Long Shooters Poems
Long Shooters Poems. Below are the most popular long Shooters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shooters poems by poem length and keyword.
On this subject of fair play, as War has had, its deathly day
Where once it had meaning, and came from the heart
Families moved on with a different start.
In Fairness and War
These rules were laid down
Where ever they fell
In cities and towns.
To tend the injured, or sick on land
To tend the injured, or sick at sea
To treat the prisoners of war as well
To treat us civilians in war yippee!!
Its civilian life that bears modern brunt
Families of taken that have to request their rights
Many a murder out of the theatres of War
What do these placed people take us for.
A store teller shot in the evening one night
The shooters the COWARDs, take hurried flight
They need not to run, if they were not there before
Intent of rob, what ever the score.
Once they are caught, cocky bastards they be
Honestly officer, it was'nt me
I was out of State, out of the Country
Before you pin it, what evidence have ye?
On many an occassion, the guilty are caught
Some schooled, some never taught
No reasons are given, as you ask them to say
What were their motives, on that given day.
The cocky will speak, as the solemn ones are quiet
The cocky ones open, where the quiet self riot
As they both look back, at the actions of they
Changes many lives i have to say.
It goes to court, in this Corporate world
Barristers, Lawyers playing human twirl
Dollars and Sterling to get these guys off
They are guilty as sin, as they silently scoff.
In many cases, in our SOCO scenes
The evidence is clear as it means
Yet many a killer, from many a scene
Lives for ever, if you know what i mean.
The fairness of a life for a life
A festered equation in this human strife
A family has lost a father and friend
His killers not on their journeys end
Instead they live for years to come
An incredible sentence for this deadly scum.
So many voices
From all over the world
Warnings repeated
But the authorities ignored them
Ignored the terrorists coming in from other lands
Ignored the man and his son
And the four guns they had
They also ignored the explosives
Luckily, they were not used
Fifteen people died that day
Thirty-eight people were wounded
The shooters even killed a ten-year-old girl
All because the authorities didn’t care
The time has come to change things
Make people pay attention
And do something to keep people safe
Because it sure ain’t happening now
© Poem – XX/XII/MMXXV
LRET
Dedicated to the souls lost and those wounded
at Bondi Beach.
Shoes on the lawn
every single one
a reminder
of someone
no longer there
cause no one would dare
speak out or decry
yet tears haven't run dry
so there they are
a colorful panorama
it's not frivolous drama
this is real
Feel...
Each pair's a silent scream
of a parent's shattered dream
empty places
grief stricken faces
empty seats
No after school treats
empty beds
because of the empty heads
of politicians who are fed
blood stained money instead
shoes on the lawn
night goes down to dawn
a mother cries
another student dies
shooters shoot
emotionally unstable
undetected, they are able
mentally deranged
from society estranged
they roam in the land of the free
more guns is NOT the key
what about the stats
all those bloodied facts
other countries? not the same!
Here mass shooting's a game
BS is the name
to give to the excuses! What a shame!
A shame!
Look....See
Shoes on the lawn
Don't just stand there and yawn
put aside your pride
Think of all who have died
Look...see
The next pair of shoes
could belong to me
or to you
there's so much you can do
you know it is true
You can help stop the madness
and help heal the sadness
Oh...how my heart aches to see...
those shoes...
those multicolored empty shoes
scattered on the lawn...
Eileen Manassian
They're smiling leniently don’t be silly
You can’t be apolitical these days
I’m smiling back I don’t trust them initially,
It doesn’t fall under a criminal offence
I’m fascinated by the incongruous lines
Just look at those familiar shapes, distorted
The early cubist paintings make them shine
Not blindingly, but just how you would want it
Ambiguous light of green and brown hues
Strict and fastidious lines, this is my politics
No one’s deprived, humiliated or abused
You’re in your favorite chair watching pics
It’s a spiritual job, not quite a passive leisure
Those pictures move in time can’t stay the same
They grow on you without any measure
Until your mind will get the best of frame
You hang out in the school of old escapers
The shooters cannot see us with their drone
Tomorrows ash deploy yesterdays papers
Don’t ask of yesterdays old girls – all gone.
He was the world’s last gun fighter
And he always worked in drag
Carrying his six shooters
In a special velvet bag.
No boots and spurs to jingle
As in to town he rode,
Just patent leather sling backs
High heeled and open toed.
He always arrived early
Before the heat of the sun
Always so very careful
His mascara didn’t run.
And when he’d done the job,
Left the body on the ground,
He always left so quickly,
Never ever hung around.
The world’s last gunfighter;
He always earned his fee,
And always in the morning so
As not to disturb his Earl Grey tea.
Then he carefully slipped back
Into his other life;
A gas fitter in Cheltenham
With two kids and a wife,
While the police of the world,
Who really didn’t know
Hunted the femme fatale
Of his alter ego.
When the next summons came
In the want ads of the Times
He’d don his Dior dresses
And kill just one more time.
Well it helped to pay the mortgage
And kept food on the table
And a mans got to do
Just what he’s really able.
He was the world’s last gun fighter
And he always worked in drag
Carrying his six shooters
In a special velvet bag
Vacuum cleaners are pneumatic nobles,
built to cleanse our offices and homes,
sucking dust from floors and crevices
to discard in trash cans
(where dirt belongs).
What if we could also build a machine
to vacuum hate from our world
and to hurl hate into hell
(where hate belongs)?
What if it could suck base instincts
from souls of supremacists and mass shooters,
mute divisive talk shows, podcasts, and politicians,
and permanently delete dark social media posts?
From each of us, would it also siphon out
grievances, grudges, prejudices, and pain,
with torturous psychological turbulence...
but then heal us as our last dastardly
dust bunnies disappear?
To heal ourselves, our communities, our nations,
can we really assemble that marvelous machine?
Can tools of truth, justice, and love
help us to eradicate hate?
It seems that the truth is never quite square
it’s just a bit catywampus you see
All about the way that the cowboys lived
back in them old westerns on our TV
Them outlaws and sheriffs had old six guns
that could shoot forty-nine times on a load
Look real close and see them telephone poles
running alongside an asphalt paved road
Good guys always wore white and bad guys black
with their pearly teeth that sparkled like snow
It just took a minute to saddle up
and get anywhere they wanted to go
They could quick draw and fire their six shooters
And hit a nickel tossed into the air
But they just could never hit the outlaw
till he got to where he’d fall down the stairs
When being chased by a few Indians
they’d throw bullets out the end of their gun
If they did run out of ammunition
that’s when they’d just throw their pistol and run
A hero could get shot right in the chest
but never a drop of red would you see
The next day he’d be out riding his horse
while chasing the outlaws with his posse
At the end of it all the good guy wins
he would get the horse, the dog and the girl
He would live happily ever after
in his black and white TV western world
Fragments
They will be...
you do these kinds of things
can't be helped
imagination Band Aids some call them
I know
you just do
fingers wrapped ‘round cold steel
it's then
it's now
differences slight
like playing marbles
tripod-cradled taws and steelies
"Bombers" "Pots"
"shooters" all
aim straight
roll in the hole
you wait a long time
you know there's more to touch
you'll cradle other steel
formidable kind
you know
you hope
you're a kid
you'll do your best
find other holes
aim and shoot
some you dig
some dug for you
explosions know indiscretion
hell...
they say beginnings never end
always renewing
like dawn's edge ever changing
reds oranges yellow
lying on your back
knew those once
before the night never ended
smell the smell now
it's all the same
keeping life going
safe
clean
sterilized
that's what they do
amplified speakers seek help
always there's a page
off the wall
in your battlefront ISP
headgear no different
always the call
always the request
imagination tools
battle tools
you know what's coming
you just do
the swoosh of auto-doors
distant sirens
always there's sirens
always there's arrivals
like now
drinking my coffee
another first day of a new year
every year so familiar
pushing through iron air
waiting to be free
to see a sunrise again
to know a candle still glances
but now
just footsteps
coming at me
a walk I've known
Bethesda recall
remembering when sight
remained at the ready
absorbing fetid squalor
half naked Afghan children
barbarous patience
staring wildly as we passed
elder's eyes theirs
we cradling shooters defenseless
smiling
until
too many buried IEDs
I adjust
steps almost here
sitting seems forever
that's wheeled-life for now
robotic legs in the works
back there
back in Bethesda
coming
coming soon
for now
standard issue dark glasses
covering eyes that once were
footsteps stop
standing now
in front of me
me
Taking my hands
"Lt. Baygen...it's a boy."
"Shall we...your wife is waiting"
my hands grip the steel
following todays fragment
forging yesterday's pieces
a doctor
an imagination beyond
rolling my hands atop the chrome and rubber wheels
my imagination Band Aids
how shiny it all is they tell me
this transport
this evidence
today's somewhere
will he let me cradle him
will he look at me with hatred or compassion
will he know we have made him
what he might become
fragments
longing
The wind blew gently, rustling the leaves of oak
Skylark flitting from bough to twig
Dawn breaking from its evening cloak
Silence surrendering to new life's jig.
Fenland life awakening, yawning to the rise
Of sun's warming beauty, filling oe'r Earths skies.
The moon fades with gradual ease of time
Its evening shadows eclipsed by suns' rising prime.
Streams of ribbon meander, gentle dreams
Wander by the birch of forest glen.
Glistening, sparkling reflections of sun's beams
Filtering heavenward; raiment of soft sheen.
Cock crows his hour, robin sings his song,
Buckish hare leaps, birds of game play
Hide and seek with shooters throng;
Beaten up, open sighted, birds of prey.
Floral quilted hues upon carpet woven green,
Nectar guided insects hover on the wing.
Gold, incense, myrrh gifted to their Queen,
Warbled sonnets echo thus, this beautiful wonderous thing.
What happens in Vegas
Stays in Vegas
Never more true
Than to the 59
Who are never coming back
From a sickening attack
The so called lucky must face
With memories of why
And what comes next
Coming to terms
With why me
What rotten good luck
My life befell
The shooters aim
Out of frame his bullets missed
The reaper's clock
Whispers knocked
On death next door on blood stained floor
Take from today till morrow dawn's
Another breath another day
For this is not your lucky day
But come tomorrow
Hug most dear that which you fear
You have not lost
And count in cost the rise of eyes
For beyond the lies
And enterprise of all that's evil
Are living people
Who can be taken away at the win of a trigger
The sunset strip will never prize
From the pain of loss
On a blood stained cross
Who forgot
Where
Mother
Daughters
Father
Sons
Human Creatures
Flesh and Bone