Long Pellet Poems
Long Pellet Poems. Below are the most popular long Pellet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pellet poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s skin deep evident,
being black is an inherent crime
It doesn’t matter whether we
peacefully
stand our ground,
or be siren subservient —
Hands in the air,
knees bent
We get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
In the back of our mind,
fear is a pride looter
Epidermal evidence suggests,
probable cause is
five fingers of uniform blue grave danger
A click gavel falls trigger quick,
siren verdict be: 1st degree fatal anger
It’s just another casket open-and-shut case,
the latest obituary picture
bearing eyewitness of Breonna Taylor’s face
Like chalk on a blackboard,
we get erased ...
so rap sheet easily
Four-by-for centuries,
our coffin pleas
have been iron fetter ignored
The only asphalt sound
silently heard
are the yellow tape trace words:
“I can’t breathe,”
with our George Floyd face
in the paved dirt
Epidermal evidence historically reveal:
We always got shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Skin color hatred smoking barrel explode
on a trigger reload
Being black was our genetic crime
Wanting the good life
on the whiter side
of the picket fence
Made former slave cotton-picking sense
Our emancipated thoughts
were escaped equality sought
But votes auction bought,
forced us to tragically be
paddy wagon pellet caught
And when suffrage hope died,
it was our fault —
Runaway tears shed for naught!
Morgue blame sent:
Usual suspect motives be
dreams non-violent
Desiring to be integrated legally
into American society
was our heinous offense
No need for more epidermal evidence
It’s just another cell open-and-shut case,
the latest unarmed picture
bearing eyewitness of Jacob Blake’s face
We repeatedly
get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Seems the lawlessness of the land says:
The badge can be
judge, jury
and executioner
Ain’t it blatant epidermal evident,
being black is an egregious, breathable offense
Of which there is no self-defense
We get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Perpetrator exit wombs inflicted on
menace to society ghetto we
Aborted justice is our
perforated epidermal eulogy
Being black is a natural-born crime,
evidentiary,
an umbilical sin
It’ll get you pandemic shot seven times,
by a sick, sick six-shooter
You don’t have to say
one spherical metallic word
I know with GSW empathy credulity
just how you feel ... I bequeath kindred sympathy
Taking one lead body blow
for the I homeboy visiting team,
was enough mental pain timeout for me
And the physical hurt toll it put on my body
made me frequently start falling to my knees
I can understand if you’re gun shy,
really I can
When you felt the quiet burn
of the silencer,
and the sweat of your fear
started to pellet fly
There’s a few blood splatter
reasons why
you’re audibly mute upset,
and so gun shy
Some whack eraserhead
unholstered their hostility on you
Bam, bam went the bullet hate —
hot metal piercing flesh ...
smearing cold iron-cooper fear
over your nude, trespassed privacy
I can understand if you’re gun shy,
really I can
I can truly relate
if you thought death
was your imminent fate
Really I do
You don’t have to say
a single semi-automatic word ...
You’re gun shy,
and I know the trigger reason why
Your temple’s been invaded
by kinetic metallic thieves,
who left your wounded,
praying soul to cemetery bleed
But putting a cap on the lip lid
is gonna make you implode within
Though asking for a modicum of gun control
is considered a Second Amendment sin
Keep the treason
on the tip of your tongue
from speaking
It’s best to remain gun shy,
never saying a word
It’s smart to duck when the bullets fly,
and the screaming is heard
Silence is double-O seven golden,
it’s good that your thoughts
ain’t got a license to kill
In the quietude of the grave,
victim death shout echoes do reverberate still
So, shhh ... stay low-key gun shy
Any sound motion can be detected
by a revolver barrel indiscriminate eye
Heat seeking for some unsuspecting
bipedal target to Big Wheel die
Any guttural movement
is gonna get a crosshair,
scattershot, fade-to-black goodbye
The kevlar-coated lip service politicians
sternly suggest you keep
any over-the-top, brash comments
under-the-counter on a locked vault cry
They say, now ain’t the time to be vocal and brave ...
bite the bullet,
and suffer your soul to die timid gun shy
Clusters of refugee bubbles
Expelled from the side of my tank
Rise expanding in upward travels
Escaped depths, burst at surface
Forging against their vigour
Persuasive stream broken
by my bulky silver body
Interrupting incoming ongoing
Enthusiastic thousands
Spurts of filter flung hum
Tickle my sheer cycling fins
Tell me to nose dive again
Breaking trails of oxygen globes
Until Billy Bully Salmon slices in
Languid flicks follow frantic fro
Gyrating spotty specimen vie
Lunch pellet plops induce swished thrashing
Tumult on top flung untimed as ocean fury
Gaping lips capable of feeding incidentally
Cylindrical home groans, crowded by peers
Graduates from Tank Eight are due soon
To meet with intention, purpose imposed
Sight of orange net scooping candidates
Occasions mayhem, frenzied to catch bus
I surge with the fastest, fattest prime
For my place in net destiny
Overexposed oxygen exhausts me
Begins cressendo to deliver my bounty
Dry eyed tribute to nurtured practice honed
My splatting undulations
boast industry success
Cod calls me to lemon rained plate haven
Farmed fellows raised by deliberation
Egg nursery, microscopic sluge whirls
Infuse infant entire crew with dedication
To feed, to fulfil, crisp silver skin served
If you think eating me equals ocean depletion
You'll be pleased to imbibe controlled science
Take it from me, fat salmon, Raymond
I am desperate to get in your gut!
My reason for existence is to be ravished
Don't reject majestic fish - re-examine
The pearly peach flesh down throat glide
Indulge charitable fridge wrapped salmon
I had a dream —
different ... dark ... obscure
Mine’s wasn’t like Martin Luther King,
it was different
So very dark to the core
In my dream I saw his dream
masquerading as a fantasy
There were separate, reality TV camps competing:
radical, bellicose talk of Black Lives Matter,
and virtual, cyber walk of alt-right hate chatter
There were bone chilling sounds of
nuclear voices ... uranium saber rattlers,
and automatic gunfire arterial blood splatters
And in my dream
there was an iron-copper, ruddy king’s ring
coveted by a smiling Joker, batty as a Mad Hatter,
with an itchy trigger finger
And this nightmare of a dream snoring-ly lingered
My sleeping eyes saw a lot of marching in the night,
clashes of angry protest signs and torches burning bright
Different colored children wasn’t walking hand in hand,
hugging and kissing in harmonious unity
No, they were casting stones at each other,
hurling heavy curses and jagged profanity
In my dream, that dream that Martin Luther King seen
was a fake news rerun cancelled program broadcasting
And the interrupted voice of a moderator said:
a gunshot to the head killed Martin Luther King dead
Then there was a funeral for his dream,
with a sad procession of Obama supporters crying
I saw horror of horrors ...
dark clouds ominously began to evilly congregate,
and the fair trade winds wasn’t waving the flag
Fear merchants were selling whiskey bottles of hate,
and commemorative red, white and blue gag order rags
For some it was a festive atmosphere,
a grand occasion to sample a taste of times past
Blowing lead pellet trumpet sounds
of a shotgun baby shower blast,
Birth of a Nation music was merrily playing
Vaders celebrating the death of a starcrossed king’s dream,
opened my eyes to a rude Gentile awakening —
slumber promises begets delayed praying
I had a dream —
so different ...
That of a pauper, not of a king!
Walkin around head down
Praying I'll soon be casket bed bound
Whether it's from a gun when it spreads rounds
Or catch a disease that causes me to shed
pounds
And I pass away alone no tear drop sounds
Come to my funeral if you knew me I predict I
vacant crowd
Satin welcomes me with open arms son your
finally found
Maybe my death comes from self infliction
Take the rope put it around my throat hang myself my
own lynchin
If I had 5 horses I'd use the rope and tie it my
body every segment
Have all run in different directions to separate
every ligament
The inhuman intense images
Is inconceivable to the human senses
The pain is relentless
Starts at the head makes it goes through your
legs then shoots back to shatter your appendix
It's the reason I invoke my final breath comes
soon
Especially if I'm forever foredoomed
Every where I go misfortune looms
Hope is striped
Compare my life to my penmanship
Sloppy hard to read and find it far-fetched
anyone would wanna claim ownership
So why would I subsist
Put in a sub I quit
So if I die at this moment remember this
I'm sorry to the ones I threw stones at and forgive
the ones who threw bricks
Mama I was suppose to be a success but destiny
didn't like the script
Grandpa sorry I'm not strong enough to fight
through the hardships
I started as a soldier and became a seasoned vet
And after all these battles all was left
Gruesome images I can't seem to forget
And a perpetuating battle with the devils green
beret
Brings depression and ignite rage
No assistance from god to have the demons
slayed
Till tick tick tick then explode like the pellet I pray
to catch that's stray
Unspoken obstacles
As I decide to self loathe
And let ill fortune rot in my soul
Make no sense to be a living being
I get discredited for carry boulders that makes
me Herculean
Eyes closed in a black hearse as I exit oblivion
Holly Day Cheer, Oy Vey
Lemme breathe smoke free air, okay
devoid of exhaust from swarm
(bajillion) enroute without delay
Santas Clauses gas guzzling
hybridized motorized sleigh,
coordinating global deliveries,
via GPS devices with weather proof inlay,
nor without the need to be caught unaware
fall out from skies foggy gray
regarding unexpected pellet size droppings
from reindeer unless docile
creatures made out of clay,
on second thought maybe,
I best remain indoors, sing alone in dolce
and secretly lay
in wait for fictitious busy
body, and yell "HAY,"
whose charitable larding
out gifts all the way
around the webbed wide world
purportedly all done for no pay,
gives me reason (with rhyme) to pause,
and be a bit suspicious eh,
cuz there must be some
legally tendered way
hmm...maybe exploitation or unfair
labor laws he doth not betray
heavy set fellow oft
times donning spectacles—tortoiseshell gray
cuffs, white-fur-cuffed red trousers,
or skivvies flying over Bombay
wearing a red coat housing
undoubtedly sweating away
bullets with white fur collar,
now bulletproof in case
he gets trapped in an alleyway,
a red hat with white fur,
topped of with nosegay
and pistol tucked away
black leather belt and boots hide say
animal rights and sweat shop
protesters deem unethical today
so many trappings scream UPDATE
maybe there's apps that
zap from North Pole assay
ying at light speed into electronically
woven into trademark suits made in Uruguay
by natives originally from
Banda Aceh (pronounced as "H" "A")
to completing stitching outfits
in the event oven neigh
unexpected tsu nam may
as tends to happen unpredictably
this time of year wreaking havoc
leaving islanders homeless, dazed and astray.
I was blessed to have born in the good old USA and adopted at age thirteen.
Blessed to have been brought up in a beautiful small town surrounded by great mountains, and grass of the color of emerald, green.
When hunting after a torrential rain I slipped into the Potomac River and saved by holding onto the stock of my pellet gun.
What happened after that wasn't at all much fun.
When the gun slapped the mud the cocking mechanism sprang open, locking onto a stump allowing me to pull myself free of certain death from the rushing chocolate brown Potomac River.
Reflecting on that moment gives me quite a shiver.
Blessed to have survived a heavy weapon laden military aircraft which lost an engine and fell five hundred feet before regaining our altitude.
After such a terrifying incident my faith in my creator was renewed.
Blessed to have a gun aimed at me and the bullet to pass through an open passenger window of the car I was in, passed right in front of my nose and smashing the driver's side window instead passing through my head.
A fraction of an inch closer and I would have been dead.
After being wrongly accused and facing twenty years in prison I was blessed by a man who saved me from committing suicide, and there after all charges were dropped.
They tried to bury me, but they forgot I am a seed, and all their plans for eternal incarceration was flopped.
After all of this and that, there must be a good reason for me still remaining among the living.
Perhaps because of a personality that is always giving.
I am truly grateful for each and every day of this life I have savored.
I am without a doubt here for a purpose, here for a reason, blessed and highly favored.
You made Death grumble, boy
He not pleased that a little squirt like you got away
He had you choking on your mama's apron strings,
with that foolhardy, playful dare you made
Said you was gonna cross Bim Argut's field,
and you wasn't scared of his menacing sign
Hope that pretty young thing you were trying to impress,
comes to your funeral in her best Sunday dress
"No Trespassing" is what the rusted, buck shot at, sign said
"Private Property," so that means you better stay off
You can leave walking,
or you can leave being carried away on your back dead
Yeah, Death thought he had you, little bugger
Had you in Bim's gunsight, but he didn't squeeze the trigger right
Even after you turned tail and ran,
Bim was still trying to hit you with his bad arthritic right hand
Just missed you,
Grim Reaper thought he had you
Dead to rights, you was almost his
At that distance how did he miss ...
with a 20-gauge shotgun, even a blind man
could've gave you a silver pellet kiss
Maybe your big friend from on high helped you,
if he did, I don't know why
You ain't nothing but a troublemaker,
a short life is written in the stars
You won't live long enough
to raise glasses in honky-tonk bars
Now gon' run back to your papa
in your blue jeans with the brown backside
Yeah, run back to your mama
in your white sneakers with the yellow streak,
like you done cried
Death's gonna get you one day,
everybody knows that Death don't play
Yeah, Death's gonna get you someday,
so you better start learning how to pray
The aircraft might be fifteen minutes late,
You might be there, before it's too late.
Too late to reach there before you take off,
Off to somewhere, within the country,
Or without, or even beyond, my mother told me.
Better I shut my eyes, with uneven ,
umkempt hair, the torn lips, unattended,
and the dry mouth,
Incognisant of thirst, as if it hates
The water, loves to be mashed within,
Inside and out, a hollow chunk of existence.
The rumbling, wobbling car
cannot wake me up from anything,
for I am not sleeping.
The best counterfeit of sleep I master,
With eyes closed, but the brain moving faster,
With thoughts chilling and horrifying,
Interminable palpitations.
With the aching forehead I'll wait,
With the hope for a rendezvous,
If not at the aerodrome,
Then definitely somewhere else,
Beyond the limitless time ,
Resilient of the brunt of time , we'll meet,
Still fifteen minutes left though,
May be in reality, or in a reverie,
It does not matter, for hope is truth.
The aching temples will release
the shackles of pain, intermittently.
Perhaps the aircraft has taken the aerial route already,
My car's moving slow , but I'll reach there,
At least a tiny pellet convinced me so,
That killed the sting at the forehead
and dried the sweaty palm,
The air of the lounge will convey to me
The story of my imagination,
The tale of her absence,
And of the genuine celerity
Of the mechanical bird,
Flown off.
Still fifteen minutes are left.
28th March, 2021.
they caught that nasty varmint, that killed old sheriff Beck;
And by the time we're done with him, he'll be hanging from the neck.
Send them to the guillotine and watch their heads roll off the block;
An aristocrat is less than human, so to kill them is no shock.
Fry them in the chair, they don't deserve to live;
So everyone will understand, you get back what you give.
Drop a little pellet, then watch them fight for air;
It's a perfect way to end their lives, they are people who don't care.
Let's give him an injection; it's lethal and it's fast;
Before you have a chance to look, it's over and he's passed.
You know he's just an animal, who committed genocide;
And hanging was a perfect way, for a man like him to die.
The beast was very dangerous, he mauled his trainer half to death;
You know that we should kill him; it's the only answer left.
Kill them all I say; God will sort them out;
Those red skins are just heathens, with their whooping and their shouts.
I don't believe we are judgmental and most of us agree;
If everybody says its right, it must be right you see.
You say we shouldn't kill them, I say the punishment befits the crime;
So go ahead and waste your breath, after all you paid your dime.
God bless the little children and make this country strong;
And bless the places just like us, who want to get along.
We all must do our gardening, get rid of all the weeds;
The only way is kill them all, wouldn't you agree?