"gunslingers" poems
Look What We've Become!
SOO SCARED to Live On! WHY?
And Yet Even Much More Scared To Give Up And Die.
Scared of our ourselves making failures; Scared of Others.
Scared Of War(s), Oppression & Victimisations.
Scared Of the enemies, scared of Hate and Hatred;
Scared of Evil; Scared Every Single Day, Even More Scared at Night.
Much too Scared to to trust anyone-Even So called Friends or Family.
Nearly Always Scared; Forever Scared....though feeling Sacred.
The Feeling Will Not Go Away.
Too Scared To Sleep, Scared to awake to another day.
Scared to lose friends , or loved ones'
Scared friends might turn on Us,
Scared to Trust anyone.
Scared of the Hypocrisy & Double Standards;
Too Scared to go for a walk at Night.
Scared of the Young gunslingers.
Scared of Viruses & Corona.
Scared of the Murders and Robberies andCrimes.
Scared To even watch a movie.
Scared to eat; Scared of Becoming fat.
It's So Soo Scary!! Too Scared!
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 6:46 AM UTC
they danced as one
under the candles and mirrors
his dark gunslingers boots perfectly matching her steps
her hair flowing in the hot air round his face
entangled in emotion and motion
enduring in passion
they danced deep into the night as one
this was joy
the day a furnace of desert sun
the street a wander path for hardy soul
he sat in thin shadow
and breathed slow thick air
watching the slice of horizon
that he could perceive
he knew that someday his brother would come
from out of the wild country south of the borders
knew his brother would come seeking revenge
for the betrayal
the gunslinger and his lover rose
were the talk of the town
how she had tamed the wild man from the southlands
how he had saved her from a life of disgrace
everybody loved them
everybody wanted to be them
modern day romeo and juilet
but romance is no suit of armor
and danger was at the door
the lawman rode all night
and camped on a hill above the town
there by his campfire looked down on his brothers happy new home
saw the light in his brothers window
and plotted his move
last call at the saloon
and the townsfolk drifted out into the darkness
by one's and two
calling out their goodnights in voices
tinged by beer and wine
the gunslinger and his beloved rose
fell to their bed embraced in love
morning slipped over the horizon
the lawman walked slowly down the hill into the town
reckoning had come
his brother would have to face the gallows
for his betrayal
calling out the gunslingers name
calling out like a voice of doom
calling his brother out to face justice
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
A spur of the moment your thoughts Fly high
spirit- within
The half- Angel
Wings of a falcon
Whole family rooftop beacon
Spirit of darkness pulling you through
But you had enough what else can you do?
The inner light afternoon hiking strong sun
Heart- jump the darkness knight
Turn of the wing lovers- flight
Waves form a word to far________ out- of- sight
Bright karma spiritual meditation
Magical forefinger western saloon
Are we doomed gunslingers
Spiritual voice awakening
Sun full force
The sun of his face
So penetrating/ everlasting
Spirit foretelling minds/ crashing
Foretelling a tale news/ flashing
Breathe in all the goodness to inhale
God-like prophetic exhale
Born free feral wild
Certain events foreseen
Spirit touch us*
all*
as a child*
Spirit foretelling
Eloquent of a real man lives us
To his duty
Time is unruly
Middle name Joy
Meaning Something like you
Do you feel its still you
Spirit change inside you
Starting to heal feet its
S h a k y
Holding the pen
Where are your hands maturing
What then?
Exquisite gardens
Open and play
Japanese Zen
A beauty to stay
Spiritual star foretelling
Love- Every Day
Jul 16, 2023
Jul 16, 2023 at 8:24 AM UTC
After many years
You and I come face to face
To settle the score
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
out to sea
countless miles hand to the tiller
to find that brief moment
on the crest of a twenty foot breaking wave
as a nor'easter wilds the sea
when you glimpse it
in the stillness between heaven and earth
she hid in her bedroom
looking at a late fall paris passing rainstorm
and on the run down east side facing the setting sun
she could just make out another lover fleeing town with
his creditors in hot pursuit
he owed so much for the words he had abused
up on paris's boothill
the gunslingers and thieves wouldn't have ya
it was in that darkest hour she glimpsed it in the mirror
under the bewitching stars
in the anvil of desolation's wasteland of high desert
on the cusp of the suns imminent rise
you can see it in the broiling fire
as the edge of the world itself appears to burn
you can see clearly that this end
of your little world
is but a door which you stand at the threshold
many times in your life
step into the fire or frying pan
step into the next world you will live in
or try vainly to escape into the past
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
i.
an ailment of the mind,
incorporeal, a ghost that flits between
worlds, festers and grows —
a thumping tumour.
ii.
sick, but not really sick.
(does it hurt? paracetamol might help).
you are exaggerated and foolish.
count your blessings.
iii.
potent to change reality.
stronger than any mushrooms.
a single thought, the words and the images,
gunslingers to misery.
iv.
hook that reels in,
boding some ominous fate.
fish out of water —
flippity-flop; people sunbathe around.
v.
plodding is what it is.
plodding through a tempest,
freezing, crackled skin,
watching everyone else walking in sun.
vi.
you want to scream but don’t.
you want to explain but don’t.
you let them form their own ideas
and agree. you feed on it.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 7:43 AM UTC
I play in fields, those often forgotten,
Among blowing winds, from far begotten,
Dancing in wild daisies, as spring lingers,
Dueling shadows like swift gunslingers.
On the wind, I smell my mom's gingerbread,
And come racing home for a piece ahead,
Spice in her chiding, sugar in her voice,
Like her gingerbread, my favourite choice.
From the rooftop, I gaze at stars each night,
Listening to Dad's stories with eyes bright,
As he gently holds me in his hands rough,
Telling me those tales and making me tough.
And like passing clouds, those little days flew,
Reliving games, as woods from daisies grew,
Revisiting smells, from baked bread I buy,
Recalling tales, I gaze at the night sky.
Jan 1, 2025
Jan 1, 2025 at 11:19 AM UTC
You walked the bomb site
with Benny,
he was relating
about some gunslinger
he'd seen at the flicks
and how the gunslinger
had his guns different
from other gunslingers
he'd seen,
with guns back to front
so that he had
to cross his hands
over to reach guns
from different holsters.
You listened as you often did
to his talk on guns
and gunslingers
and cowboy films
he'd seen.
He bent down
and picked up a stone
for his catapult
which he had
in the back pocket
of his jeans.
You told him
about your young brother
and how your mother
wanted you to hold him steady
while she changed his *****
and how he kicked his legs,
and how hard it was
to hold him there,
and your mother saying:
Hold him steady
while I get
his clean ***** on.
Benny weighed the stone
in the palm of his hand,
then put it in his pocket.
So did you managed
to hold him?
Benny said.
You looked past him
as a copper walked
towards you both.
Copper, you said.
Benny turned
and stood beside you.
What are you doing here?
the copper said.
Looking for ammunition,
Benny said.
Ammunition?
the copper said.
Stones for my catapult,
Benny said.
Bomb sites
are dangerous places,
so clear off,
the copper said.
You stared nervously
at the copper.
But I need stones,
Benny said.
I don't care
if you are looking
for the Crown Jewels,
the copper said,
sling your hook.
You followed Benny
off the bomb site
into Meadow Row.
The copper stood
watching you,
hands at his sides.
Let's go to the other
bomb site,
Benny said,
up off the other side
of the Square.
You looked back
at the copper
still standing there.
©
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC