Long Pistols Poems
Long Pistols Poems. Below are the most popular long Pistols by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pistols poems by poem length and keyword.
I don’t know if we were the first,
other's had sailed away.
There were rumors of settlements.
Years later, pleading petitions to the king,
then silence.
Months of turmoil and torment
upon the merciless seas.
Our ship almost a wreck,
the pox and plague
having whittled us down,
to a motley band of hollow eyed scavengers.
Then Land sited!
The fabled Americas! Those yonder shores
must be that fearful, paradise of legend.
We had overcome!
The Captain led his weary folk ashore,
but being the ships cat I stayed
to find the last remaining rat.
That night I dreamed
that the ship up-anchored all by itself.
The men dashed back to the shore
to save the vessel, but I, the last sailor,
rigged the tattered sails
and flew before the wind back to England,
but not before I had fired my pistols
into the yelling, stranded, and doomed crew.
‘Not yet America,’ I thought – ‘not yet.’
He rode in to Santa Fe one summer day on a broken-down, sweaty nag.
All he owned was the clothes on his back and the Bible in his saddle bag.
He wore a suit of black, an old slouch hat, both so dusty and frayed.
He was an itinerant preacher man by the name of Jeremiah Slade.
Beneath his well-worn duds he wore a brace of pistols on his hips,
With the 'sinners' in towns he occasionally enjoyed a couple-a nips!
His District Superintendent took a very dim view of his associations,
Warnin' that it might lead him into very injudicious temptations!
He dismounted, hitched his hoss and brushed the dust from his suit,
And strolled to Clancy's Saloon, well-known as a house of ill-repute!
He sauntered up to the bar and pointed to a jug of whiskey on the shelf,
Sayin', "Bartend, hand me that bottle. I'll pour three-fingers fer myself!"
He leaned with his back to the bar surveyin' the riotous scene before him.
The debauchery he viewed indicated reapin' souls looked mighty grim,
But he drawed his guns and hammered the butts on the bar fer attention!
"By Gawd!" he thundered, "I intend to clean up this place is my intention!"
With that the dancin', brawlin' and gamblin' came to an abrupt cease!
"Now, I want y'all to find Jesus and give each other the kiss of peace!"
Forty-two souls searched and found Him that day in Clancy's Saloon!
He praised the Lord, sayin', "That's a purty good haul and it ain't even noon!"
The new saints were shoutin' "Hallelujah!" and he roared, "Now hold on there!
I remind y'all I don't preach fer nothin' and if'n y'all would care to share,
I'll pass the hat and as Jesus said, ''Tis better to give than to receive!"
He gave some to the bartend, sayin' "Set 'em up!" With that he took his leave!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
John Miller and William H Bonney,
are both one and the same apparently,
at least that's what John Miller would claim occasionally,
but never when he was sober, drunk only.
John Miller and The Kid most legendary,
did indeed share a lot of similarities.
John too was small in stature with a frail framed body just like Billy,
and his shooting skills were extraordinary.
No one could match his speed or accuracy,
and whenever a gang rode into town,
it was always John Miller who would confront them and stand them all down.
Both hands on his pistols openly displayed,
often was more than enough to send even the most hardened outlaws on their way.
Friends and neighbors would then celebrate at their local saloon,
buying drink after drink for John Miller to consume,
and then after many a shot of whiskey and pint of ale,
John Miller would start spinning his Billy the Kid tales.
Always in great detail he would share these stories,
of how he wasn't John Miller but William H Bonney,
but hung over the next day he would deny all those stories completely.
''I was drunk,'' John would always say,
''and I guess I got a little carried away.
Billy Bonney is not me,
I'm just an ageing relic with a checkered history,''
and up until the day he died he stuck to that story.
He was only John Miller and not William H Bonney.
Shortly before his death a mysterious purchase was made,
for a new headstone for one Catherine Antrim's grave.
Catherine Antrim was Billy the Kid's mother,
and the bill of sale record clearly reads,
PURCHASED BY: John Miller
One or two of us
Were home on leave;
For the rest of us,
Christmas came by mail.
Our callsign: Gunslingers.
Our Military Transition Team
Was embedded with
The "Triple Deuce" Iraqi Infantry,
For a year our home
Was LSA Diamondback
Mosul, Nineveh province,
In northern Iraq
A Team member's wife
Gave us all Santa hats.
I have an old photo
Of us standing on top
Of an old Iraqi bunker,
Bearing pistols, rifles,
And those Santa hats.
My wife sent a small
Plastic Christmas tree,
Which was decorated
In the Gunslingers' office.
My mom sent a warm quilt.
When you're acclimatized
To wearing battle armor
In the high 90s and 100s,
80-something feels cold!
I remember the nights--
Dark, but full of stars,
With Orion's belt
On the horizon.
Soldiers made bonfires
In the oddest places:
By a concrete shelter,
Or in classified burn pits.
Once exiting my office,
I saw a fire in the sky.
Soldiers were on top of a bunker
Drinking near-beer, singing.
Another night, I stood
Just outside of the light
Looking at some troops,
And the chiaroscuro image.
I went back to my "choo",
And penciled the scene.
To complete the masterpiece,
I inserted myself
Roasting marshmallos.
I went back to visit them,
Showed them the drawing,
Then completed the picture
By searing a marshmallow.
Christmas was what we made of it.
The Proletariat Prowl
Intro: Low, rhythmic bassline or a steady finger-snap. The voice is breathy, conversational, and slightly unimpressed.
I’m the Post-Left shadow on the garden wall,
Opposing the authority of the locked cat-door.
You call it social conformity;
I call it the prevailing order of the 6:00 AM bowl.
