Short Snipers Poems

Enfilading fire
Breastworks deflecting shrapnel
Snipers breach trenches...

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Trigger squeezed, rifling holds
Snipers shot, truly hits home
Target down, slip away


http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php...

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Russian snipers can't hit Turkish drones
So Putin's troops call home on their phones
And every one says,
"Please send me a fes
Whilst there is still some meat on my bones!"...

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Estimates say there is one venomous snake
Per square meter, 4000 in total, a snake clambake
“Golden Lancehead Vipers”
Deadly venomous snipers
Remind me never to visit Snake Island by the lake!...

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In Ivory Coast
You don’t walk 
Outside unarmed
Without your hands up
May be 
You will not be shot that way
By a sniper
But snipers have their own way of thinking
About your life
Not everyone has a right
To a long happy life...

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poetry
                                              in  sites
                                    warring word snipers 
                                         would suggest

                                    our sport  is  not dead







    
***...

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A leached amputee
living with stumps of flawless
dying.

Round and round, blindfolded
moving in circle, drawn by rhyming
bells.

Perhaps you need to suffer
with the drunken race of
snipers.

I am in the silent valley of
barefoot secrets where moon waits to
die.

The poppies will buy the bullets,
a gift to unending kiss of
grief.

Tell every vulture on the tree,
there is endless arrival of 
feasts.



SATISH VERMA...

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Companionless, unloved,
abhorrent creatures 
that are the slime of cyberspace.

Lurking behind the fortification
of their keyboards,
they infest innumerable sites
with despicable, foul-mouthed,
rants,and remarks
in an attempt to inflict
as much suffering as possible. 

Craven snipers, using words
to kill spirits, talent and dreams.
Never would they come
face to face with those 
they try to disparage....

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A leached amputee
living with stumps of flawless
dying.

Round and round, blindfolded
moving in circle, drawn by rhyming
bells.

Perhaps you need to suffer
with the drunken race of
snipers.

I am in the silent valley of
barefoot secrets where moon waits to
die.

The poppies will buy the bullets,
a gift to unending kiss of
grief.

Tell every vulture on the tree,
there is endless arrival of 
feasts.



SATISH VERMA...

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