Long Sherriff Poems
Long Sherriff Poems. Below are the most popular long Sherriff by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sherriff poems by poem length and keyword.
Burden of proof lies squarely on the accused’s name;
The filer can exaggerate and overstate any imagined claim.
In Minnesota, Judges are forced to approve nearly every filing,
Driven by social movements and organizations beguiling.
Oft approved ex parte, temporarily, a future hearing scheduled,
This scorch the earth weapon, leaves most divorce issues settled.
Children are torn from their nuclear parent’s loving arms,
Under the malevolent guise they are protected from atomic harms.
Homes change hands before the ink dries on an order penned,
Leaving the respondent in the streets on their sore hind-end.
Given ten minutes under a Sherriff deputy’s mindful and glaring guard,
One can enter the house to take an armful never to return to the yard.
Future proceedings can take many months and in some cases years,
Simple items forgotten will not be given until the MTA clears.
Falsely accused, you’d think it would not ever get worse,
Until one discovers the plaintiff also firmly grasps strings on the purse.
Given days to mastermind and execute the unfolding of events,
The accuser never looks back considering recompense.
The use of OFP’s in divorce is not only legal,
Attorneys are even encouraged to inveigle.
No laws exist to punish use outside of the scope of legality,
Lawyers readily encourage the OFP’s use as a simple formality.
Even when the order is rescinded or released upon first hearing,
The status quo has been set in favor of the plaintiff endearing.
The state says they would like to minimize conflict in divorce,
Out of fear for real abuse victims they simply will not change course.
But, the moral of “The Boy Who Cries Wolf” ends in his grisly death.
Protect real victims, punish the abuse of the OFP use and breadth.
...The days went by, and not that much changed,
Black Ken’s gang ruled with orders deranged,
bled people’s coin, every day the same,
and I could just stand by and look.
And when they seemed to grow bored with that,
they were surprised to see him come back,
the Sodbuster, with supplies to pack,
Ken looked at him, and his head shook.
“That man, somehow, has escaped out reach,
I think a lesson we should now teach,
his farm should not be that harm to seek,
Sherriff, where does that farmer live?
And I answered, to eternal shame,
“He has a spread, out past Bryson’s range.”
They smiled as if playing a game,
on in which no quarter they’d give.
When they rode out, I did turn my eyes,
I’d sentenced the sodbuster to die,
to try and save my own shameful life…
there was no justice in this place.
An hour passed, and then I heard shots,
at least Sodbuster gave it back hot,
a man who gave as good as he got,
would die with some pride, and some grace.
An hour on, Sodbuster rode in,
we all looked on, quite stunned to see him,
his face was bloody, his features grim,
his vest was torn up by a graze.
He rode to me, and said, “That Ken guy
and his bandits in my field do lie,
you and the mortician should swing by,
before the vultures have their play.”
What that he went, had himself a drink,
said nothing, just let the townsfolk think,
What kind of farmer could do such things?
Then he just rode on out again.
The townsfolk kicked me out of my post,
I can’t blame them, but then they did go
to Sodbuster, but he just said, “no,”
he sought no status amongst men.
Some people just seek their own ends.
It was a few days after the Kid's great escape,
when the following happened to Sherriff Pat Garrett's dismay.
A stranger rode in to the town of Lincoln,
with the same horse that the Kid stole for his escaping.
The stranger approached Garrett and said, "Excuse me partner,
Billy said that you would return this horse to it's rightful owner."
...just another example of the Kid's unique sense of humor.
*
"I had no intention of killing either one of them. My plan was to tie and gag Bell and get out of there before Ollinger got back, but then everything went wrong.
I certainly didn't want to kill Bell, but I had to in order to save my own life......I never felt happier than when I gave it to old Bob. I said, "Look up here old boy and see what you're getting," and blasted him in the face and breast. He used to ride me to the point until I couldn't take it anymore."
- William H Bonney, aka Billy the Kid
*
Billy the Kid's Great Escape
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/billy_the_kids_great_escape_467774
*
She was found curled up by a tree whose roots had sprouted overnight.
Her clothing was gone; speech guttural, eyes held tightly shut.
When we attempted to put a blanket around her the screaming started.
Deep keening, wailing, a diabolical, disturbing, seriously sad sound.
Six men ended up with bites and scratches.
A muzzle was brought out by Tillie.
Tillie is our roughest, toughest policeman, except she is a woman.
I will put it on her she said. You hold her down.
The creature howled and yelped.
At last the muzzle was over the head.
Before it could be latched the creature disappeared.
She was just gone.
These bites are real! Sherriff White said. Scratches and bites gone too.
It is a small town. We know each other well.
We agreed to never speak of this; I never promised not to write it up.
A love twisted in a high school romance,
Both fixated on puppy dog eyes,
Skipping classes followed by lies,
Predictions to never be seperated,
Only as much as parents tolerated,
They would run if given the chance,
Upon a mellow river rusted a louring mill,
Dim lit repairs by a scarecrow of a man,
Alongside the river it was a small span,
As skeletal hands of the mill snag floating logs,
Rising sun now pierces mountain fogs,
A cold chill replaced by warmth that begins to fill,
Brackish waters breed fish teeming angling,
A plaid retiree toats an unknowing burden,
For upon the rocks a body rolled in curtain,
Fumbling hands dial the sheriff's office,
Resulting in a stomach turned nauseous,
Thoughts race from torture to strangling,
Students murmor rumors over empty chairs,
As sherriff pulls students for questioning,
While a plea for help at a parent's beckoning,
Cries heard aloud through echoing halls,
Answers from questions expose a plethora of flaws,
Tensions tighten because this small town cares,
Foghorns sound as headlights cross beams,
Moonlit mist hides a livid discord,
Only witness, a fisherman shipboard,
Rocks shuffle around steadfast feet,
Argument ends in the shore's peat,
Unwanted blood spills ending young dreams,
Narrow light leaves a lifeless body luminous,
Examiner removes an entombed clue,
Beneath a fingernail a piece of paper folded in two,
Unfolded the bloodied paper reveals vastly,
An agent must be summoned lastly,
For murders like this may be numerous.
...Burke grabbed Aura and they both ran out,
riding double on his trusty horse.
The word raced quickly through the town,
a posse was formed, as a matter of course.
So Burke pushed his mount, more and more.
They couldn’t go back, despite acts justified,
not when two men, one a sherriff, had died.
So they rode, pursuers hot on their trail,
until they reach a ranch high the peaks.
Burke pulled a gun while Aurelia seized
a new horse, both study and sleek.
The rancher fumed, too angry to speak.
Burke apologized, gave him all his gold,
then sped off again into mountains cold.
Two days passed, the posse drew close,
and both their horses started to flag.
No longer able to outrun their hunters,
Burke mad camp high up in a crag,
where he could shoot safely if they attacked.
The posse appeared in the meadow below,
lead the by the sherriff’s oldest, known as Milo.
“Surrendor now, or we’ll shoot you down!”
They shouted it as they stared to climb.
But before Burke could even open his mouth
the air exploded with shrill, Indian cries.
A horde of Bannocks their arrows let fly!
They swept into the meadow, circling fast.
The posse died quickly, not long could they last.
Burke and Aurelia hid low in the rocks
until the last of the Bannocks had left.
Not much was left of the posse below,
they lay still, and were mostly scalpless.
But one figured crawled amongst the dead.
Burke climbed down, still clutching his gun,
and loomed over the sheriff's bloodied son.
“You won’t believe me, but I’ll say it now,
I acted only out of self-defense.
You’re father and Grisby were gunning for me,
and Grisby was putting his hands on my friend.
There choices brought them to their ends.”
But Milo just snarled, and crawled away,
Burke and Aura sighed, and left him that way.
No one from Tillico ever saw them again,
even when Milo put a bounty of their hides.
Some say they made for themselves new names
and peacefully lived out their lives.
Others said, like most outlaws, they died...
And if you all liked this tale that you just heard,
Tell your friends about me, Bruce Bowden the Third.
In eighteen hundred ninety-three,
back in those silver-mining days,
a figure walked into Aspen town,
and it was the devil they say,
come looking for new souls to take.
He didn’t look like you would think,
the first time he appeared.
He was dressed like any old cow-poke,
and spend hours in saloons drinking beer,
a rough figure, but not much to fear.
They say he spoke with some miners,
and stirred up their jealousy.
Got them so mad they burned the house
of their foreman Bud McKenzie.
That night all heard poor Bud scream.
Most folk would’ve written if off
as drunken fools losing their heads.
But in the firelight dozens saw
the devil’s face shift, and grow red,
his sick laugh filling folk with dread.
He vanished that night, and for two days
things seemed to return to form.
But then he appeared as a three-year old
in young Maggie Delgado’s arms,
and she did not seem too alarmed.
She didn’t know her baby lay dead
her body left in the woods for the crows.
The devil took her form and that morning
went everywhere Maggie would go,
‘till ‘she’ jumped down and ran in the road.
Maggie cried out and ran for ‘her,’
when a horse came riding, lickety-split
It slammed into Maggie, trampled her down,
heavy hooves ending her in a lick.
The rider looked down, and was sick.
And then in the street many did see,
Maggie’s daughter grown rather tall.
Transforming into the unknown cowboy
who had lead the foreman to his fall.
He laughed again, having a ball.
Folks started to panic, leaving town,
a few stayed and found the sherriff.
Abner Gidden was his full name
a middle-aged man of quick wits,
would not sit still and put up with this.
He went to a priest of Catholic faith,
who instructed him to God to pray.
He spent a whole day seeking advise,
while many in town fled away,
to be free of the devil’s sick games.
When Abner emerged, he headed up
the slopes of Ajax with his gun.
Spent the day searching abandoned shafts
looking for perdition’s dark son.
Then at nightfall, he found the right one...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
April 6 Wagontire, Oregon
1973
In 1973, I went on a road trip
With my father
We left Berkeley to go to Yakima
Where my father had a summer cabin
He was a college professor
And had July and August off
And we spent the summers
Every summer from 1968 to 1978
Our whole dysfunctional family
Our annual road trip to hell and back
As we did not get along at all
We decided to drive through Eastern Oregon
Just my father and me
Just for the hell of it
The rest of the family was already there
My father and I shared a travel lust
One of the few things we shared
This was one of our best trips
We got along
Which was unusual
Normally our relationship
Was fraught
As we were so different
We left Klamath Falls
A real nothing burg in those days
And headed east along highway 395
As we entered the desert of eastern Oregon
We entered a different world
High mountain dessert
Almost no one on the road
Then we saw the sign
Wagontire Oregon
100 miles ahead
99 miles ahead
98 miles ahead
We counted down the signs
Miles after miles
As we drove into the gathering dusk
We speculated that Wagontire
Must be a giant truck stop
In the middle of no where
We pulled into the town
Nothing there but a gas station
Motel and café
We decided to stop
Last gas for 100 miles
According to the highway signs
In the morning
We chatted with the owner
He was the sheriff, the fire chief
The owner of the motel, gas station
The only business in town
And the only place open
For one hundred miles
I noticed a highway sign outside
Welcome to Wagontire, Oregon
Population 2 ½ humans 10 dogs, 50.000 sheep
I asked the Sherriff
Say who is the ½ human?
My idiot son!
And we left.
200 miles later
We finally left Eastern Oregon
2016
In 2016 my wife and I drove through Eastern Oregon
As part of our epic cross country trip
10,000 miles
31 states in three months
On the way from Medford to Yellowstone
We drove along highway 395
The signs for Wagontire was gone
And we drove through the town
The motel was abandoned
Nothing there at all
And that sign was gone too
I said I suppose the idiot son
Never took over the business
And we speculated about Wagontire
And all other nothing burgs
We drove through that summer
Heart of Trump’s America
True fly over country
I.
When Sullivan ‘Reno’ Richards rode into
the small, northern Utah town of Stillman,
he’d been unemployed going on three months
since he’d left his job as a hired gunhand.
He’d turned in his badge to the agency
when his brother Samuel had been killed,
and after settling things with his family,
he’d rode off to put to work his skills.
Reno would see that real justice was done,
he’d find the bastards who had done the deed,
and though his family looked down on it,
Reno was good at making bad folks bleed.
His father had disowned him for this fact,
Samuel had been his favorite child,
the man had expanded dad’ baking empire
way out west in the great desert wilds.
Dad had no respect for a ‘mere gun-hand,’
and wouldn't speak to Reno to this day,
but Samuel had not shared these beliefs,
and nothing ill of his brother did-say.
For that understanding, Reno now rode,
to the only hotel in this small town,
he’d sworn to his family that he would
put poor Samuel’s killers in the ground.
When settled in he went down to the bar,
ordered whiskey and took the sounds in,
listening for gossip that could be a clue,
when a young stumpet walked right up to him.
She said,”Hello, my name is Meredith,
and I can tell from the look of your eyes
that you must be one of Samuel’s kin,
you should know I was to be his wife.”
Reno looked at this woman in great surprise,
he had not heard Samuel planned to wed,
so he said to her,”I am his brother,
I came as soon as I heard he was dead.
“I’m here to take care of his affairs,
though I fear it might take me a while,
I understand he held the mortgages
of half the ranches within fifty miles.”
She smiled,”I’m glad somebody came out
to take care of the things left behind.
If you would like, I can take you out to
the grave where my poor Samuel lies.”
He nodded solemnly, and they walked to
a plot laying behind the town’s small church,
the dirt was still fresh, the stone not yet done,
there’d been no time to finish the work.
Reno asked then,”How did it happen?”
Meredith frowned, and then told hit the truth:
“Bandits bushwhacked him, in the back-country,
They took everything, even his shoes.”
Reno just nodded, took down his broad hat,
said,”I hope that the sherriff is on it.
My brother and I sometimes disagreed,
but he did nothing deserving of this…”
An unmarked auction house in the cellar
Fat cat millionaires outbid one another
A quiet pissing contest
To be the lowest of low-lifes.
A living corpse up for gropes...I mean grabs.
She’s a virgin, for now.
Chocolate curls over a red silk chemise
Cerulean eyes, swollen.
Fifteen years old with her head in the clouds,
Drug-induced of course.
She wasn’t willing.
The closing bell won’t change that.
What do we suppose the winning bid will be?
A suburban mother sobs and curses god
from a twin-sized bed
drowning in red silk sheets and tears
under a boy-band poster.
Another runaway, the Sherriff had shrugged.
Third one this week.
He was in a hurry.
Working two jobs so he could retire.
I work at an auction, said he.
But no one was listening.
The Senator shared a knowing wink
Jingling coins in his red silk pocket.
I'll start the bidding.
4/7/15