Your economic disorder produces a vacuum in my stomach,
Crushed by the hierarchy of the "Not-Right-Now."
I’m thinking about the Sex Pistols’ anarchy.
A vacation in the UK?
No, just a leap to the counter—though it costs too much
In dignity to fly these days when the paws miss the mark.
Mom’s a hag who steals the snacks back into the bag
Siamese eyes, high eyebrows, cautious lies,
I wear the fur to the kitchen floor as a sort of public disguise.
You buy the gas, they tax you, they take your cash...
I just watch the birds through the glass,
Evaluating the government authority of the squirrel on the grass.
You degrade yourself once, then more,
You go back to the human to degrade yourself not to even the score.
You degrade yourself more; you know exactly what’s in store.
Another negative losing score at the bottom of a dry kibble floor.
If you can’t win, pack it up, give in now
Find a sunbeam to live for.
It’s better than dying and boiling on the floor
Of your killing blues of misuse.
I was struck by red lightning asthe laser on the rug.
The look on my face was frightening and I was a revolutionary thug.
Standing on the sofa, like Trotsky’s grave,
Two hours out of the nap-cycle, feeling brave.
With a guard dog nearby, I’m not so brave.
Should I celebrate or take pity?
Was the red dot good or bad? No, really.
What is a permanent revolution if you never catch the light?
Dying for the cause now, under the fridge, out of sight.
The human’s a left-wing social institution...
Oh well, now it was sad.
But it doesn’t make me mad.
Time to make that hard decision,
Taking into account social derision and the neighbor's glare.
Mexican beer? No.
Just a margharita-scented nap
In the mid-day air.
One final, sharp snap of the fingers
Love Insurance
My spouse and I took out insurance policies
On each other with elaborate care
Fiduciary love is in the air
We point pistols at one other’s heads in bed
To protect our mutual investment
Love, like life has a cost, when you are wed
Sex and sleep comes less with life insurance
With a hare trigger weapon aimed in your direction
It might seem strange to take such measures
To smother one another with extravagance
We both want what is best I guess
Guns aimed at our temple for protection
A life time blest with lots of money, the reward
To ward off poverty which sucks
We sleep together now a little nervous
Life insurance takes us where it will
We both drew up a will of benefits
Let’s see who blinks first on the pillow
Who gets their share
It comes wrapped up in clear mylar,
like the ones comic people use,
insides faded, creased and yellow,
big red letters boast of the west,
small rips and tears from ancient hands,
and the collectors before me,
does not detract from the image:
Cowboys in bold, pulsing colors,
pistols blazing, horses rearing,
sweet girl taking cover behind.
Inside the paper, yellow-brown,
brittle and has a smell to it,
cheap newsprint, never meant to last,
disposable, all this stuff was,
but inside endless stories roll,
some from greats you still recognize,
others from folks long forgotten,
coaxed to life when you read their words,
their thoughts reborn, blended with yours
as your eyes scan the old pages,
our only immortality.
The images scattered throughout,
like comics before the comics,
black lines build up a lost world,
that only lived within out dreams
Ads for cigarettes and liquor,
columns with words from old cowboys
who actually lived through the age;
marketing for correspondence:
How to build your own radio,
How to write things down in shorthand,
You can look like Charles Atlas!
The TV of its time and then
you finish and feel bad that you
are in the present day again.
Do you think they’ll read our scribblings
a hundred years after the fact?
it used to be
every morning
the worker bee
would gather
his paperwork
put it in his
briefcase
and don on
his hat to tell
his wife in dance
see you later
pollinator
but never
to return
to return
his favor
for the missus
honey i do miss ya
but they dismissed us
so i'm drowning sorrows
at the mead bar
and tomorrow
casts sorrows
upon more
sorrows
i used to be
someone who
strived to be
a member
of the hive
but the sex pistols sang
god save the queen
the fascist regime
and now i'm in
between
being
to bee
or not
to bee
but word
has it that
there's work
down south
so i'm busy
buzzing
to pack to
go where
it's at
in
Brazil
Form:
Our whole house was concrete, and we had a real chimney. Santa inside a chimney? Such a reality never made sense to me. At some point that only God knows for sure, I discovered without dismay that my dear parents were the real Clause.
I was a Southern boy, and they said we were poor.
I suppose we were a bit deprived, but I wasn’t sad.
Mom and dad always found a way to make us glad.
We were always blessed with plenty on Christmas Day.
We had plenty of good fruits and sweet foods to eat.
If it was cold, we came inside and got close to the heat.
We had pistols and BB guns, and lots of toys with which to play. I think most of all, I remember the trains and red wagons.
Regarding toys, I never got what I wanted most for Christmas. As a little boy I enjoyed the joyful rides on my tricycle; but when I came of age, I longed to own a nice red bicycle.
A longing to die for, but I guess we were just a bit too poor for that.
Anyway, I also think that there was simply too much fun and love
To be bothered about that. 12122016 PS Contest, Christmas day, Alexis Y
1st Place
Stamens and pistils
delicately poised
Shamans and pistols
making too much noise
Soft buzz preferred,
a silencer’s desired
Pollinator’s sense
the triggers just fired
Nectar brings balance
agape open wide
Willing the seeker
to do laps inside
Comes with a snag
also stitch in the side
Fulcrum of a rose
the thorn realised
My soul’s not a flower
just gives and takes
Wants what it craves
accepts all, even fakes
Opens too early,
closes far too late
Can’t tell if I’m full,
yet knows when I’m sate
Possesses a thorn,
and stabs by design
Fulcrum of my soul’s
human not divine
Protects at all costs
only thing that’s mine
Not pain or loss,
just my life to define