Long Rifle Poems
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Fierce fighting raged, but surprise was gone,
the Americans rallied and pushed hard,
the Indians fell back, out of the ravine,
the patriots driving them that far.
Hand-to-hand combat broke out brutally,
with knives, clubs, and rifle-stocks,
Iroquois would wait until patriots fired,
then while they reloaded, charge with tomahawk.
Herkimer saw his people being killed,
so he ordered them all to pair off,
one man would fire, the other would load,
now It was the Indians who felt sharp loss.
The killing continued, on through to morn,
until a thunder storm broke over the field,
the fighting quieted but neither side budged,
neither side put down powder or steel.
But as the storm passed, back at Stanwix,
the garrison heard of Herkimer’s plight,
they charged out into the near empty camps,
putting the few British still there to flight.
They plundered and pillage all that they could,
ransacking and stealing their supplies,
when word reached the battle, the Indians turned,
now it was their turn to be surprised.
The broke from the field, ran for the camps,
but when they arrived they saw it was too late,
the garrison had retreated back to the fort,
with their spoils behind a barred gate.
At Oriskany, Herkimer held the field,
so by the standards of the day he had won,
but neither side had gained that much from it,
despite all the bloody work that was done.
The patriots were too savaged to continue on,
to damaged to hope to lift the siege,
they retreat back east, to Fort Dayton,
to see to their wounds and their needs.
St. Leger found himself in a terrible spot,
supplies dwindling, his camp ransacked,
to make matters worse, mad Indian allies
started slinking off, not to come back.
Not long after another relief column,
led by a general who’s name won’t be said,
marched for Stanwix, convincing the Brits
they had little chance of not being bested.
St. Leger ordered his forces to retreat,
back to Canada his troops did go,
and the British plan to split the colonies
suffered from its first heavy blow.
Herkimer didn’t live to see that day,
his wound quickly became infected,
when the time came to amputate his leg,
it was botched up, and quite freely bled.
At least the brave man got to die in his home,
and his name is recalled in glory,
he remains a hero in upstate New York,
for his courage at Oriskany.
Only eighteen and conscripted to the military,
no choice of mine it was the norm at this time and scary,
barely out of school and still wet behind the ear,
too young to watch an adult movie or have a beer.
Disadvantaged to study and too white to be left behind,
this I never understood till today, rightfully grew up blind,
this pain will never leave me as I walk through life,
explaining, I can’t understand myself, the past strife.
Ready to be trained to kill another nation’s child,
leaving their family with the loss and our side smiled,
dejected as I waved goodbye to my family that day,
my girlfriend was there too and my friends to stay.
To a military camp for 2 years, programed and trained,
based in Kimberley 900 Km to be mentally stained,
infantry intelligence was my involuntary military calling,
not knowing what was in store for our adult life’s stalling.
On my new bed listening to songs of memory and waiting,
corporals, sergeants screaming at youths scared, hating,
nobody knowing what or who, or how, where to show,
disconnected from family and treated like **** dough.
Moulding us into military men without feelings,
chased and forced without asking or dealings,
involuntary wearing uniforms, carrying death,
brainwashed, to march in unison, out of breath.
Bushwhacking, crawling under barbed mesh,
ripping our faces, shredding our young flesh,
many a youth destroyed mentally for gore,
but guaranteed that we were ready for war.
Your rifle is your wife; the military is your mother,
drilled into our minds and began a smother,
fired our weapons at fabricated enemy,
re-loading and then screaming with venom.
Indoctrination and mental instability forced,
not ourselves but killing machines endorsed,
spread across African borders to kill on sight,
innocent, women and child death is our right.
Many a friend made and many a friend lost,
this is for our nation, family and worth the cost,
under the impression of protecting our nation,
living off measly dehydrated and shared ration.
We the soldiers of our South African un-united nation,
proud and ready to destroy, our new minds creation,
all others were the enemy and terrorists,
to them we were the same to kill and create hero lists,
Friends and Time with family are lost forever,
memories of the past in our conscience lost never.
Once there was a famous king,
More famous than Ozymandias.
His name was King Wolf.
Sultan was his nickname.
He called himself a benevolent despot;
And his style of government
A ‘democratic dictatorship.’
He spoke good English—
A foreign language, though;
Only a minor problem with 'l' and 'r':
Once, for instance, a reporter asked him,
"What about elections, Your Majesty?"
His response:
"Why, I have them everyday!"
The poor reporter was thoroughly confused.
