"holster" poems
Pawpaw would rock by the fireplace in his favorite rocker ! The occasional whiff of Oak firewood and Borkum Riff pipe tobacco , I was hanging on to every word ! A narrative about a little boy in 1925 . Standing by his chair , as proud as I could be ! He'd look straight into your eyes without even flinching , the smell of Old Spice aftershave and Kentucky Bourbon . A shot glass with a gold rim ..A pocket watch his Father passed on to him ..Stories of a little fella from the south side of Atlanta relayed to a captive audience of one ! A starstruck grandson with a cup of hot chocolate , cap pistol , belt , holster , pajamas and house shoes ! Astonished with tales of Buffalo Bill ! Sergeant York and Wild Bill Hickok !
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Fed up and in a bad place,
These aren't just emotions of anger and regret for
The situation at hand and the problems
That they are trying to reflect on america to start
Something we could not come back from,
Race wars,
Afraid to ride my bike down the street
Because of racism,
Afraid to date Caucasian girls because of racism,
Afraid to be black but proud,
Because of racism and these crooked white cops
That hide behind badges like cowards and pick away piece by piece at
The people that hasn't started any war since the assassination of
Martin Luther,
Any rule you abide by in law,
They'll still shoot ya,
And make it seem like you struggled or make it seem like
You tried to grab the gun from the holster and fight your way out,
"I'm not resisting ,.,... Stop shoving me , stop punching me , you
******* *****
Naughty by nature , but my mannerism's heaven sent,
When will these cops (pigs),
Stop killing our people and making families moarn,
We're all created by God , so why do y'all just leave people
Torn,
America Peace with love and prayers to my brown skin angels,
It's bad enough with black on black crime at every angle,
Y'all ******* up!!!
Protest , peace treaties , Misunderstood riots,
Using this against us ------> " You Have The Right To Remain Silent",
**** That!!!!!
Yelling to the world that the Justice system is biased,
What's drakest must come to light , well the future's at its brightest,
I love all races , I have white friends,
I wonder would Jesus come When the world ends,
But can't end it with a race war,
I'm ready to spread the word if you are,
Doing it for the kids and the poor.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 6:58 AM UTC
it's not even noon, but
my thoughts are drenched with
*** bound and gagged.
you're dancing around the kitchen, clad
only in a pair of
lace ******* you paid
too much for at Victoria's
Secret liaisons by the
seaside, sand sieving through your hair:
all forms of metal-backed currency taste
like ***** on your fingertips stuffed
roughly in my mouth,
call me a ****
pretty please?
promethazine slathered over
watermelon sherbert and
soaked in Sprite; put a lid on it and
shake vigorously until well mixed.
Xanax exacerbated migraines mean
naptime for me, and I forgot to tell you
the Gatorade is spiked with *****
(or maybe tequila; I've well and truly
forgotten) and all of this
is just another means of
replacing you.
you're wrapped in an
ecru trench coat,
cinched at the waist over
concealed weaponry:
unlicensed pistol and wet coral *****
constrained by a black leather holster and
cobalt cotton.
you kissed me with
******* in your nostrils and
nosebleed on your lips;
you killed me with
contempt in your mouth and
venom on your nails.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Cute,
like a baby scorpion
like a pink gun holster,
like a fluffy straight jacket.
You know,
not cute at all.
But still ..
You know -
Cute.
May 15, 2023
May 15, 2023 at 1:15 PM UTC
It was a Saturday night in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned
Logan Robertson
10/18/2018
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC
You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.
You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”
You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.
Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.
When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
There's gonna be a gunfight
Out there in the street
All the stores closed early
To see who would be beat
The gunfighters got ready
Neither would back down
Each one gave the other
24 hours to leave town
Bifocal bill was ready
He said " That drunkards gonna pay !"
Then stood there shouting " Draw ya punk "
Facing the wrong way !!
The Whisky Kid stepped into sight
And staggered about the place
He looked bill up and down a while
Then fell down on his face !!
The crowd stood waiting eagerly
And as they booed and hissed
Bill squeezed off the first shot
To no surprise .. he missed !
The whisky kid then stood up.. swore
Cursed .. some foul abuse
Then called to bill " i need a drink !
" howz about we call a truce ?
Bill fired his gun repeatedly
Bullets spun off left and right
The whisky kid fell on the ground
The crowd went silent at this sight
The whisky kid just lay there
With a bottle in his hand
Bill grinned and said " The kid is dead !
But he was just too drunk to stand
The sheriff said " i guess that's that "
And as they turned to go
Bill's gun slipped from it's holster
And blew off his big toe !!.
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
Depressed, suicidal, numb,
repeat and smile
because you believed in polyamory.
About a week ago,
she said she loved me.
About a week ago,
she had him coming.
My girl with the black lace choker.
Bang Bang--
No holster.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:17 AM UTC
she was the first
to act as though
she wanted to be my beretta,
to hold a holster to my thigh
and accept the badge
of partner in crime.
she spoke without shelter.
pool days of marination
in monsters and taurus,
a kiss for pity
as i'd yet to be corrupted,
and she stole some joy
in taking what wasn't hers.
she was bigger than me.
she showed me
how shattered touch screens
can look like dried petals,
but cut like cold *******
and when you're in a field of dandelions
how they come in handy.
she wrote the book on flagellation.
she promised it was all for me;
calloused fingertips from
loving me with lighter fluid,
scratches for feral adoration,
and the damocles' above my head
or rather hers, and hers to drop on a whim.
she wrote a chapter on manipulation.
i wasn't ready the first time
she pushed passed denim
and plaid as easily
as she waived my concern,
nor the second --
nor the third.
she had daddy issues.
i still didn't know
how tampons worked,
or vaginas for that matter,
and so to be forcefully
and viscerally introduced to both
behind a tree in Henessey
****** up my brain a little.
she called it "mad week."
ear bud cables
became garrotes
around my neck
in the suspended
movement of a pulse
through my aorta;
and as every day with her,
i felt she crossed a line,
and as every day before,
i never called foul.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
We sat on the grass
by Banks House
warm sun
sound of coal men
at the coal wharf
just behind
shunting of coal trucks
up in the shunting yard
by the railway bridge
I showed Janice
my new 6 shooter gun
my old man had got me
with a plastic holster
that was attached
to my belt
she took the gun
in her hands
and turned it over
what's fascinating
about guns?
she said
one looks pretty much
like another
she opened up the gun
and saw where the caps
were fitted
does it go bang
when you fire caps?
sure it does
I said
and took the gun
and pulled the trigger
and BANG BANG
it went
she put her hands
over her ears
that's loud
she said
******** up her eyes
I twirled the gun round
a finger and put the gun
back in the holster
Gran said guns
are dangerous things
Janice said
they are but this
is only a toy gun
I said
she took off her
red beret and combed
her fair hair with a comb
from her small handbag
did they have girl cowboys?
she asked
cowgirls they were called
I said
Anne Oakley was good
with a gun
have you got a spare gun
and holster
I could borrow?
and I could be her
to your Wyatt Earp
she said
sure I have
I said
I got lots of guns
and holsters
- I had about three sets-
let's go get one
and we can get you
started as a cowgirl
I said
and I can ride
a pretend white horse
she said
to go with your
black one
ok
I said
and we got up
and walked back
into the Square
and we went to the flat
where I lived
my mother was boiling
the wash in the boiler
and said
you want some lunch yet?
I asked Janice and she said
that would be nice
and so we had some
sandwiches and milk
and I went and got her
a spare gun and holster
and an S belt of mine
which she fitted around
her narrow waist
and she had a go
at drawing the gun
out of the holster
as she'd seen me do
and she was quite good
and after lunch
we set off to ride
our imaginary horses
through the Square
and along the open prairie
off the Meadow Row
bomb site
looking out
for Injuns
or bad cowboys
we could fight.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
He was baptized in whiskey
and gunsmoke aroma
Took up with a Cherokee woman
Quite friskey
Down in the Territory of Oklahoma
Tired of one too many killings
He took his side iron off
Wrapped it in its holster folded
Inside a gun oiled rag
Replaced it with his Mother's Bible
From within his saddle bag
Listened to that smart Indian woman
Who said he'd hung around the Territory
Too long
And if we don't skeedaddle
You'll be hangin' longer than you want
Smartest woman he'd ever known
She'd heard there's no law or religion
West of the Pecos and beyond
So they headed out to Texas
To preach the gospel to outlaws
****** and poor Mexican Catholics
Wrote off the Oklahoma Territory Baptists
Whose thick hides hide drunken sinners
Ridin' hard and fast her buckskin skirt
Above her thighs
Ridin' with a winner
Dark hair flowing behind
Ridin' hard to in his sight keep her
Such beauty that could stir the
***** and mind
Of even an old saddle preacher
r
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
So promise laden, dormant lain
Neatly wrapped in cellophane
Freshly minted, new release
Pride of place and centrepiece
Glossy pages tempt the eye
Guns and girls in good supply
Grab something that’s quick to eat
Pop the disk and take a seat
A couple of hours hurry past
Scene is set and players cast
Villain always gets away
Hero vows to make him pay
Know what would be just as fun?
Stop chatting him up and USE THE ******* GUN
But no, then they proceed to dine
With another ******* TWENTY MINUTES of unrelated story line
Shooting people, picking locks
Run down corridor, crouch behind box
Hold down R and wiggle stick
Holster weapon, crouch and kick
You know what? I couldn’t care any less
Pause, Quit, Are you sure? Yes
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
There was the usual exchange of foul words and light shoving around,
but then "Windy" rushed Billy and threw him down to the ground.
He sat on Billy's chest pinning his arms down to the floor.
He punched and smacked Billy's face. Each blow was more vicious than the one before.
Billy called upon all of his strength that he could possibly muster
and tried to work his 41 caliber out of his holster.
"That's enough Windy! You're killing the kid!" some concerned bar room patrons did roar.
A gunshot was heard. There wasn't a single spoken word
as Frank "Windy" Cahill rolled lifelessly to the floor.
Billy struggled to his feet. His bloodied face was so swollen he could barely see.
His smoking gun was still clenched in his shaking hand.
Congratulations Billy. Now look what you've done.
You've gone and killed your very first man.
Tales of this incident have been told far and wide from one extreme to the other,
such as the merciless killer kid who gunned down the helpless blacksmith
and then left the bar whistling without a care or bother,
but eye witnesses attest that the first version describes it best
and that the following quote seems most accurate and right.
"I never saw no killer. I saw a scared beat up boy run out of the cantina that night."
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 2:45 AM UTC
they shout.
A collection of my closest friends
and confidants
implore, plead & demand
my index finger move
only inches to squeeze
the trigger of the pistol.
Pull the trigger!
My arms are quivering--
the chain smoking hasn't helped
steady the nerves.
I'm having trouble looking
at my victim.
Pull the trigger!
He's my best friend
but also destroyed whatever life I had
as he continues spiraling out of control.
I can't focus at work,
I'm afraid to go back to my own apartment--
letting him crash for a while was a bad idea.
My nerves are shot,
I'm emotionally drained...
I'd do anything to make it stop.
Pull the trigger!
They keep shouting in unison--
all people I trust implicitly.
They've never steered me wrong before,
they sympathize,
can't stand to see him erode away
what's left of my life.
Pull the trigger!
They're right.
There's nothing I can do--
what choice is left?
My head vibrates
from their chanting
my eyes are watering a little--
thought I'd be sobbing.
A deep exhale...
quickly raising the gun
to his head--
Pull the trigger!
He's sobbing,
whimpering like a wounded *****
When he looks at me,
I can tell he understands
and sympathizes with me.
I whisper,
"If you don't
get the help you need--
I'm going to do what they want."
After I holster the gun
to stunned silence,
I walk away...
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
She shot me dead on
With a pistol that
Would have looked better on a cowboy
It was too heavy for her holster
Her body shifted from side to side
As she walked towards me
And she had to eventually prop her hand
Up on her unarmed hip
As she stopped to stop over me
She let her sweat drip down from
Her forehead to dip of her collar bone
And she let her mouth smile
Bigger than had seen it grow in years
She didn’t bother to wipe off
Her black powered fingers
She touched the spot just below my neck
Where I could feel the bullet sink further in
She shot me dead on
And I remembered telling her once
How she wore tears like a diamond necklace
She shot me dead on
And I remembered telling her once
How I much preferred rubies.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
If a blade were to be broken into two separate pieces, which part of the blade would be considered duller?
The part still attached to it's holster?
Or the one broken free of it?
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
The police
watch the *******
put bass in their voice
when they talk to me
"Hey buddy,
you know your tail-lights were out?"
All that bass.
Cops always call me buddy
and I just want to flick my switch
and cut a ************
but I don't
I gotta stay steady.
**** you,
I'm just trying to get to work
on time
and you might get me fired,
but that don't matter,
you want to keep me in my place;
make sure to rest your hand
on your holster
as you're leaning into my driver's side window.
I'm just trying to pay my bills
aren't you?
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC
I'm a graying aged gunfighter
Time to get out of the game
I can not see to shoot my gun
I can not see to aim
I used to be the best there was
The top of every list
Now I can't hit a **** barn door
I shot at one and missed
I could out draw anyone
Who faced me on the street
Now, I'm more than likely
To put a bullet 'tween my feet
I play a little poker now
Spend my days just passing time
I break even mostly
The way I play, well, that's a crime
No one round here knows me
They don't know about my past
To them I'm just a codger
I don't do one **** thing fast
I noticed things were changing
Ten years back I'd say
I had a gun fight in Dodge City
And it didn't go my way
I threw down with some punk kid
He was drunk and really ******
I got my gun stuck in my holster
He fell down, he shot, he missed
I walked to him now laying
In the street, out cold, not dead
I took his gun and holster
And then went home to bed
A gunfighter of substance
Would have killed me where I stood
Was I lucky he was drunk then?
Or was I losing it for good?
I packed my stuff up in the morning
I left the town later that night
The next fighter might be sober
And I'd not survive that fight
I took off for the desert
Made plans just where I would go
A state where I could hide out
Where my past, no one would know
On the way I stopped and practiced
Shot some cactus and some trees
I was shooting though at rabbits
I can't survive here eating these
One day, a rogue coyote
Came and took me by surprise
I shot a tree, it fell on him
I aimed between his eyes
The sooner I got settled
The safer I would feel
Too much longer in the desert
I'd end up some varmints tasty meal
I rode on in to where I am
I can't tell you just what town
I've got to keep it secret
Or I may just get shot down
I have a small room at the hotel
I play cards to pay the rent
I speak with a slightly muddled accent
I try to be a southern gent
I've been here now for near six months
The town is growing fast
So, my time here might be cut short
With the future, comes my past
For now I just play poker
An old gunfighter at heart
One day I know they'll find me
I'll go to boot hill in a cart
I'm an aged old gunfighter
There's not many still around
I'm hiding now from my last gunfight
That will put me six feet in the ground.
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 10:07 PM UTC
Hopalong Cassidy
When I was a little girl
Hopalong Cassidy
Was my hero
I would watch him on the television
Riding his horse Topper
And then
PRETEND...
Hiding behind chairs
Running from one to the other
Shooting the bad guys
With my finger gun.
One birthday my mom surprised me
With a whole Hopalong Cassidy outfit.
I had a vest with fringe,
The cowgirl skirt, the hat
And best of all
A Hopalong Cassidy WATCH
And a silver play gun in a holster
In my imagination
I WAS HOPALONG CASSIDY
Back in the 40's
IT WAS OK
To play Cowboys and Indians
IT WAS OK
To shoot the bad guys
With a finger gun
Or a silver play gun
IT WAS OK
To use the word Indians
Without offending anyone
So Sad that kids can't play
Cowboys and Indians anymore
Because you wouldn't know
If that gun was real
By judy
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 6:59 AM UTC
I hide mostly in confines now.
Not fearing death, but life.
Lone in the light I can manage from matches
and torches, paranoid and anxious.
Topside today, no home tomorrow.
Still I rise to see the sun.
Yank the chain tether to test for rust.
Wander into the wastes in search,
mostly of water, and then for trust.
It's simple enough with a gun.
I look East, but think twice and
travel to the West for the wind of peace.
In old buildings close to my bed and blankets,
I find a young boy with his sister, and while
she's older and dressed in hardened leather,
the clasp on her hip holster's shut tight.
They're looking for sustenance. I watch with
my eyes just over the window sill
as the two cling to each other
through the rooms.
They find nothing. Turning to what's left in their packs.
Cans of tuna. Pork and beans. Fumbling with
knives to stab through the shell.
Is it a good day to die?
I wonder,
thinking of the can opener
I found yesterday.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
The harmonica is a brushed-steel magazine
a little chrome home for a loaded line of tones
like bullets begging to be drawn
through the barrel of a handgun
the cold friend I holster
hidden in my pocket
and some final night it will find me alone
where I can pull it to my teeth
and with a single squeeze
I can blow the silence straight from my skull.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:25 AM UTC
"A holstered product secretly hunts after its own end product-"
"-not metal targets nor flying geese, but mortality."
A man, with graying hair and pursed lips, told me this. A well-trained and prayered piety had crept along, pounced, and overcome him. Like Edison, a creative obsession gripped his spine and puppeteered the entire body. It was a plague, he called it, or something like that. Even at a young age, gaurdian 1 & 2 lulled him to the steeple's hiding. He noted how the steeple was always at mast. His children would observe the same detail, live the same routine. I studied the curious character for weeks. A facsimile of the Word seemed permanently pressed on his brain, trapped behind devout eyes- For weeks I studied him, give me more time! Each biblical page was scribbled and creased, share and reused. -no longer. "My holster found its mortal tonight, friend. I'll raise the barrel and create a grand scene."
Slight pause, heavy breathe, slow speak. "Colossal at best."
by Kendra Cook
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
Hopalong Cassidy
When I was a little girl
Hopalong Cassidy
Was my hero
I would watch him on the television
Riding his horse Topper
And then
PRETEND...
Hiding behind chairs
Running from one to the other
Shooting the bad guys
With my finger gun.
One birthday my mom surprised me
With a whole Hopalong Cassidy outfit.
I had a vest with fringe,
The cowgirl skirt, the hat
And best of all
A Hopalong Cassidy WATCH
And a silver play gun in a holster
In my imagination
I WAS HOPALONG CASSIDY
Back in the 40's
IT WAS OK
To play Cowboys and Indians
IT WAS OK
To shoot the bad guys
With a finger gun
Or a silver play gun
IT WAS OK
To use the word Indians
Without offending anyone
So Sad that kids can't play
Cowboys and Indians anymore
Because you wouldn't know
If that gun was real
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC