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nick armbrister May 2019
old poem from the 90s

Sitting patiently atop his tree camouflaged
against the enemy, the ****** waits.
For three days and three nights he has waited
to do his duty for Imperial Japan.
Along the trail walks the enemy. Alert and ready
but not looking up, for this is where the ****** is,
waiting, watching, ready right now.
Levelling his gun, he takes careful aim.
The Aussies swim into focus in his x10 telescopic sights.
Soon it is over as two fall dead, their comrades fleeing
as the Nippon terror strikes,
for he is the ******, amongst Japan’s best,
taking his war to the enemy.
The spot you see it all.
The locus, with the right elevation.
Hidden, in the right vegetation.
Away, from any detection.

The view is strategic.
Targets unaware, roaming.
The moment is nearing.
Nothing escapes your sight,
Save for the blinking of an eye.

The rifle is set.
Scope, adjusted.
Wind bearing, calculated.
Heartbeat, decelerated.

Breath, bated.
Muzzle, pressed.
Down, goes the target. . .
Anya Nov 2018
Never forget those you have killed
Never avert your eyes from death
For they will never forget the ones
Who ceased their final breath
LanceSkiies Sep 2018
I'll be here for infinity x infinity
A penchant for curves like cursives
I say it in my verses
Vocab too wide for curses
Don't like likes
Fingers to whoever dislike
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Fun, I prescribe
Right on time
Better late than never
Man of the hour
Original with the flavour
Chocolate and Vanilla
Black and grey
If you're too slow to comprehend
No résumé
No references
DIY my title says
Fickle fools play 'Simon Says'
Press remotes don't change but
Batteries can be replaced all the same
God - like
Holier - than - thou; Pope's attitude, beg for mercy
Self - driven, self - motivated
Ministering like Osteen
Light and dark
Yin & Yang
Angel or demon I can be
High off life
Limitless, no pills
I'm probably ill
Well it's my will
To count millions in $100 bills
Like ice, I chill
That's me, trill
And that's that
Suh bill

This one was whatever came to thought.
Shouts a voice through the rubble, dirt and fire
I can only hear the sound, but not see.
The dirt in my eyes now
layered as thick
as the make-up girls wear back home
yet, through all this,
through the shaking of the earth
the fires that burn everywhere
and the flying metals
that wish to taste the inside of my skull
I feel the touch of a hand I know
my friend, my comrade
Whom, out instict
out of conditioning
pushed me into the ground
protecting me
as hell licks past
at frightening speed
and, angry at not finding it's target
rains down the earth
from which a tongue of hell
for a very brief moment
can be seen.

Hidde­n in a tree
the hawk lies perched
while looking down through his God's eye
slow at breath, waiting, calculating
his feathers keeping him warm,
sheltering him from the wind
waiting for his pray to cross his sight.


He pulls at me to rise
such courage, such pride
but the earth wants to hold on to me,
'it's safer down here,
bowed under the dirt'
becoming part of the earth
and yet,
out of will
out of luck
out of fear of becoming
a sitting duck
I drag myself over the ledge
and run after him


The Hawk never liked war
the wasted, useless killing
There's no fun here
if you can consider this as sport!
but more of the idiots
the juvinaials
those who have given up on life
go to be wasted, dead or eradicated from the surface
'like these two' he thinks to himself
as he spots two running across to a covering
the furthest one, the bravest
has some courage, some spite for war
and as he lines the shot
for a good, clean ****...

­If you told me it was a magic trick
I swear I would have believed you
As in the thickens of that fog
between the roar of thunder that made the earth move
the quick and blinding light from the explosion
in the uncertainty of that moment
as if the earth swallowed him whole
my friend
In a fountain of red, bone and minced meat
and for a few seconds, I'm stuck in place


The Hawk, hardened by war
though slightly moved by witnessing such a horror,
exhales from what his God's eye has shown him
adjusts and inhales
lines the shot, a stationary target
the perfect target
takes a long, deep breath
holds it and with it
displaces himself as far from his humanity
for what he must do
or rather was brainwashed to do
is surly anything other than human
an animal instinct run rampant
the talon slowly contracts a milimiter
around the trigger
the gun spits fire, smoke
and a piece of hot lead
zooms towards it's target
listening to the summoning of death
as it moves through the air
with the intention
of helping gravity pull the target
closer to the ground
and one step closer to hell
Patricia LeDuc Mar 2018
life is something
you do not revere
in an instant
the words ring clear
shoot to ****

your head says engage
in your passionate rage
as all remnants of humanity disappear

the pain in your brain
goes away once you take aim
on your unsuspecting targets

you think you are just acting
the whole world is your stage
you will be on the news
maybe make the front page
if you take this shot

your victims had lives
now never to be lived
they were cut short
as you honed your deadly sport

you aim and squeeze
they didn’t even have time
to beg or scream please

you don't care
as bullets fly through the air
you feel disconnected
you feel no despair

it won't stop
until you've had
your violent share

you don't have to play fair
there are no rules
when you shoot to ****

Inspired by actual events of a ****** in Ohio 2003
Vexren4000 Mar 2017
The sly scry sits upon scoured lands,
A stalwart stagnant sentinel,
Staring over the somber land,
Searching for a new target,
To turn his ire upon,
The stalwart sentinel,
In conflict with the ******,
Who sits across the field,
Aiming his unwavering eyes at the watcher,
Preparing to, shoot to ****.
The Sentinel knows this,
That his fate may be sealed,
By the man with eyes like his,
Trained to watch the horizon,
For enemies, soldiers to, Tsunami over the horizon line.
Bringing with them
The cacophony of wartime
And the drowning sound of gun and cannon fire.

Stanley Wilkin Oct 2016
The sun was maliciously hot that day in June.
The heat swelled his dusty wounds
Still raw from crawling-
He circumvented the Taliban
Dragging his rifle through the grass:

Who’s the soldier now my son,
Who is carrying a gun?
Don’t be afraid, the war has just begun.
Go out there and have fun!

From where the river ran
Closer to the camp the insurgents crawled
Lugging their layered forms over rock in the gristle-dry
Moon-dry landscape,
****** on by goats.

The sun’s grinding rays
Scraped his eyes like brillo-pads
Week-old grease.
Pulling his hat down, he settled behind the tumbledown scree.
He adjusted the sights.
Across his outstretched legs lizards scurried.

The mortars fell like hiccups exploding from the gut.
The mortars tore up bodies throwing them before the wind.
The mortars cried burrowing through the air.

Who’s the soldier now my son,
Who has a gun?
**** beneath the leering sun-
Get out there and have some fun.

Darkness before midday-
Of mind and intent.
The mountains hold their own soulless
Secrets that only religion can shape-
The soldier who murders for religion
Is crueller than the soldier who murders for money.

He knew who to ****.
Not why. He knew *******
Not the reasons for refusing!
He slowly, quietly, pulled the trigger,
The bullet burst out whining across the crumbling landscape, its course pre-ordained, its end
As complete as death. Death was its end
In a soft cry of expiration.

No heaven met, no god examined, no concluding prayer, no final evaluation, no joy, no experience!
A dead man in the dust!
A dead man-dust to dust!

By dinner Dave had reached the camp again
Without much trouble.
He’d been spotted once by a woman washing clothes in a mountain stream, her eyes fixed upon him
For a moment, full of contempt.

A gun, my son, a gun
Have some fun,
With the gun, my son, the gun.
Pop, pop. Yet another gone!

“Got him with one shot. Well done,
Old son. Got him with a single shot.”
The colonel was full of praise. Downing a *****, he
Picked at the pineapple cube on his dish,
And crushed it between his busy fingers.
An intelligent man, but a soldier too,
A poet at times whose words clawed at his memories, paying pale homage.

“You are a marvel, young man.
Four this week. Well done.”
The overhead fan twirled noisily,
Clashing with his redundant pride,
Giving meaning to a pointless war
In a torrid land full of becalmed ideas and underlying prayer.

“I’ll write a commendation for you,
Young man. You deserve it.”
The colonel continued, basking on olives.
“Your skill with the gun
Is astonishing. You deal death like
Other’s write poems. You destroy
With a well-balanced phrase. There is beauty
In your honed and natural talent.”

Others slapped his back as he passed
Beaming with approval, lavish with praise,
Expressive with congratulation. At that point,
In that shell-tight room, he felt himself a hero
An Achilles, an Odysseus, a haunted Vietnam veteran.

When the wind broke, rivers sidled up the canyon walls
Immersed in the valley. The sun glowered
Scorching lungs.
Scattered around the shattered jeeps
Expelled their contents-
Broken and dismembered.
Triggered mines exploded one by one
In hellish sequence,
Flames of cooked air
Tearing wantonly into flesh.
His rifle lay embedded in his hand.

Time, my son, time for fun
So pick up your gun
Pick up your gun and run
Time for fun!

The colonel wrote sadly
Of an incident sparing all ugly details,
Of those who died that day
In a minute of ****** confusion.
He spared the ugly details
Vividly describing heroic deaths in the wadi
Of men he’d known well.

The Officer’s Mess was silent-
No jokes were cracked, no backs,
Slapped, no congratulations expressed.
In contemplation the soldiers read, studied form, thought about their families,
Trying, even in solitude, not to die.
Outside the camp walls, demolished by the heat,
Caricatured by flies,
The child’s motionless body lay
The child dispatched by a ******’s clean bullet, slumbering
In the dirt.

*Leave the gun, my son, leave the gun,
You’ve had your fun!
Leave the gun, my son, leave the gun
Your short life’s work is done!
John F McCullagh May 2016
The snow was blowing among the trees. In large wet flakes it tumbled down.
My captain turned, as if to speak, but from his lips there came no sound.
A red rose bloomed there on his chest -staining dark the Wehrmacht grey.
I looked in horror as he pitched face forward to the ground.
“******” I yelled and ducked for cover. The copse of trees echoed the sound.

Somewhere out there he awaits; the Devil’s son, the cunning foe.
He’s stalked our party for three days yet leaves no footprints in the snow.
I served in France in Forty –one; before   these Russians were our foes.
I shiver but it’s not from fear; it’s just that we lack winter clothes.
I motion briskly with my right hand, I think the shooter must be there
my corporal nods and starts to move; perhaps he can outflank this man.

My soul is black for I’ve done some things;
  for which I once would have been ashamed.
I saw the Jewess try to shield her babe
as I placed them in a common grave.

This man out there, a warrior; he risks his life upon command.
He is clever, this one, he waits his chance.
Either its him or me that’s dammed.
The drifting snowflakes hide his breath.
But He’s still out there this I know.

My Captain lies still upon the earth
and is slowly covered by the snow.

We are soldiers who risk our lives.
We sacrifice for the Fatherland.
We dream of a woman and a warm bed
Never of Death’s cold clammy hand

My men cry out, the fox is flushed
The ****** has at last been found.

It’s true what they say of the bullet that kills you;
I never even heard the sound.
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