His kingdom was a land of superlatives:
The oldest civilization,
The largest standing army,
The largest population,
The largest exporter—of people,
The largest emitter of carbon dioxide,
Now the second largest exporter of goods, too,
And will soon be the largest.
Since his was the most populous kingdom,
Demography was his obsession,
Which he called his specialization.
Of course, Sultan had tried his best
To check population growth—
By means of family planning.
It didn't work.
So he curbed people’s Right to have children.
But still there was a huge difference
Between the optimum number
And ground reality!
Therefore, Sultan hatched a wonderful plan:
Started a war with a friendly neighbour.
Every section of twenty soldiers in his army
Had just one primitive rifle between them:
If a soldier went on,
He would be shot.
If he went back,
Again, he would be shot.
A Catch-22!
Many of his men were slaughtered.
But still Sultan won—by sheer numbers!
Oh, God!
But the King did not believe in God.
Like king, like people!
But the dead soldiers were only a small number.
So, now another plan:
Government is the boss.
Let people overwork.
Sultan cracked the whip.
And a number of people died—
Of overwork, year after year.
Further reduction in population.
Production increased:
Cheap goods flooded the world market:
From PCs to push-up bras.
No warranty.
The economy boomed.
Ah, his kingdom became a Big Power!
But once some workers gathered
In the Capital and protested—
Against exploitation.
The name of Karl Marx was in the air.
“Listen,” Sultan roared, “Marx died—
Long ago.
So should you—now,
For raising his name in vain.”
So, still further reduction in population!
Now, when this narrative ended,
Sultan was busy, planning for another war.
Poor soul!
How else could he solve the problem—
Of overpopulation?!
***
I, a Red Skin dog, as some may delight to call me,
I have heard the tales of horror, from my dark skinned foes.
I have heard the tales of terror, from others who became my friends.
And I have walked with a dark skinned woman of their tribe.
We walked in the beauty of her courage, together. Tearless.
Tearless we both were as she spoke, for tears, only gods could cry for her.
I am a Red Skin dog.
And yet we walked together and we talked – together, fearless,
I and this swaying ebony sapling, sprung from the roots of my foes tribe.
We talked of the pitiless reality of that life she left behind, of that time
That she has left, far, far behind, like a useless scar
That has toughened over. And made her stronger.
I learned from this daughter of my foes
That true courage is never fearless, but always stronger. Victorious,
Stronger she was by far, to this Red Skin dog
Than the thousand sons who died, in her honor. So they say. Ridiculous,
But I have heard the balance of their sins.
And for all the tales I have heard from those angry young men, and their vengeful fathers
Her horror was a thousand times more sinister. A thousand times more callous.
Horror took up residence in her home but never in her heart.
But for others, I cannot speak.
“…splinters and bursting fragments…in my mind
Ai! Tearing! Memory of tearing flesh, swallowing tears and mucus, blood and bile
…bruising and ripping garments…off my body
…filthy, familiar hands tearing at my dress…
…my legs split and broken like a wild pig slaughter, my screams smashed from my lips,
With the butt of a rifle, just used to kill a Red Skin dog…
Aieee! Clean this floor mama, mop up this spew!
It cannot be mine!
This child is not mine!
It is not mine! It is the devils own creation born in hell fire!
Born in my death!
Aieee! I am dead, I cannot be alive.
I am dead and the Red Skin dogs have eaten my corpse.
Those spirits in their wingless chariot flew over the land and sea, to rescue me?
Rescue me from that black devil who said he was like Jesus to me.
I thought you were my uncle-brother…
Who else could have found us here?
Hidden away from the Red Skins and their Wingless Angels.
Only you my uncle-brother
Only you could have found us
Only you could have killed us.
And now the progeny of your evil deed suckles at my breasts
As I lie dead in the home of those Red Skin dogs you fought.”
The problem with war is not just confined to the front lines where the battle rages on. A
single shot can be traced all the way back home. For instance a young man stood on the
front line takes a single shot to his stomach, the patrol he is on is down one man, it takes two
pilots and 2 medics to collect the injured solier and take him to a feild hospital, where a team
fight to save his life. One of the medics, who work on him knows the injured soldier very
well. He feels distraught working to save the life of his friend. The young soldier's life can not
be saved and passes away. When the medic telephones home to his loving family he tells
them of the sad news that his friend has died doing the job he loved.
The family of the deceased war hero get an unsuspected knock on the door which, breaks
their hearts. One shot of a gun, one round, one family is destroyed, another family feels the
loss knowing thier loved one fought but couldnt save the life of his friend, and a full company
of heroes feeling overwhelmed with sadness for thier fallen comrade, and a growing fuel of
hate for an unforgiving enemy.
This is an example of one hero falling, and what effect it has had on so many peoples lives.
Imagine the domino effect when over one hundred soldiers have died in one conflict, and
remember there is two war zones at present, Afghanistan, Iraq and dont forget the peace
keeping missions.
How many have to die or get left severely injured or disabled before someone stands up and
says no more?
War is not particular about religion, in most religions murder and hate is forbidden, but when
a religious man fires his rifle at an enemy, does he say to himself forgive me God for i have
sinned? War does not care for religion. For all of those who have been in a war, who have
stood in the heart of a foreign land tight fisted without fear, i commend you for we all fought
an ageless war against an unforgiving enemy.
Do we all know what we are fighting for, not the lies the politicians bring, i mean the cold
hard truth about why our government want that far away land. Would you still go and fight?
All i can say is a few hundred men and women have paid the ultimate sacrifice for what i can
make is oil, is it really worth it? and how long have this got to go on?
The year was 1956
and I distinctly recall
my mother's lovely face
as she told me
Szererlek (I love you)
and as I seen her lovely smile
I remember her face
as she held back bittersweet tears
tying to hold the impression
that everything was alright and I
as a youth did not fully
comprehend the situation
going on at the time.......
I asked my mother
Anyu , miért sírsz ? (Mother, why are you crying?)
and she replied....
Ez semmi fiam , én rendben lesz
(It's nothing my son, I will be alright)
all while hearing the rough and
very bitter voice of my father say......
Nidia , te ribanc ! hol vagytok ?!
(Nidia, you whore! where are you?!)
all while she bitterly weeps
going to his side again, once more
in his violent tone he says......
Nidia , te kurva ! hol van az italom ?!
(Nidia, you ***** ! where is my drink?!)
all while she wept quietly
going to the refrigerator
and getting his stale
cognac and bitter wine
all while these two drinks
have not even gotten cold yet......
She serves him the drinks
he spits them out, get's up
and says.....
Te hülye kurva !, akkor soha semmit van!
(You stupid whore!, you could never do anything right!)
as again I see daddy, giving mommy
one of his usual love taps
a punch to the stomach
and a slap to the face
all to match the black eye
she has already received.....
It is 12:00 at night
I lay in my bed......
mommy kisses me goodnight
and she says in a soft, calming whisper
Ez semmi fiam , én rendben lesz
(It's nothing my son, I will be alright)
all while daddy was asleep
in the other room, knocked out from
having his usual
cocktail of painkillers,
stale cognac and bitter while
this time...... it was cold
Mommy tucks me in
kisses me on the forehead
cuts off my lights
and says.... jóéjt fiam (goodnight my son)
I..... still awake, and with
the inability to slumber
I sneak out my bedside
and witness in my mothers
hands, the Ak-47 assault rifle
that my father had stole
during the Hungarian revolution......
My father (who was knocked out)
was unaware of what was staring
at him in the face......
and my mother......
with her hand on the trigger
says in her melancholy voice......
ez a vég.....(this is the end.....)
and puts a bullet through his head.....
The Ferris wheel, a spoked and sputtering crown,
Pinned back the velvet dark. We paid our fee
In crumpled bills, bought passage to the town
Where gravity forgot to work its shift for me.
Neon stuttered sermons: "Try Your Luck!"
"See Freaks! Win Love!" The calliope’s thick breath,
A sticky-sweet confection, made us drunk
On promises spun sugar-brittle, sweet as death.
We traded common sense for ticket stubs,
Gulped down the chaos. Bumper cars collided
With jarring joy, released electric grubs
Of laughter down our spines, fear undecided
If it should stay or flee. The Tilt-A-Whirl
Unstitched the solid world, flung stars askew
In streaks of cheap chrome, made the pavement curl
Beneath our feet. I held tight onto you,
A fixed point in the whirling, painted blur.
The rifle range barked sharp, tin cans leapt high.
A sad-eyed bear, impossibly demur,
Watched from his perch where hopeful bullets die.
We shared spun sugar, ghosting on the air,
A sweetness gone before it reached the tongue,
Like fortunes told by Madame Zara’s stare
In smoky glass where futures, cheap, were hung.
The haunted house exhaled its chilly moan.
We walked through shrieks (machine-made, mostly sound),
Past rubber bats and bones of plastic thrown
To frighten children. On the trembling ground,
The roller coaster’s skeleton outlined
A shriek against the stars, a rattled breath
Of riders flung through space, ecstatically blind.
We felt its tremor, smelled its oil and death.
Then, sudden quiet by the carousel,
Its painted horses frozen mid-career,
Up, down, around, beneath a tarnished spell.
The music box wound down, the notes unclear,
Like childhood memories half-drowned in time.
The lights began to shutter, one by one.
The midway sighed. The air grew thick with grime
And spent excitement. All the magic, done.
We walked back through the gates, the real world vast
And strangely silent after all that din.
Holding the cheap prize that was meant to last,
A plastic star still glowing deep within
Its fragile shell – a captured, fading spark,
A testament to how we briefly flew
Above the ordinary, through the dark,
On borrowed light, just me and just... and you.
The carnival's clockwork heart beat slow, then ceased,
Leaving just echoes, ticket stubs, and peace.
Listen my children
and you shall hear
of the midnight ride
speeding greed will steer.
Just as our cooperative economy
is fueled by gratitude,
our competitive WinLose economy
is fueled by greed.
Other parallel points of contrast
ecologically and logically follow
in their own sweet and sour time.
Cooperative industry,
business
tribes
governments
systems and networks
enjoy organically limited slow-growth
in comparison
to capitalism and elitism and egotism
fast-growth
toward insufficiency of Earth's carrying capacity,
and Yang-dominant WinLose evolutionary enculturation
of Yang-Yin divisive survival stories--
Mom and Dad never could get along--
secularly supplanting sacred
Yin/Yang health/wealth thrival stories
of slow Paradise
revolving seasonally appropriate deep-ecological development,
listening to both redevelopment Left
and reverting-reverse-time decompositional analysis Right
of restoring nutritional-slow
and toxic-fast
health trends.
Further,
and don't fall asleep yet,
we're just getting to the best part,
slow grown cooperatives toward abundance
are dominated by matriarchal/patriarchal integrity stories
more than fast-paced
overshooting patriarchal Westerns with shot gun dissonance,
the chaos of believing and teaching
that justice is what comes out of the end of a rifle association,
incommensurability of values
across economically healthy corporations
as also ecologically wealthy organic-flowing incorporations,
both born of FatherSun
deductive LeftBrain enlightenment
and MotherEarth
inductive RightBrain polyphonic feelings
of color and sound
music and dance
in octave-fractal
slow-growth marches
toward salt marshes
predicting oceans
of YangLight
slow-breeding Yin-tides of revolution.
Matriarchy,
where what is embedded deepest
is also ethically and aesthetically highest
richest
healthiest.
Listen my children
and you shall hear
of the midnight ride
speeding greed will *****.
And everyone died alone unhappily ever after
as before.
I said, "Son, you look too young
To wear that uniform.
You ought to be home with your ma,
There, by the fireside warm.
"That bugle hanging 'round your neck,
You sure can blow it fine,
But you'd be home, singing in the choir
Were you a boy of mine."
The bugle boy's blue eyes flashed fire;
His freckled face blushed red.
He slowly shuffled his booted feet
And cleared his throat, and said,
"I guess I'm older than I look.
I'm kind o' thin and lean,
But I'm not "son" by a damn long site!
I'm goin' on fifteen.
"My ma, she died when I was born;
The Rebs, they killed my pa,
On a battle field called Prairie Grove,
Out west, in Arkansas.
"One brother died at Chancellorsville.
He got in a cannon's way.
Another was lost at Gettysburg,
In Pickett's Charge, they say.
"Well, that leaves only two of us--
Just me and brother Phil.
He's with the troops on the forward line,
In the woods, just down the hill.
"They don't let me tote a rifle;
Guess I don't shoot so well.
But I can sound a bugle call
That'd send a charge through hell."
The bugler's story ended there.
No time for more to tell,
For, the midday quiet was shattered
By that awful rebel yell.
The cold air rang with musket fire
And cannon, from both sides.
Soon the sparkling snow was crimson stained
Where the fallen bled and died.
The blue line held; the Rebel thrust
Was slowly turned away.
Now the boy was told to sound the charge
In the fading light of day.
The blackness of the winter night
Brought fighting to an end.
The moaning of departing souls
Mounted up the wailing wind.
The bury detail found the boy,
On their grim, morning beat,
The bugle grasped in his frozen hand,
He had never blown retreat.
"Why, sonny, you look peaceful there
In that blue uniform.
I guess you're home, now, with your ma,
There, by the fireside warm."
Form:
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.
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To Continue Go To:
12. BTK Coming Attractions Part 4
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195841