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.
The earth shakes, quakes;
belches up ash, rock and smoke;
spitting tsunami’s and cyclone winds.
Here and there,
extinct species reappear,
as if they’d been spewed from cavern’s, at earth’s core;
perhaps they’ve been hiding for centuries.
As fracking splits the earthen floor and sea beds;
unseen and long forgotten creatures,
rise to exact revenge.
Churning waterspouts awaken sleeping dinosaurs,
while angry winds, spank the trees and buildings.
Who wouldn’t awaken to such a maddening tantrum?
Even the dead, in their graves,
are coughed up in droves,
as Mother Earth’s womb, is ripped apart;
by human abuse.
When…tell me of one time, just one, when…
You saw a lion shoot another, with an assault rifle or
a pack of wolves, building a bigger bomb?
I dare you tell me of just one!
Grizzlies don’t burn down forests; mankind does.
Mankind…is there any kindness about mankind;
once corporate demons, have taken control.
You’ll never see a canine, selling slaves;
no feline littering; no squirrel or rabbit,
dumping toxic waste into oceans.
Only man…unkind…destroys.
Isn’t it time for the human species,
to develop a conscience?
No, it’s past time!
On his little growling tractor, he drove between the wheat;
with a straw hat on his mullet head and the pedals at his feet.
A shiny red John Deer - perfect-sized for such a boy
with a clanking diesel engine - this was more than just a toy.
And slung across his cotton back, his airgun seemed to aim
at the bright blue lowveld sky - and ‘Choppie’ was his name.
He crossed into the tobacco of Van Niekerk’s farm next door.
He passed their old iron windmill, then their barn and tin feedstore.
She was waiting by the naartjies, several peels by her bare feet,
with her doll across her knees and an oil can for a seat;
He cut the engine, smiling. ‘How’s it going, dear Poppie?’
She tossed her corn-silk hair. ‘Voetsak, chip-tooth Choppie!’
Her skin was caramel; she had freckles across her cheeks;
Her nose was small, her eyes were green as the moss where the farm tank leaks.
‘What can I do for you, my sweet, to show my love today?’
‘Either shoot me a dozen muisvoëls or drive yourself away.’
So he took his little rifle, and soon its sound was heard
as he hunted through the orchard for the small grey-crested bird.
But when the job was done, and he delivered the bodies to miss,
she refused to even count them and he didn’t get his kiss.
‘Kill ten rats from the barn, and then we’ll hold hands, Choppie.’
As soon as said, he went to shoot a sack of rats for Poppie.
She said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Your hunting’s not enough.
Dead birds and rats are rubbish; and a girl wants shiny stuff.’
She then looked past his shoulder at his beautiful machine
with its tall black knobbly tires and its candy-apple gleam.
‘Give me your nice red tractor and you can kiss me on the cheek
and dance with me at the festival near Loskop Dam next week.’
Now setting the price too high and playing too hard to get
will leave you lonely on a can and feeling some regret.
For there are many farms in Groblersdal - and girls who know the way.
A boy who shoots for love will live to woo another day.
So Choppie drove to Meisie’s house to see if he could attract her;
while Poppie learned you cannot take the farmer from his tractor.
There’s no need to cry in your trenches, no need to lose hope.
You’re not shot down from the sky and your bravery won’t get published.
A slow flame kindles the sky. What are you doing out here? Are you nuts? Get
down to your trench. A voice orders and I obey. My voice, where is my voice
to register a dissent?
A priest on top of a grave
is stuttering on a line:
May your children live in your memory.
Now you get some sleep soldier;
tomorrow we’re launching a surprise attack.
Exactly where that voice came from I’m not sure.
Stars torment the night’s order.
A harsh wind’s blowing leaves in the air,
sole reminder we’re still in the Fall.
How could I know life’s so cruel?
I feel robbed of my right to avoid my birth.
You gave me no choice Pa.
You should have waited and asked my opinion first.
Brothers whose destiny are closely bounded
always act deferential toward me, why couldn’t you?
You threw my life away from inside and now they’re
doing it from the outside. Handcuffed to fate from cradle to grave.
Christian charity from one soul to another.
A blast knocks me off balance. Another ordinary day.
Get a grip soldier, the same voice thunders.
Here’s what I like to vomit. Honor, duty.
It takes so little to arrange your funeral here,
in perfectly arranged caskets, a quiet relief from
the rat-infested environment needing no obstacle,
chopping us in war’s blender.
Here we eat what we vomit.
A truckload of dumb soldiers reinforces my suspicion.
I do not belong in this stupid habitat. I stop
reaching out for my rifle.
Say, how long do I have before the firing squad?
Suddenly I’m suffering from unbearable freedom!
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.
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
Depressed,
Heavily intoxicated,
Under the influence of drugs,
After taking anti-anxiety medication,
Barricaded with his dogs,
A gun beneath his chin,
He is ready to cross the threshold.
He refuses to cooperate.
The shop windows are shattered.
Cries erupt.
Curtains are torn down.
The gendarmes have forced open his door.
Handcuffed in the police van,
He longs for a cigarette.
He sees no way out.
He has escaped from the psychiatric hospital.
The flashing blue lights tear through the night.
The sirens plow through the silence.
His gaze passes through the walls,
Without meeting a single face.
Wrists scarred by steel,
A mind shattered by exhaustion,
Memories strike harder
Than rifle butts and van doors.
The dogs howl in the distance,
As if counting the absences of their traumatized master.
The neighbors close their shutters.
Rumors replace his dignity.
In the rearview mirror of the police van,
Years of shipwreck drift by,
Promises reduced to ashes,
Tomorrows without a shore.
The descent into hell pronounces no final verdict.
It merely piles up the wreckage of a shattered life.
And somewhere, behind the uniforms,
Behind the shattered windows,
Behind the anger and the handcuffs,
A breath still remains,
Fragile, almost inaudible,
Refusing to disappear.
A problem to most men and A dynamic explosion to anything I paint orange
The missing link is always overlooked, of course I'm Intellegent enough to say it loud, I never fear the unknown and the way I started here was unexpected especially to the purple power I be coming In A Cherry Terror . AS I screamed them words I woke up and IT Echos and it's sick faces
My enemies make they cant believe Im bold they question my sanity but in truth I sanitize in troops of men i am the line with a hook on it, Not with a rifle and scope no! with a ****in tomahawk I kill the hit sticks and i feel the Assasins. A team so strong they laugh in the face of danger, they master the statosphere she creeps as mr backup I cant believe she paints a masterpiece and the enemy retracts in fear, As the Power is the utmost respected, not one man with sense would toy with it, i just like to strengthen things and make them strong, no easy target here, no abuse of power, respect the blue i paint myself in, we're all in agreement i think, i love the feeling of course its an enviroment where understanding is appreciated, for The Law is Love untill you seek her life, I dont play Assassin games, Im a Alpha Dog unilke you demosicated Officer at Parole, I be risking my life for this girl i saw, she be several delights in my heart as we connected She sees exceptionally well cuz i make it very clear
There‘ll be black humour today,
Gentle ribbing, banter and jokes,
Stripping away of egos, repartee
Among our mixed group of folks.
Bruising conversations maybe,
But in a non malicious way.
No place for the thin skinned
That’s just not how we play.
It’s the way it’s done from
First moment of greeting
It’s our irregularly held
Veteran’s Breakfast meeting.
Just a couple of hours
Of banter forces style
Carrying each back
For just a little while
To much younger times
From a very different past
When each passing day
Could have been the last
Some of us are damaged
But none of us are broken
Some carry hurt in their eyes
From experience unspoken.
Some have seen combat
Still carry mental scars
From frontline service in
The country’s various wars
Some fought with a rifle
One fought with a pen
Each gave part of their life
As an active serviceman
The Padre’s not a Veteran
But we’ve known him years
He’s earned out respect as he’s
listened to our hopes and fears
A range of ages gathered
For a morale boosting talk,
We’ve all worn the uniform
We’ve all walked the walk
There are common experiences
That each of us have had,
We’ve been there for each other
In the good times and the bad.
It’s a meeting of brothers
And we all know what to expect,
Ruthless character assassination
But with affection and respect.
We’ll all be looking forward to,
Though not knowing when,
We’ll receive our invitation
To meet up and yarn again.
We’ll shake hands goodbye
Making the occasion complete
Feeling emotional benefit from
Our irregular breakfast meet.
.
I'm on point like a crack house full of needles
like a sharp razor blade cuttin a wrist vertically
like a robbery turned homicide turn burglary
like a 30-30 wit a bayonet on the tip
like a nigga who's beefing heavy so he
tote's a stainless hawk and a 357 revolver wit the pistol grip
I'm on point like a box of thornes
still seeking the truth ready to die for it
fu(k it just call me Jason Bourne
on point like a ninja star and a swiss army knife
like the sharp pains a pregnant woman gets
in the middle of the night
On point like the halo tips rifle bullets that hit
innocent bystanders from a distance
on point like slavery days when white and black
folks went on the streets lynching
on point like David when he slew Goliath
like a new born baby wit no parents emotionally
crying like Jesus disciples when he was crucified
and his mother was crying
I'm on point like heaven rejoicing for the ones
who recognize the devil is poison
The best part of a hopeless war
is when it begins.
Under new helmets
the hapless and the brave
are trained to die
far away from patriotic eyes.
Mothers are sacrificed
to blood oaths,
the news is all good
initial reports, thrilling.
The worst part of war
is its ending.
Those that come home
march dead-eyed
behind ghosts.
They live now,
as if on a rifle range,
firing at undying memories.
In a newly edited past
bugles rally.
flags fly.
The violence moves on.
Beneath a movies-screen golf course,
the war still chews upon
a few salvaged bones,
though now unseen,
beneath well-kept greens.