"gunmen" poems
They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, ****** and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
****** them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not *****
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and ****
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans **** one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf ******
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and **** ! **** **** **** **** **** ****
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and **** the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They **** their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
Vendredi
A fall Friday evening
A football match
A rock show
A café
A restaurant
A night out
In Paris.
A suicide belt
Armed gunmen
A suicide belt
Armed gunmen
A suicide belt
People
You
Me
Mom
Uncle
Baby daughter
Killed
Killed
Blinded
Killed
Maimed
Killed
To appease
A bloodthirsty
Desert god
Allahu Akbar.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
I have a dream! I have a dream,
To the racial discriminators, said Martin Luther King,
I have a dream! I have a dream!
To the evil-creating economists, I warn and ring.
Globe witness hunger, inequality poverty and unemployment
The world turns out to be bitter,
To all of you, I write this letter.
To create a world relieved from these and turn better.
I am a mad aspiring economist, a fool,
Searching for the right tool,
You turned the world with full of mess,
People are left with nothing less.
To the world, you gave theories,
Pushed us into a vicious cycle of injuries,
About your theories, you boasted,
It has created a few ruling and bloated.
Most of you worked as economic hitmen,
Turned victim laymen to fighting gunmen.
To the realities, your theory is distant,
Served no solution to the dying peasants,
To the few, we remain a psychological slave and servants,
Tuned our lives to a depended migrant.
With your development lecture,
You have killed the entire nature,
In the name of ventures, corporates turned vulture,
Hunted and looted our generations’ future.
We lived a self-reliant community,
You killed us with imposed liability,
Our lives are now placed in intensive casualty,
The word that remains imagination still is equality.
We lost our humanity and identity,
In your eyes, we are just a market and commodity,
Your play with scarcity, was a mere futility,
We finally became a society, filled with atrocity.
Your useless lectures of development,
Put us under frightening & irrecoverable unemployment,
For a few, you got us into a deep-rooted enslavement,
So, now for you instead, we make a replacement.
To my questions, you neglected and ran,
In your eyes, I am foolish stupid common man,
To you short-sighted range,
I say I will bring in a change!
Today, I may remain lower and mere viewer,
A day will come, where you will stand to answer,
Writing a new rule, I would seize your beloved positions,
This will be my lifetime mission and ambition.
I say with all my limited experience,
I will put a test to all your conscience,
Are you just a fat-big corporate’s hand?
With people will you always stand?
I am not an economist,
I am neither an egotist,
I proclaim! I proclaim!
I am a revolutionary economist,
I know you will fit me a label,
I am sure I will be an economic rebel,
A rebellious economist.
I dream a world without huge inequalities,
I dream a world free from imposed liabilities,
I dream a world without poverty and disparities,
I finally dream for becoming an economist with no ambiguities.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
Cowboys in the badlands
They ride their horses coming from everywhere.
To the badlands, they do ride.
They come from cattlemen and farmers and gunmen.
Ready to make a name for themself.
Either by robbing a bank or killing someone for revenge.
These cowboys in the badlands.
All are gone now, but a few not as bad as the once were.
Have they all gone to a new land to make a new name of a place in beyond?
A new bad land these cowboys do come riding their horses and carrying a gun.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Mr Kalashnikov I'll ask you nicely
Please don't point that thing at me
Laszlo Biro how nice to see you
Without you where would we be?
Mr Molotov may I remind you
You are in polite company
May I present the Earl of Sandwich
Do partake of his wares
And special desserts are served soon after
Presented in person by Anna Pavlova
The Duke of Wellington brought in some mud
Mr Macintosh is expecting a flood
Candido Jacuzzi and Joseph Pilates
Appear to be making friends
Henry Shrapnel and Joseph Guillotin
Who invited them?
Ferdinand von Zeppelin,
Perhaps you would like a schnapps?
Mr Winchester, Mr Colt, Mr Gatling, Mr Lewis
So many gunmen I'm alarmed I confess
May I trouble you Mr Hoover
To help tidy up the mess?
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
“Humankind: be kind – be One!
I am appalled at what’s been done.
Benign intentions must restrain us.
Hate should never entertain us.”
The toad comedian Ban Ki-Moon
croaked a pitiful One-World tune
while gunmen paused, reloaded, armed
checked that they had no comrades harmed –
and then prepared for further battle
against the clueless kuffar cattle.
Ban stood upright to intervene;
surveyed the terrorific scene…
muezzins chanted, mullahs chuckled
swords were sharpened, bomb-vests buckled.
Dhimmi dim-wits went on shopping.
(Are heads in sand less prone to chopping ?)
Hesitating, he cleared his throat,
raised his pitch by a quarter note:
“These acts are most undemocratic
We are saddened; yet emphatic – “
(no one heard his discourse further
drowned by the sound of massive ******
So let’s consider what is meant
by rolling heads and bodies splattered…
time for Truth to represent
(as if such inconvenience mattered…)
Such events disturb our sleep
and force us to compose, on waking,
lullabies for drowsy sheep
as predators are overtaking.
Flags of doom and holy slaughter,
sons of Ishmael filled with rage
are coming for your wife and daughter
and yourself. You turn the page.
Rising now to storm your tower
(7th century back to bite you),
Allah brings satanic power
to convert you or to smite you.
****** dhimmis would have us think
such rage is due to unemployment;
pure confusion on the brink
of funding further troop deployment.
Meanwhile, mullahs sip their tea
while tenured academics prattle
watching MSNBC
as soldiers die in battle.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
In Abraham Lincoln's city,
Where they remember his lawyer's shingle,
The place where they brought him
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories
From Tallahassee to the Yukon,
The place now where the shaft of his tomb
Points white against the blue prairie dome,
In Abraham Lincoln's city ... I saw knucks
In the window of Mister Fischman's second-hand store
On Second Street.
I went in and asked, "How much?"
"Thirty cents apiece," answered Mister Fischman.
And taking a box of new ones off a shelf
He filled anew the box in the showcase
And said incidentally, most casually
And incidentally:
"I sell a carload a month of these."
I slipped my fingers into a set of knucks,
Cast-iron knucks molded in a foundry pattern,
And there came to me a set of thoughts like these:
Mister Fischman is for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff,
And the street car strikers and the strike-breakers,
And the sluggers, gunmen, detectives, policemen,
Judges, utility heads, newspapers, priests, lawyers,
They are all for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff.
I started for the door.
"Maybe you want a lighter pair,"
Came Mister Fischman's voice.
I opened the door ... and the voice again:
"You are a funny customer."
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories,
This is the place they brought him,
This is Abraham Lincoln's home town.
1.6k
I’m lending Trayvon Martin my pen
because it might be enough to clear the static,
because it may be enough to point straight through
the thick smoggy thoughts of society and law.
If I was a young black man, which “I" am
I’d be a little upset that someone killed
my brother. Never mind my other dead brothers,
or the other cases I see of police treating
people like me with inequality.
Should Trayvon have surrendered himself to
Zimmerman. Should young black men have to
be passive to stay alive. Do we allow
people to shoot shots in
the chests of most resistance.
What should black men do? It seems best
to cry, but I don’t feel tears coming.
What should any man do, expect think
clearly enough to know when something
is wrong. As for Zimmerman he is not
evil, but he is a killer, and his brothers
blood is on his hands. He should at least
cry, or try to feel the tears coming.
The only voice that speaks is the
word of the law. Even Trayvon is silent,
the dead hold no grudges, and gunmen
go dumb under the cries of spilt blood,
I keep telling myself justice is process
making better days from dark ones,
but it seems like every bright generation
has to step aside for the tears coming.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
In my dreams
I am too powerful to ignore.
I've learned a thing or two there.
I've got a flinty stare
And a chip on my shoulder
Things I hide beneath a meek smile
An unimpressive little girl voice,
And an eagerness to help.
But behind these eyes
Is a creature that craves power.
My only fear is that I know I have it.
Once I tip my hand,
Once everyone sees it
What will I have?
What's my ace in the hole
If everybody knows I know I'm strong?
In my dreams
They'd be everyone else's nightmares
In my dreams
I run through rainslicked streets
Chased by gunmen
And I feel alive.
I smile, feral,
And I laugh as I fight.
I want that in my body.
I want those bruises and that sureness,
I want my power.
In my dreams when I am set upon
I think
Finally
And I give it my all with a freed laugh
And a joy too wild for waking hours.
I am too powerful to ignore.
I am too powerful to stay hidden.
When I rip off this flimsy skin and step forward
I want to be naked and smug.
But I am afraid that I will have no power
If I don't hide mine.
If it is seen
Is it lessened by the viewers?
My secret
My secret
My secret is I am not
Afraid.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
Another volcano erupts
Masked as a mass shooting
Thousand Oaks is disrupts
By a gunman executing
Twelve innocent lives taken
Bloodshed rocked the mountain
Tremors of tears are foresaken
As the sadness mounts in
In the afterglow of the sorry night
A hero officer is lauded
For responding with all his might
His ultimate sacrifice duly applauded
As many of the bar patrons ran in fear
While smokebombs and bullets sprayed the air
The evil gunmen with his calculated stare
Left the victims without a prayer
In the aftermath sits cratered questions
With depths far reaching as to why
Many innocents lives lost, echo
suggestions
Their indelible voices still cry
For we're resigned to sitting in all normacy
With no foresight on stopping the flow
As another mass shooter festers in dormacy
And this is so sickening to watch it blow
Logan Robertson
11/07/2018
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
Gunmen rampaging
Nowhere seems safe anymore
Broken government
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 2:39 AM UTC
Silence like the inhale
before the exhale
of the ex-pianist
who lost his arm
saving his quadrant
from a land mine.
A moment of silence
for the men and women
who gave their lives
for a country of ingrates
who never offer any words of hope
or even a silent smile.
The silence of a mother
brushing her daughters raven-like hair back behind her ear.
A mother who had to beg for one last moment
to memorize every freckle and curve
as well as every pore and eyelash.
The silence of a final embrace.
A smile, quietly plastered on
to hide the screaming youth.
The silence before nervous laughter
swallowing back shallow sobs.
The silence of a wolf stalking its prey
before a bullet enters its brain from behind.
And the silence of the pups
watching from a distance.
Then the clamor of the gunmen
ecstatic with their catch,
falling silent only seconds before
the tortured howling and cries
from the orphaned beasts
surround their sub-conscience
for the rest of their lives.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
trained to protect
armed in heart
dressed in courage
camouflage clothes
brave hearts
murdered unjustly
brave hearts
who were put down
by the gunmen
brave hearts
caught in the web of conflict
when they were the fearless
who only wanted
to keep us safe
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
His rooms is horribly boreing,
Pyscho if you ask me,
But what if we shifted points,
Id take the highest ground,
If only I could girls.
He has a boy,
One of those tall,
Tattooed voodoo doll
of a man, I wish,
Oh I wish there comes a day,
What a day it would be.
What happens now,
I probably do something about it.
Id probably sing the blues,
All over again until
The hang over you gave me goes away.
Hover, stick around to know that I am not
your sweet cakes, im not no honey bun twinky
love sunshine palm tree,
Bull **** if you wanted to know
what I knew. His hund drew the window down,
The car smelt like a boat,
Could of been,
My name is mary tonite,
Hes henry, the worst possible name,
It had to be henry,
Henry jesus, henry,
Big foot henry.
Kept a steady speed all nite,
He didnt try anything funny,
But he could of made a move.
The results,
Call the winner for her turkey shoot price.
He started getting drunk,
Wow really,
The only thing stopping me from leaping
Out drunk from my body,
Was the fact that he had a beard,
Bearded turkeys,
We arrived at the gas station,
Someone had a confession to make.
I dont feel like a girl anymore.
Its ok your an independent woman.
You decide we needed a bag of ****
The oldest friend I have agreed,
We needed ****
Im serious,
Swirly ice cream cones at dq,
I have some on my nose, you wife it off
With a sand paper napkin, it feels like
Im addicted to boys like you,
Military, im in love with one,
This time,
Im considering what I need to do.
My friend from band is having a crisis,
Frank died with the gunmen,
Low mobility god brought,
*** hole, do something more creative,
Cheap, your the cheapest *** hole I know.
End of part 1
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
Virtue in waiting:
Patience is tested, again,
hair cut, then go home.
’P’s don’t **** people.
Golds, gunmen do it for them.
Or, they let them die.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
There are those who prefer to live on their knees when others would die on their feet,
Chabu is dead, but his words still resound, like the echo of shots on the street.
He was a free man with no child and no wife. No attachments can be a mercy.
