Of a crime which they never committed.
Like you have traitors
We have the treacherous
For we are a people of varying tribes
And of sages and scribes
And we also have a right
To stop you from stepping on our soil.
Ayinla Muyideen
(C) 2023
April 2 Walls
Trump wants a wall
Between America and Mexico
A wall against the southern hordes
A wall based on fear and hate
A wall to make America safe
A wall to make America great again
And yet I wonder
Will his wall fall
Like the Berlin wall
And the great wall
And all the other walls
They all failed
All of them
Walls divide us
Walls make us
Into different tribes
Between the pure
And the impure
St Reagan
Said Tear Down this Wall
Will future Presidents
Tear down this begotten wall
Or will it become a tourist attraction
Another great wall
Against barbarian hordes
April 2 Trump’s Wall Against Reason
The President wants to build a wall
Against the southern hordes
Another great wall
To keep the barbarians out
He wants to build a wall
Against reason
Against science
Against the modern world
Hiding behind the wall
On the southern border
Desperately trying to keep them out
The unwashed masses
The undocumented
The illegals
Streaming across the border
Seeking to wreck the pure land
Murderous hordes
Rapists, drug dealers
Coming to take our land over
As he stands on the border
Trying to stop the hordes himself
April 2 It Has Been Done Before
Before Trump’s Wall
There were many other walls
The Berlin Wall
The Great Wall
Hadrian’s Wall
All the walls of the ancient world
All failed
To keep the enemies out
The enemies of freedom
The enemies of the state
Still came across the border
To loot, steal, rape and plunder
And nothing could stop
The flood of history
April 2 Walls Divide Us
In Modern America
We all live in gated communities
Trying desperately to keep them out
Out of sight
Out of mind
And out of our lives
And yet we fail
Fail to accept the others
Are human beings
Are our fellow creatures
As we wall ourselves off
Into our separate communities
We loose our humanity
And we loose our selves
As we hide in our walls
Hide in our bubbles
April 2 Mr. Trump
Please tear down this wall
Please open up your heart
Please stop this madness
We are all Americans
We are all one people
And your wall
Will not stop us
From becoming one people
Please tear down this wall
Please build bridges to the future
Please open your heart
And let the love shine through
In Skagway town, eighteen ninety-eight
Lived a young man, Elliot McKay.
He worked with his father selling dry goods,
To the miners heading Klondike-way,
They made some good coin in a day.
Elliot he, like most younger men,
Had an eye for womanly curves.
His favorite worked in a house downtown,
With dark hair done up in curls,
A woman who’d ‘broadened’ his world.
At first it was cold, but that all changed quick,
And they soon were a regular thing.
She taught him skills a man needs to know,
Really took the boy under her wing,
And knew how to make his heart sing.
But his father said “Boy, don’t fool yourself,
That damned girl wants nothing but cash.
And many a man has found himself broke,
Chasing after a professional lass,
You better get over her fast!”
But Elliot continued, and went when he could
For weeks this went on, as before.
Until one day she asked to meet his kin,
Not the act of some common whore.
She must have loved him like never before!
They went to his house outside of town,
His lady fidgeting and tense,
Elliot knew she must be nervous,
To be meet disapproving parents,
He prayed that his dad would relent.
She entered the home and father went cold,
His face truly taken aback.
His jaw dropped and he said aloud,”Clarice!”
Then she shouted outside,”It’s Mack!”
A new figure stormed in from out back.
A man appeared, a gun in his hand,
Pushing before him Elliot’s mother.
Elliot had seen his likeness before,
It was the felon Bloody Jack Carruthers,
He knew it could be no other.
Jack said,”Now, now, we meet again,
McKay, the man who survived,
When our gang fell down in Monterey,
Shot up back in seventy-five!
Our loot you had on your ride!”
“And now I see how you spent it all,
And made it pay out in droves,
While I rotted away in sweltering cells
Far down south in old Mexico,
Imagining how this would all go!”
“You see this girl here, she is in my pay,
Since I heard that your son took a shine.
She played the damn fool, acted in love,
Until he’d bought into her lies.
And she led me here where I did find…”
“That a dirty skunk, yellow as can be
Built his home on the blood of my friends!
And all because this pretty young girl,
Your stupid, young son could bend.
Now then, prepare for your end…”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
There was an old cowboy named Claude LaFeet,
the scourge of the western plain.
A Frenchman by birth and a man of some girth,
he limped and carried a cane.
He had been to the 'Pen,' had put in his time,
was now ready to settle the score.
To hunt down a Man, a coward named Stan,
this time it would be war.
But Claude was flat broke, he needed a stake
and was in a great deal of pain.
He had sold his boots and needed more loot,
he'd have to rob a train.
He went to a bar where the liquor flowed cheap,
'Fellas, I'm in a bind.'
Claude was hoping for more but he got only four,
they were the worst men he could find.
They set their trap for the 'Tombstone Special.'
he was told it carried a vault.
They began the attack by blocking the track,
the train came to a screeching halt.
They found the safe and blew open the door,
and there in the morning light.
He had been told... there might be gold,
it looks like they were right.
They divided their booty, he thanked them all,
they asked what were his plans?
'To scour the plains hopefully not in vain
for a coward by the name of Stan.'
One slowly piped up,' I know that man,
he lives in a nearby town.
He's dating a girl by the name of Pearl
with hair colored chestnut brown.'
Claude hopped on his horse and found the place
but remembered years ago.
When in a street one night they intended to fight
but Stan had failed to show.
Tired of waiting, Claude returned to the bar
and was walking through the door.
He heard a loud crack, he had been shot in the back,
he lay bleeding on the floor.
Years had passed with the bullet still there,
he was thinking Stan might flee.
When on the walk he heard Stan talk,
'I hear you're looking for me.'
They went for their guns in a blinding flash,
it had all come down to this.
But Claude was beguiled when he saw Stan smile,
the coward hadn't missed.
An old cowboy dies remembered by none,
a man extremely flawed.
But it was his gain now no longer in pain,
he would answer to his God.
Legends die and stories are told
of men who can't be beat.
How that hero Stan... shot his Man
...the coward Claude Lafeet.
What a fella what a lovely fella happened their way
What a generous fella to kindly offer all these gifts and his services for free
He was of the mind to give them some of his grub
But he waited until it got rank and mouldy first
He then offered them a sip of his tea
But thought it best to spit in it first
He was generous with his backhanded compliments
never missed a beat in his dance of deceit
his two faced stance well maintained to entice the flies to his web
Bothered to put on a show to appear likeable and relatable too, what a gent
As he knit picked at their lives and put a spin on every word they uttered
he meant to gently pump them up for intel for reasons known only to himself
A mission that sadly bounced hard and flopped
For that last bit I blame who ever created the character of James Bond
Has the likes of him curtain twitching and meddling for dear life
Convinced every foreign woman wants to get their mits on them, I mean resounding yuck please!
His exotic fare he elaborately served on a bed of fake pleasantly, seasoned with a dash of bogus laughter
He seemed appalled that they could be handed a chance at anything at all
before he got to take at least ten more chances that he doesn't even need
God forbid anyone else aside from him gets any upliftment
Joy should start and end only with him and his kin
and compassion should only ever be pointed his way
He enjoys his loot only when others stay beneath him, and thrives when disparity amounts
There is a hole where this man's soul ought to be
And that's if it was ever there in the first place
Maybe all he ever had is this humongous gaping emptiness
that he has to fill at all odds because its eating him alive
It seems it can only ever be filled by him generously spreading misery and contempt
He tries to fill it with greed and a haughty demeanour
Little does he know it will never suffice
Somethings no amount of wealth can ever buy
Maybe he never got enough hugs as a child
I mean one might be born into abject poverty
but it never stops their parents from raising loving compassionate children, one hug at a time
Sometimes that's all a soul needs to thrive
What a fella, poor fella with a stone for a heart
and pockets weighed down by gold
Form:
(do enjoy frolicking gently imaginatively)
County seat, of Mason County,
Washington, United States
westernmost city on Puget Sound
above ground sans tectonic plates
population 9,834 per 2010 census
end result from biological mates
maintains commission form
of government drafted by mandates.
Shelton served by small steamboats
comprising Puget Sound Mosquito Fleet
Old Settler, Irene, Willie, City of Shelton,
Marian, Clara Brown, & S.G. Simpson
logging, farming, dairying, ranching
& oyster cultivation for populace to eat
Simpson Timber Company mill
on Puget Sound's Oakland Bay over yon
dominates landscape of the down
town area as essential heart beat
Shelton identifies the "Christmas
Tree Capital" sold by the ton.
47°12'49?N 123°6'22?W (47.213702,
-123.106088) coordinate bench mark
total area of 5.9 square miles (15 km2),
of which 5.6 square miles (15 km2) land
0.3 square miles (0.78 km2) (5.60%)
water laps with an occasional errant shark
in a pinch captured, processed and canned
a delicacy that fin de siecle bony
illegal booty fined by the oceanic narc.
well nigh two and a half decades in the past
this poet trekked across America
beginning in a place called Gap
Pennsylvania - where stockpile
of Amish goodies barely did last
and vanished in a gingerly snap
of fingers, which necessitated
sustenance when van fueled i.e. gassed
up while myself or the other
driver stole a short nap
seduced to sleep by syncopated tires
as highway miles passed
inching closer to youngest sister
via this linear transcontinental lap
destination Seattle Washington
indigenous iconic statue cast.
Ronald Strickland a fine companion
(posted bulletin for traveling fine companion
at Hostelling International - Chamounix Falls Mansion
West Fairmount Park),
and boone story teller to boot
about my age (now five decades plus nine)
then trying to rake in some loot
by writing about his travels,
yet unpretentious and not able
to square an Apple pi circle
nor, calculate square a root
perhaps one day, I will surprise him
with a call and give him a toot.