"camo" poems
Spent all my money on comfy camo clothes
Diors and Docs
and none of them have pockets
for you
would’ve spent it trying to get to you, get me out the friendzone
but i’m good, the gleam
of spring rain incites the wetness
and half drear to outshine
but i’m doing me and making each day
mine
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
Lightning Strikes 323 Norwegian Reindeer
Hunters made the discovery, stealth and *****
dabbed anoraks all for nothing not to mention
a critical downwind approach and camo blend
that rendered Frode and Jørgen or Ove and Anders
invisible against rock and lichen and cloudberry
but offered little protection against thoughts sublime.
Ove, perhaps, cursing God for poor sportsmanship,
the divine equivalent of dynamiting fish, while Anders
gave silent thanks to fortune, a freezer full of steaks.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
Ripped up jeans
Oil stained shirt
Muddy boots
Been busy
****** camo
Sharp knife
Meat on the table
Had fun
Muddy truck
Passed out in said truck
Beer cans on the floorboard
Had a party
Happy woman
Happy child
Run down man
That's a country boy
That's me
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
Their lies are prompted
from teleprompters
and executed flaw-fully
from taxpayer's helicopters.
They say we're protecting
foreign daughters
while filtering profits
to desert clad marauders.
Blank faced public
fear conversing religion and politics
while passively electing
lunatics with trigger switches.
Arm the rebels
they bite the hand that feeds
the middle east burns
while America ******* bleeds.
The white, blue and red
camo helmets on their heads
farm fed frat boys
equipped with jackets of lead.
We watched Saddam crumble
his statue beaten with shoes
but the same war we already fought
the puppets now will choose.
Fight the good fight
support the troops.
Drone strikes by twilight
**** the troops.
An Army of one
Sempter Fi
Do or Die
I won't shed a single tear when you come back in a casket
covered in a flag you valued more than your life.
Our heroes are our welfare
stop blaming single mothers
plastic bags tied around throats
water boarding dissent, it smothers.
**** the Medal of Honor
I'm tearing up your portrait Obama.
How many can benefit from free tuition?
But we give it to those trained to slaughter.
Our priority is the police state
Nazis pretending to tote freedom.
We sip our Americanos
And retain nothing from the newspaper we are reading.
**By Evan Ponter
@evanponter**
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
Went our hunting, shot a tree
Sure looked like a deer to me
It don't matter, I can't see
I'm an American Hunting Man
I like hunting, but, I'm blind
My dogs always stay behind
I can't shoot what I can't find
I'm an American Hunting Man
Three years ago I shot a moose
It looked to me just like a goose
Man, they're fast when they cut loose
I'm an American Hunting Man
Give me beer and loaded guns
I'm sure we're gonna have some fun
I dress in camo when I can
I'm an American Hunting Man
I'm an American Hunting Man
When I'm hunting my friends are fishin'
They don't like the competition
They even give me ammunition
I'm an American Hunting Man
I've hunted deer to wild turkey
Most things I make into jerkey
My vision ***** it's kind of murky
I'm an American Hunting Man
Went fishing once and snagged my ear
Flipped the boat and spilled the beer
I gave up fishing to hunt deer
I'm An American Hunting Man
Give me beer and loaded guns
I'm sure we're gonna have some fun
I dress in camo when I can
I'm an American Hunting Man
I'm an American Hunting Man
I was shooting ducks one time
I shot a truck, but that was fine
Until I found out it was mine
I'm an American Hunting Man
Give us weaponry and beer
Then get away when we are near
There's nothing more that you can fear
Than an American Hunting Man
I have the shakes and I can't see
When I shoot once I bring down three
One for real and two for free
I'm an American Hunting Man
Give me beer and loaded guns
I'm sure we're gonna have some fun
I dress in camo when I can
I'm an American Hunting Man
I'm an American Hunting Man
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
i.
A ventriloquist
When we were one
Putting words in my mouth
I didn’t mind
ii.
A mad ventriloquist
When we were some
Somedays, What Ifs and Maybes
Camo clad ventriloquist
A kid with a gun
We shared a sugar sack baby
iii.
Tired, sad ventriloquist
Even when we had fun
You spoke of days long after
Such a bad ventriloquist
When we were almost done
Mismatched lips, silence, and forced laughter
He doesn’t deserve all the power he has
Yet he remains my
Puppetmaster
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
There you were on your camo Kawasaki
Riding leathers on, in racing position
Pacing the metallic beige Subaru
Pacing the vintage blue Volvo
Pacing me, in the back seat,
Hungover.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
How do I know who I really am.
Am I good, am I honest or am I evil and deceitful?
I am a chameleon, my camo is thick.
Trying to hard to blend in,
so you may not see the true me.
I do not know what I am
My face bearing the accepted,
somewhere deep under the mask,
there is me.
But how can anyone find me
when I am silent in a world that is blind.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 12:35 AM UTC
**Chillin like a villian
listenin to dylan
writin and thrillin,
as long as the good lord's willin**
*Sweatpants & a ponytail,
chillin with no make up on.
Cos' it's like my hobby now*
**Camo sleep pants
led zep tee
drinkin cold ones
and groovin to youtube**
*Watching scream queens
on netflix.
Texting & trying to figure out
what's next*
**Keying thoughts
onto my notebook
thinking hard about
a late night snack**
*Chillin like a penguin
cos' its freezing cold.
Wishing I had some hot coco.
Trying stay up late.*
**Toasty warm
inside my room
to step out for a smoke
would seal my chill**
*Chillin' is amazing.
I got the chills,
feeling like a cold hell
Wolf Spirit Poet is amazing*
**Chillin, blazin
mind **** amazin
oh these nights
dreamin and lazin**
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
After the screams
I was coming undone,
splitting at the seams.
I hauled all my watercolors
out of my brother's office.
I took the paintbrushes
and palettes of a thousand hues
lodged between his camo army vest
and his heavy shoes
and I sprawled out in the
spinach-green living room.
I painted
willow trees and silhouettes
and viridian snakes spilling from ***** lips.
At 2am I got up
headed to the deck
and watched the stars
Because sometimes I forget.
I let my nights
be slaughtered by sobs.
These nights, this view
It’s mine, you can’t have it.
Everyone needs a place
and this is mine,
this tiny nirvana,
2 o'clock constellations
in the dark purple bruise of night
are my home.
A pool of watercolors,
magenta, cyan, indigo, emerald and cerulean,
swells in my chest,
in the empty space between my lungs.
A drowning, a baptism.
Everywhere, in everything,
your unblinking ghost.
It refuses to dissolve.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
A poem for my beloved grandmother, Omi
A beautiful heart brought across on the gliders,
Forced away by Red pride, the awful black spiders.
She cried cross oceans in Grandpa’s camo embrace,
Safely gone from the 30’s, and end to the chase,
*“Zese mountains vere safe, Deutschland re-pborn.
Ve vere ‘ere vhen this town bekan, Cyril.”*
Omi’s voice pauses, marred by our Western smog,
Christmas we sit at her feet and her eyes again fog.
This story we hear, we’ve heard, but it is not cheap,
Our roots are revealed and we cringe as Omi weeps,
*“I vont drive, no and I can not vote,
Pbut this landt is safe, Cyril ve are free!”*
As her amber eyes ripple, it’s now time, we know,
This country she loves, yet it’s pain the more so.
The airs tightens thickly as we wait the remark,
The blame she gives freely makes this land so dark,
*“Bobby diedt and Monica followedt.
Cyril, I bpuried my childt and ‘ushband here”*
It wasn’t the Cancer or Smoke in their lungs,
This country she blames and it’s pitch-forked tongues.
So we hug to apologize for ‘ol Uncle Sam,
Not ****** but Freedom she says poisons this land.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
Home is where you heart is and your hat hangs.
And while my hat hangs in Boston.
My heart holds steady in Oregon.
Where I loved, lost, and laughed with the best of them.
3,000 miles between me and home.
I can honestly say I've never felt so alone.
And while I'm gone
The world keeps turning
Fires keep burning
And no one remembers the sailor on watch
The scared kid in camo
And while I may hang my hat far from home
I know I'm not alone.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
Sloths have got it right
Live at top speed you die young
Live slow die never
Seriously man
Sloths know what is up no doubt
Live slow die never
If I were a sloth
I would not write any haiku
Live slow die never
Razor sharp claws for
Nails, wearing algae like camo
Live slow never fail
Time to get out of
Bed no no no no no no
Live slow die never
Fight the power and
Bring the man down, later bro
Live slow die never
Sloth sloth sloth sloth sloth
Sloth sloth sloth sloth sloth sloth sloth
Live slow die never
Sloth grabs his own arms
Falls to his death from high trees
Live slow, die. Splat!
Shifted from the floor
Of the forest sloth rises
Live slow never die
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
There are men in the yards
Boys, really
That teased me endlessly
In school
And now they are grown up
Angular in their carhartts
Corn fed
Sun red
From bailing too much hay
A little extra money on a weekend
They are clad in camo hats
Soft denim
Work clothes
When I knew them they were farm boys
Who were never looking for more
Than a corn fed
Country princess
A pair of cowgirl boots
To take to bed
And now they’re driving fire trucks
Tractors
International harvesters
Their princesses
Have fattened up
Wide hips are good for children
Easy enough to let yourself go then
Cute clothes are for the rich city *******
Who still fit into a 2
And their kids
A new generation of
Freeburgians
Are drawing with chalk in the streets
And the older ones
Are riding bikes
Long outgrown
Scraping their knees
Getting stung by bees
Shoplifting from the motomart
They will grow up normal
Grow into their work clothes
Keep that small town pride alive
Keep the corn fields, keep the rye
Keep the beans and wheat and barley
Growing high
And I keep running right on by
I never knew these people
Though I wear boots too
And my hands are calloused
From working with the soil
In the distance I can see the steeple
And my car
Parked for a quick getaway
Another day
Avoiding this place
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 3:50 PM UTC
stolen verses blanket the floor space
encircled by the inspiration of others
tastelessly faceless
pests controls fail
as the numbers overwhelm
everyone thinks there are special
and the selfies are there to prove it
zit faced miscreants misrepresent mankind
in asexual fodder and anthropomorphic
suburban camo
turban wearing wash-outs
hold court over newbies
attempting to sew again
hippy seeds
their stench, deafening –
sandaled dirt clods
scamper
seeking selfishly surrogates
someone to birth their ideas
raise and tend the dreams
fund the movement
all the while recognizing the futility
feverishly fapping the frail phallus
frequently finding foolish *********
flipped in their folly –
********* the finale
freakish frogs filibuster
night creeps in as the soft sound of mating toads
fill the air
stars dot the moonless night
complete in its absence of clouds
only the wash of the milky way
holds hearts –
pandering to the philanthropist
looking longingly in giving eyes
for a scrap of dignity
and bread –
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
Though I wear no crown of decadent jewels pressed down around my brow,
It can be said that I am beautiful.
Needing no assistance from a mask of make-up and every hair doing as it pleases,
I am told that I am beautiful.
Without the burden of corsets, push-ups and garters; no cocktail dress draping my shoulders,
I look in the mirror and am satisfied.
I wear blue jeans, t-shirts and tank tops; tennis shoes, flip-flops and high-tops,
And still my legs are long and lean; my shape curvy and full.
And while I walk by, a southern sway in my step, you know you take more than a cursory glance.
I have attitude, and bluntness inherited from my line of honest folk.
I am country. I am bold. I am ruthless.
I am simple in the way that diamonds are simply compressed carbon.
I am beautiful in the way that only a southern girl can be.
I am a huntress with my 243 across my lap in a camo blind.
I am an actress as I smile and say “Bless your heart.”
I am a lover if there ever was one.
I am a fighter when the chips are down.
I am my father’s nightmare and my mother’s dream.
See me with my mut from the pound that’s better trained than your frou-frou, AKC registered pom-poo.
Join me as I sing the hymns my granny sang with the same tone and inflection.
I am educated with my poor country grammar I use only to spite those who think I’m ignorant.
I know more about tracking a blood trail than I do about propriety,
But I’m studied in the art of being couth.
My southern charm is mixed with brazen straight forwardness.
I am proud. I am American. I am beautiful.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
Camo in chemo
the costume of choice this year.
Happy Halloween.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
When I die
(if my parents don't know)
remember to weigh me judiciously with authorial intent.
Don't let my father go to the front
and tell everyone what a good daddy's girl I was
how I loved fishing with him
and wore my camo pants like a champ.
I was 2.
I didn't know better.
Don't let my mother's lip tremble
or let her say how much my writing made her cry
how I spent my evenings worshiping textbooks
and typing til 2 am for large red A's on my papers.
I was worshiping the body and mind of a guy
who never wanted me back.
Don't let my father see my body
the tattoo next to my left hip bone
the one I got my freshman year
because why the **** not.
Don't let my mother see my face
the rings in my lip and nose and ears
because they told me only ***** had those
and I wanted to see if they were right.
Don't let my father tell stories afterwards
all my achievements and awards
every 100% I ever gave.
He never told them to me.
He only has pride in the dead.
Don't let my mother tell stories afterwards
because she'll get them right
but tell them wrong.
She'll either laugh or cry halfway through
and I don't know which is worse.
Don't let my father sing the hymns
or even say how much he loved hearing my voice.
I could never hear myself over him.
Don't let my mother lament that I never sang for her
she knew why
she married him.
Don't let them tell you how I was a good Catholic girl
who always went to mass
and prayed the rosary on roadtrips
and never ate meat on Fridays during Lent (not even on accident).
I stopped going to mass after freshman year
and never prayed while driving
and made it a point to eat as much meat
as I possibly ******* could.
Don't let them tell you how I was a good sister
how excited I was when she was born
so helpful and caring.
She never fell off the bed when she was little.
I kicked her.
But especially don't let them trick you into thinking I was perfect.
I do not want to be canonized by my parents
who knew so little
and saw even less
because I hid myself away
so they wouldn't be
disappointed.
In fact,
don't let them come at all.
They'll be mourning the wrong girl.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
"Darling are you intoxicated?"
only slightly, I'm fine.
I sway
But it's getting so hot in these clothes
I think I'll take them off
Although I am half naked anyway.
I never find reason to wear much
during the summer time.
You help me out
of my slightly damp
tank top
and my lacey black bra
brushing against my sensitivity
with your mouth
on the way down to the button
of my camo shorts.
Unbutton
Unzip
Unleash
more heat.
Don't hold me too close
I may melt in your arms.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
I was born on a Sunday,
But this happened on a Thursday
I was looking for words
So I went for a walk
Down to the corner
Tonight there would be songs
So I said I’d join
She spoke soft
Quiet
I was an orange amongst the apple trees
She wore camo pants
And you wouldn’t understand
Until she got up and sang
No-ones fool
She was a rebel with a cause
A rebel with a mind
The words to my Revolution song
She was only 17
She put her little hand in mine
We’ve been chasing those
Quiet wells
The mighty ones
The evergreen ones
With our searchlights
Lights that want to push walls with outstretched hands
It’s been a global fight, from inside
From the dawn and well into the night
Looking for peace, for god, for answers, reflections
For things that can’t be denied
So don’t even try
She wore camo pants
And you wouldn’t understand
Until she got up and sang
She was a rebel with a cause
A rebel with a mind
She was the words to my Revolution song
She was only 17
She put her little hand in mine
I was born on a Sunday,
But his happened on a Thursday
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 8:01 PM UTC
She's got a pair of cowboy boots
To accentuate that short sun dress
Got a shotgun in her pick up truck
And fishing poles in the back
Her skins kissed by the sun from hours out in it
Shes a northern belle
With a laugh like a rebel yell
She works hard and plays harder still
Twirls her long blonde hair around her finger playing cute
Wears a smile on her face
you know she's up to no good
Where's all my country girls
Kicking it with their fishing poles
Where's all my country girls
Knocking a beer back while its still cold
Where's all my country girls
Four wheelin it thru the mud
Where's all my country girls
Out lookin for some fun
She knows every tune
To ever country song
Knows how to skin a buck
And gut the fish she catches
Whistles Dixie
When that dinner bell rings
She's got camo lingerie
For those late nights out camping
Shes a northern belle
With a laugh like a rebel yell
She works hard and plays harder still
Twirls her long blonde hair around her finger playing cute
Wears a smile on her face
you know she's up to no good
Where's all my country girls
Kicking it with their fishing poles
Where's all my country girls
Knocking a beer back while its still cold
Where's all my country girls
Four wheelin it thru the mud
Where's all my country girls
Out lookin for some fun
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 7:46 AM UTC