A man who has paid for his thoughts with his life is a martyr who sets others free.
Vengeance is natural and there are those who will spit on these gunmen and curse.
In the showdown between “faith” and ideas, the artist will always draw first.
Il ya ceux qui préfèrent vivre sur leurs genoux quand les autres mourraient sur leurs pieds,
Chabu est mort, mais ses paroles résonnent encore, comme l'écho de coups de feu dans la rue.
Il était un homme libre sans enfants et pas de femme. Pas de pièces jointes peuvent être une miséricorde.
Un homme qui a payé pour ses pensées de sa vie est un martyr qui met les autres libres.
Vengeance est naturel et il ya ceux qui vont cracher sur ces hommes armés et malédiction.
Dans la confrontation entre «foi» et des idées, l'artiste puisera toujours en premier.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
The gunmen trudged up the dusty path
And saw a terrible black sparrow
bewitching a girl
She was crazy, flapping around
animals will drive people nuts if I let them
He had to end the small creature's life
He took aim
and fired
girl and sparrow fell to the ground
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
I see a horse, elegant and proud,
I remember riding one into the cloud,
Her head held high, braver than me,
She was shot, that horse, despite her plea.
A firework explodes in the sky,
I remember him, his hopeless cry,
The night the shell came over my head,
And the next morning we found him dead.
A choir sings, it's Christmastime,
I remember the peace that cold daytime,
Boxing day we start killing again,
But that Christmas we were friendly gunmen.
I sit in a café eating beans,
I remember it, those dreadful scenes,
We were so hungry at mealtime,
But stealing rations was a crime.
My son runs around with a toy gun,
I remember how he did nit run,
Only looked pleadingly into my eyes,
I had no mercy- he soon dies.
I am not proud to be alive,
I am not happy to have survived,
I will remember you with all my heart,
In my head we will never part.
Wherever I go, whatever I do,
The war is with me.
It comes too.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
Carlos the Jackal is dead
But the killing goes on
You live
And the killing goes on
::::;:::::::::::::::
LONE GUNMAN
All the lone gunmen in a row
What do they know?
Eachother
For sure
::::::::::::::
A bomb goes off on Pakistan
81 dead
.
81 dead Arabs
Or
81 dead
People
--
(Actually these
Are the same thing)
::::::::
1 kid & 20 kids =21 kids
21 kids & 6 adults=27 people
27 people & 1 other person= 28 people
--
The rain falls
But does not wash us clean
The water is ***** and the Sky
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
If it makes you feel better
I would say sorry
I'll apologise on behalf of those whom I don't know
If it gave us peace
I would be the first to be held for the terror
But this world of ours
Is falling apart
The oceans are spewing bodies
And the sound of fireworks make me flinch
I am frozen in fear of whiplash
As I watch you cry on the t.v
My breath synchronises with the pants of your fear
They show belongings of victims as they raced for their lives
And I see a watch my brother wears
I see streets that I grew up in
I see people whom I feel nothing but compassion for
I want to hold you tight and rewind away the pain
I want to come and lay flowers where the blood of mankind is soaked into the sawdust
But will you accept a hug from a Muslim?
I want to tell you I love you
I want to tell you if I was there I'd like to think I could protect you
I would stand in front of the innocent
And spit at the gunmen in disgust
I would cry like a mother whose child had gone astray
I would mourn
The spawn of Satan
Has Islam not taught you anything?
I want you to know
That denouncing my faith
To make you happy
Will truly not make everything okay
For I will be leaving what taught me to love
And then what better would I be than our perpetrator?
I see humans
I feel humanity
I see a world not Syria or Paris
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
Normal day at the office
New York City, can't complain
I wouldn't imagine anything
Going wrong today
Then we hear it...
Terrorists in the building
They're on the lower floor
Wielding guns, killing everyone
Our office goes on lockdown
We pile into one room
I pray to God they don't find us
No one deserves what's about to come
Door kicked open
Gunmen storm in
Screams and cries shriek out
I guess this is the end
They line us up
We cooperate with their commands
Maybe they won't **** us
If we don't make them mad
Then the nightmare begins
One by one they pull us out
In front of everyone so we can see
Stands straight, points gun, bang, on to the next one
I watch and shutter
As the bodies pile up
These were people I knew
And now their lives are done
I can't bear to watch this any longer
I sneak behind the line and hide
Behind a cabinet so they can't see me
Listening, I hear the worst sounds one can possibly imagine
1, 2, 3, Bang, Scream, Repeat
Then a pause
A muttering of foreign tongue
Footsteps creak against the floor
They're looking for more
One of them comes around the corner
He faces me with gun in hand
I lunge at him, grab the weapon, point
Shoot once, twice, three times
It's not so fun when you're the dead man
I look around the corner
More are coming my way
I send a quick prayer to God
Then jump into the fray
I shoot and I shoot
Fighting for my life
Knowing that I'm not going down
Without a fight
One down, two down, three down, four
Blood spatters the walls, bullets fall to the floor
My gun stops shooting, the cartridge is empty
There's no way to fight now
Need to find another way out
Throw the gun at the window
It cracks but doesn't shatter
"It's worth a shot," I tell myself
Then I flee from my cover
I sprint at full speed
As the bullet **** by
One of two hit me
But I keep fighting to survive
I lower my shoulder
Slam into the window
It shatters, I fall, I'm out
But the ground is quickly coming to meet me
I hit the ground with a smack
Glass raining down around me
People are looking at me and the building
Trying to discover what just happened
I get up slowly, painfully
A puddle of blood where I laid
People ask if I'm okay
But I tell them to run away
I run and I stumble
Away from the building
I'm slowly losing consciousness
Not knowing if I'm going to make it
Down the street I go
Searching vigorously for help
My vision is going out
I guess this is it
I awoke in my bedroom
I'm okay, all is well
Heck of a nightmare
Keep me away from that hell
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
#Al Shabab having terrorist fits
while Nairobi is taking the hits.
An attack calculated
by gunmen, frustrated
for lack of Somalian *****
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 10:03 AM UTC
The Game…by Jessie 4/06
Jessie was a quick draw; Learned when he was young
Swore he’d never fear a man, first he’d touched a gun
Made his name, by the age of twelve
After shooting two old men
One of them his father
The other just for grins
Every time he shot a man
Another notch, was on his belt
Swift and deadly vengeance
The quick draw Jessie dealt
At sixteen, his gun for hire
Money did he make
Town to town he traveled
Dead bodies in his wake
At twenty two his name, was on every gunmen’s lips
They tracked down Jessie, relentlessly
Guns tied low on all their hips
Knowing if they killed him
His reputation theirs
Jessie faced them one by one
Come and **** me if you dare
By thirty-three, he grew weary
Of all the blood he shed
Seeing all the faces that ****
Crowed in his head
He swore he’d never **** again
Hanging up his guns
South across the Rio Grand
To the land of the setting sun
Life had changed for Jessie
A farmer he became
Getting marred, having kids
Peace was now the game
But just because you run
Doesn’t mean that you can hide
A sixteen year old came into town
A gun hanging on his side
Are you Jessie? The boy asked
It’s time for you to die
Boy…do yourself a favor
Get on your horse and ride
I’m the fastest gun around
The boy made the claim
You killed my father years ago
To you I’ll do the same
Jessie put down his little boy
And pushed away his wife
Stepped out into the street
Then said…go ahead and take my life
I have no gun, so take your shot
You’re sure to have your ****
Seventeen years from now
You too will lose your will
Jessie words just fell
Then, an echo from a shot was heard
Time had stopped, no one had blinked
Nothing even stirred
Jessie’s son had found his gun
Soon, came running back
Stood behind the sixteen year old
And shot him in the back
A thud was heard as the boy fell
His face lay in the sand
Blood was pouring out of his mouth
Twitching from his hands
Jessie looked right at his son
He didn’t look the same
Holding out that smoking gun
Now, he too was in the game.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
Is it safe to go out today?
I need to go, I have bills to pay.
Scared to venture out alone,
Scared to leave my son at home.
Is it safe to wander here?
These streets are filled with hate and fear.
This is the time to be aware,
that gunmen and danger lurk everywhere.
SUDDENLY, A terrible sound!
and I feel my boy drop to the ground.
I pick him up and cradle him,
as his little world begins to dim.
A stray bullet struck him in his head,
and now my only child is dead.
So in that street we both now lay,
because I decided to go out today.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC