Long Rifle Poems
Long Rifle Poems. Below are the most popular long Rifle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rifle poems by poem length and keyword.
We were both called Shorty, me and this new cowpoke Shay.
He had a disappointed attitude that could be seen a mile away.
I did not like him instantly, he annoyed my organized mind.
He was not to my liking or taste, we were not two of a kind.
Shay was a loud mouth, thought his jokes were a hoot.
He was a weird co-worker, an ornery, persnickety coot.
I could not stand him until I got in trouble one day.
Who came to my aid? That ornery guy name of Shay.
We became friends after that; I taught him to shoot
He taught me to keep folding money in my right boot.
That Needham rifle was his, but he gave it to me.
When he was sick with the cancer in 1873.
The Sacred Meow Society meets
Nightly in the alley behind my house.
They rifle through the trash to gather treats
Because they have long since chased off each mouse.
They gather in secret, or so they think.
All are aware of their presence, in truth.
We leave them alone with a knowing wink,
Avoiding their hiss, their claw and sharp tooth.
Unearthly noises! Each cat must be heard!
All with opinions are willing to fight!
Outsiders might think it all sounds absurd,
These feline debates that last through the night.
Dawn, at last, rises and all members flee
Of the Sacred Meow Society.
2/22/2023
Written for the Sacred Meow Society poetry contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
If you could change World History
If you could alter World History,
What would you change and why.
Choose with care and astuteness,
Or someone that lived, might die.
Edward John Smith has fallen sick,
So, he cannot Captain the ship.
That Iceberg may well be avoided,
Allow Titanic to complete her trip.
Harvey Oswald has JFK in sight,
But, the President throws back his head.
An Italian Rifle fires clean and true,
Grazed his chin, Kennedy wasn’t dead
The plane made an emergency landing,
In a Cornfield after leaving Clear Lake.
Buddy is bruised but unharmed,
Rock & Roll spared music heartache.
If Adolf Hitler had never been born,
Would the world be a much better place?
Or would another, equally as mad,
Come along and take his place.
It is the year 1066,
Harold Godwinson commands the hill,
Should he survive and win the Battle,
Would England be Anglo Saxon Still?
Imagine Scriptures had not been written,
In one God, would we still believe.
Perhaps we would all be Pagans,
Is that thought too difficult to perceive.
If you had altered world history,
How did you change and what with?
Did you consider cause and effect?
Because some that died will live.
Paradox KS January 2018
In memorium
He put his rifle safe,
pulled up the blanket
against the cold.The Spring
rain dripped in rivulets
down his trench wall.
The blossoms of the hops
would be just flowering
back home. He dreamed on
of the girl he met on his
last leave. In this
hell on earth, to dream
was to live, for a few
moments; to escape the
monotony of this endless
unreality. The face of
his mother, filled this dream,
Harriet was crying, whispering
her love; hopelessness had
permeated his last letter. He
awoke, suddenly with a start,
It was time; the big push
was on. The ‘final battle’
the officer had said. Perhaps
I will be on furlough for harvest,
he thought, smiling inwardly,
day-dreaming for a second
or two, he joined the line.
‘Into your hands O lord’ the
Padre’s murmured benediction
the last words, he heard.
Yeah, just grab an old rusty shovel, a case of Bud Light and hop in the back of my red
pickup truck, because us country boys are heading down to Sweetwater Creek to hunt for
some rare species of dictionary. Boy, don't you worry about nothing. We got plenty of
ammo. Uncle Willie, you know them dictionaries got some powerful stuff.
Yeah, they got all kinds of words that I cain't spell or spit out my mouth. Some folks
say, you can use them fancy-polished words printed in a dictionary. You boys know better.
We can't read, write or arithmetic! Boys, we need to shake a stick, saddle up and go
rustle up some wild dictionaries. To capture a wild dictionary, you need to wear
specialized Desert Storm camouflaged gear, and be very quiet!
Boys, its time for the hunting dictionary expedition!
Now, big Willie, listen to me good, when we find this critter, I am not settling for a
handshake, because I need to bust a few caps in those hind parts with my double-pump
shotgun. Boy, be quiet. Do you hear something rattling behind them bushes? Hey, look down
yonder! Oh, Nellie, I got a big surprise for that old slick Willy dictionary.
Well, I am a Southern Boy, with a background in cannon artillery and fire weaponry. I will
deliver the final blow and knockout punch with my deluxe K-Mart special, double barrel
Winchester rifle, equipped with a high-powered scope, aiming right-between-the-eyes of
the victim.
Big Willie, You know stuff is going to fly in every direction. Now, its time to grab that
slippery dictionary right by the tail, fling it straight up in the air and shake the
cobwebs loose! Just in case, we might have to tap it with a few more rounds of buckshot
from my shotgun named big Shirley. You know, just so I can let it marinade.
Man, I am so cool, when I captured this black double-breasted Oxford dictionary, I skinned
it and cleaned it and turn it into a thesaurus.
Posted By: Gregory W Golden Dated 16 Oct 2006
As Mad Dog Milt wanders back into the town
Caressing his trigger, his face wears a frown
Six months in the hills but it’s time to return
And somebody somewhere is going to burn
Six months of life as a hilltop rambler
He ain’t gonna hang for shooting that gambler
Who’d pulled a gun due to the rat that he smelt
But sometimes four aces is what you get dealt
The town hadn’t known he was Mad Dog before
Till he cut that man down with a super-fast draw
For the man called him cheat and Milt’s patience eroded
But how could he know the man’s gun wasn’t loaded
Living for months under moon and hot sun
Freezing or roasting was no kinda fun
He’d asked himself questions but now had just one
What kind of man pulls an unloaded gun
He pondered that night in the Soup Creek Saloon
He vowed that his next shot was destined for June
His victim had loaded his gun, without doubt
And Milt now knew Floozy June emptied it out
*
That night she had offered herself for the taking
But Milt was a gambler with money for making
He’d said she was pretty, real nice on the eye
But she should go make eyes at some other guy
And so when his victim lay dead on floor
She’d made sure his gun wasn’t full any more
That was her way of avenging her honour
She’d grinned knowing Mad Dog would soon be a gonner
*
The saloon bar is busy and Milt draws his gun
“June’s leaving town due to what she has done,
I can’t kill a woman and that’s a darned choker
So I’m gonna have me some whiskey and poker.”
But June grabs a rifle from under the bar
She takes aim but that doesn’t get her too far
The rifle misfires as the sheriff walks in
So with June sat in jail, Mad Dog Milt plays to win
Let us play holi holi.....
With the color of saffron,
to inject stimulant
into the vein of every Indian,
to raise voice against monopoly,
to trigger rifle against terrorists,
to fight against corruption
and to pen against
Mudslinging, violence and sedition.
After all,
Forgetting everything....
We should focus our approach
for the integrity of our nation.....(1)
Let us play holi holi
With the color of white,
to spread the message of peace
among every Indian,
to enhance brotherhood,
to excel patriotism.
to augment love & affection,
and to kill
selfishness, intolerance and discrimination.
After all,
forgetting everything....
We should focus our approach
for the purity of our nation.
Let us play holi holi
With the color of green,
to expedite growth of farmers
across the country,
to increase production,
to improve education,
to minimize ailment,
and to end
poverty, unemployment and stagnation.
After all,
forgetting everything.......
We should focus our approach
for the growth of our nation.
--------------------------------------
Note: Holi is one of the sacred festival of India. It is a festival of colors. Here I invite all of you to play holi with tricolors of our national flag i.e. saffron, white and green.
It had begun again the terrorist threats
at first right at the height of my writers block
leaving beautiful gems surfaced from my minds
eye that was when the head lights parked baring
strange death threats plastered on license plates
interesting I closed my drapes shut my blinds shutters
when a red dot began dancing all over my living room
it had been two decades since my stalker fatal attraction
arrived with her gunman committing home invasions
in my townhome scattering a few poems an yet this
resulted in this man dying at my feet he was sent
to end my life over my own American poetry
there I was desperate with only the notion of the
federal bureau of investigations realizing I was this
confidential human source who wore wires pregnant
because the FBI told me my life was in danger on the
count of this madman had committed an arson murder
killing nine elderly person in hiding broken frightened
expressing myself through prose never knowing this
arsonist wise guy faked his death to get away with
the murders and decided to latch on to my American
poetry a score to pay off corruption to bully my
American poetry racketeer my life hence my death
for sport attempts on my life sending domestic terrorist
to enter my room ripping pages on my night stand
I can't imagine the bureau's reaction receiving my
desperate call of home invasions please help I screamed
thieves are after my poetry you see for me poetry
was this healing coping therapy for the panic attacks
the fear the anxiety the ptsd of surviving being
a confidential human source I could still hear
my fetus heart beating decades later seated
on my bed this red dots bounced off the wall
landing on my chest the killers were back enraged
basically forcing me to continue writing to fund
organized crime and corruption I peeked through
the blinds face to face with an assault rifle pointed
at my bedroom window could poetry really be worth
killing the writer how do one survive domestic terrorist
I close my eyes I see the gunman coughing up blood odd
I see the arsonist parked with my stalker a fatal attraction
literature is America's fine culture poetry is a gift from God
Written by Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Fleeing nefarious intent
As watched through a spyglass
Running for forest's protection
With fast steps of chasse
Rifle in his hands aimed, ready
Will the quick shot be heard?
What will he do with a body?
Suddenly vision blurred
How can murder be on his mind
Once his love for her shone
But now hardness upon his face
Matching his heart of stone
He'd lost control of her he knew
She was now in the way
Now she's beyond his reach
He'd find her in a few days
Escaped by magic so it seemed
His life now out of control
He could not rest in peace, eat, or
Think, his power she stole
How will this thickening plot end
I cannot really say
Only a snapshot of the scene shown
I think she got away
Written: December 30, 2022
Contest: Beyond Reach
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
Continued From:
10. BTK Coming Attractions Part 2
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195844
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BILLY the Kid's Great Escape.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd kill me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to kill you.
I've got 16 silver dimes in each barrel of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet loving whore.
I'll kill you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet.
" Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell said angrily, "or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing a man in cold blood who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere. He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer and I'll stay here and guard the Kid until you return.
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above dialog ever truly took place.
One thing's for sure. Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were arch enemies who fought against each other during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that killed John Tunstall, Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the outhouse Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
****************************************************************************
To Continue Go To:
12. BTK Coming Attractions Part 4
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195841