"marksman" poems
An agent of assonance,
An army of alliteration,
A conquistador of climaxes,
A fighter with form,
A marksman of motif,
A mercenary of metaphors,
A ninja of nuances,
A raider of rhyme,
A soldier of synonyms,
A vigilante of voice,
I strike with the fiercest of sentences,
With such clarity and no false pretenses,
I assail with the mightiest of swords,
I am a warrior of words.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 8:18 AM UTC
The air was crisp and clean and clear,
The huntsman knew his time had come.
He gathered all equipment and gear.
Then shined and polished his gun.
He took a step, his boots polished black.
To his tiny little wife he blew a kiss back
Off, he was, to capture his prized buck.
She waved goodbye wishing him luck.
He got to his post, stood there and waited.
Patiently, with his traps he had baited.
For a time he remained quiet and still.
This kind of game was his kind of thrill.
Lo and behold, with rage and adrenaline
A perfect opportunity made its rise.
He steadied his rifle, an expert marksman.
He shot the young buck between its eyes.
In a moment it was done
And the huntsman had won.
The poor creature had no chance to fight.
It had fallen to the earth
No cry made it's birth
A silent victim in the night.
Time had come for homebound journey,
With the sun setting on both heads.
Only one of them back with family,
The other became family's dread.
The huntsman took his brand new trophy
And hung high the brown skinned creature.
Hand in hand with his wife he stood boldly
"I was the one to end this ******
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
A poet's supposed to only post poetry
If I try to do anything different under a pseudonym
They'd know it's me
They're not too dim
To shine a light on similarity
Between two varying laugh tracks despite all the hilarity
Been getting down to brass tax with a microscope
I could read the fine print even if both my eyes were closed
So tie the rope tightly around your own necks
As I work far outside of my trajectory from how I make the bow flex
If I was Archie mixed with Cupid
I would
Follow an arrows arc like an archery marksman whose targets are Betty and Veronica's beating hearts
And when they get hit,
They both fall pretty hard
And meet me in my back yard where I get their backs archin'
Point is, I've got precision aim
When I'm shooting for emotions
Make you never feel a thing
Make you clear minded and focused
Let you all in on my pain
Have you buzzin' like a locust
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
I feel your love,
Yet your marksmanship is poor,
For towards me your love aims not.
Your intentions aimed elsewhere.
A past lover.
And I am not he.
Malicious Misery pushed you too far.
Too far this time.
Your life is precious to me,
Yet a treasure you seek not.
It dwindles within these machines,
Like a strand of seaweed.
Being crashed upon by the waves,
Of this poison you endowed yourself with.
Much a tragedy this is.
Yet not that of Shakespeare.
No, this much too real,
To take a form of fictitious imaginings.
This, much more complicated,
Than a Shakespearean masterpiece.
For if so,
Your love would be aimed at I.
But it is not,
And in resent, I mourn this tragedy.
Yet, I must let love,
Travel upon its everso hellbound path.
My eyes lie upon thee,
And my heart within the feeble hand of yours.
Yet your mind lies elsewhere,
And your desires lie with your mind.
Upon he.
The one currently at your arms reach.
The one at your desires demand.
The one you truly love.
I must not resent this,
For love hath struck thee as it struck I.
And Cupid's arrow hath stuck he as well.
I can see it in his sorrowful stare.
He loves you in a way that I cannot.
A consentful love.
For I am just a scapegoat.
Temporary.
Well now you've quenched your desire.
You've acquired what you sought.
Love of he.
(And I, for whatever its worth.)
His love is a precious gold,
And mine a mere coal.
Black, unwanted.
Only able to provide temporary warmth.
Pardon me for obstructing.
Love hath stolen my precious vision,
And wandered, I,
Into the meadow in which you hunt.
As a poor marksman,
Thou cast thine arrow of love upon me,
And realized I am but a scapegoat,
When the white stag is what you seek.
Once before,
you lined him in your sights.
But evasive is this mystical creature.
And once, he escap'd.
If your life so solidifies,
I shall replinish my vision,
Banish my love,
And obstruct thee no more.
Instead,
I must prosper in silence and patience.
Shun my hearts desires,
And let thee hunt.
I apologize for my inconvenience.
I shall groom each of your horses,
So that you may ride into,
The meadow of love together.
Hence, beware of hunters,
And wandering creatures.
Teach thine unsteady hand,
And this time...
Don't miss.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 4:19 AM UTC
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover
and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration—
a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.
So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating
data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.
And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road
past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.
3.5k
gun unslung
hanging by his side
swaying with his step
his step thorough
leaving sand behind
floating like particles of dust
dust now forgotten
as his step imprints
upon broken glass
glass shatters more
crumbling
like the cities of Israel
beneath the feet
of falsely declared gods
gods that now drive the mind
with intrepid pace
towards the unsuspecting
the unsuspecting victim
of such malice
that can only be embodied
by death
death
only defied by those
who can truly consider themselves
wholesome and true
and yet the truth struggles
to stop this relentless growth
of pride and self righteousness
and thus the marksman
raises the gun to his target
his breath steady
his heartbeat in his ears
a resonance that he despises
his imperfections are his enemy
And if not to be perfect then what else?
he pulls the trigger
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
8
There is a word
Which bears a sword
Can pierce an armed man—
It hurls its barbed syllables
And is mute again—
But where it fell
The saved will tell
On patriotic day,
Some epauletted Brother
Gave his breath away.
Wherever runs the breathless sun—
Wherever roams the day—
There is its noiseless onset—
There is its victory!
Behold the keenest marksman!
The most accomplished shot!
Time’s sublimest target
Is a soul “forgot!”
2.3k
ten cent poems
hiding in numbers
a shotgun blast
of ink and paper
hoping that one slug
strikes true.
knick an artery,
crack the bone
call yourself
a marksman wordsmith
im sorry i saw
through the muzzle flash
im sorry i told
but to be fair..
you lied first.
and im not sorry.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
**What if, i didn't find my calling?
Do you love me the way i am?**
Neither very attractive,
Nor hardworking.
Neither a sportsman,
Nor a marksman.
Neither an engineer,
Nor a doctor.
Neither a poet,
Nor an artist.
Neither a boon,
Nor a bane.
Do you love me the way i am?
My grades are not upto the mark,
Yet i could be much more than you could ask!
People call me vain,
Passions none to name.
May not fulfill dreams cherished by you,
May not walk on the path shown by you!
Do you love me the way i am?
All what my peers have is better than mine!
For me, unconditional love is just fine!
Oh my dear parents!
Am i not worthy?
**Maybe someday I'll find my calling!
Till then, please love me the way i am?**
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 6:43 AM UTC
When the yellow day coppers to dusk
I paint my weary eyes dreams.
They nudely wade the crabhole muds
for marks of the great marksman
climb up the chunks going into tides
tiptoe through the needle roots
sniff a wind that smells of stripes
thrilled
death if comes
would be a momentary stir
a dangling cloth
resting on the trail of blood, marking,
someone ventured.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
1152
Tell as a Marksman—were forgotten
Tell—this Day endures
Ruddy as that coeval Apple
The Tradition bears—
Fresh as Mankind that humble story
Though a statelier Tale
Grown in the Repetition hoary
Scarcely would prevail—
Tell had a son—The ones that knew it
Need not linger here—
Those who did not to Human Nature
Will subscribe a Tear—
Tell would not bare his Head
In Presence
Of the Ducal Hat—
Threatened for that with Death—by Gessler—
Tyranny bethought
Make of his only Boy a Target
That surpasses Death—
Stolid to Love’s supreme entreaty
Not forsook of Faith—
Mercy of the Almighty begging—
Tell his Arrow sent—
God it is said replies in Person
When the cry is meant—
1.4k
You never missed a mark
Firing right for my heart
Sent the bullet rippling through
My flesh and left me gaping
Whole, i thought i was before
You came along, taking aim
With your charming darts
Darling, I’m ****** I missed you
When I shot up high
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
Roofus *****
Is the best
With the slingshot
Shootin' quarters
Out of the air
Without a care
He says,
"See that Japanese beetle
Sittin' on the leaf?"
He shot it right off the top
Good grief!
What is his his secret?
Well practice makes perfect
And he never did
Own a t.v.
R.I.P. Rufus
(1919-1994)
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
lying, deceitful liar panting live in the steamy mongrel of my slummy hive / marksman, deficient marksman rake out my mortar - the body laughter - criminal grime ; an absent partner /
kissed ; what a frisky view - the sky seems so keen
from here it's howling downhill fire i breathe
so sweet to greet the menial hereafter
- [manic laughter]
Feb 7, 2024
Feb 7, 2024 at 8:12 PM UTC
Hall of fame
For the poets whom have left and came again, to those who
Write by the wire.
Cell phone
Tablet, computer
Laptop hot shop aquire.
For you who sleep and write
For those that write and fight
For you who are ordinary marksman like me
Hall of fame-your all in it you see.,
And the most incredible thing.
Is how incredible and awesome you all are
Poetry's greats! 2016s rockstars.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
We padded the smooth vinyl chair with a pillow.
Still, the wheels rolling over cracked sidewalks
(carefully avoided as kids, so as not to break
our mother's back)
now countered hoped-for benefit or comfort.
Jarring impact traveled up the steel frame,
found quick route mapped to weakness,
directed by some skilled marksman
to reach the target with precision,
proving to be the sharper force
than all our pillow gentleness
on this, her almost final
April ride.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
I did not see my parents in the bleachers, the night of the game.
How lack luster was the joy when I finally got of the bench,
scored with the winning play.
I did not see the Marksman who had me in his sights.
I did not get to see the medic who never left my side.......
I did not see you.
I did not get to see the family who holds hands and prays,
then sits around a dinner table with smiles and laughter on their face.
I did not see you.
I did not see the dark clouds gathering in the West.
I did not see the warning in the inbound text.
Some say you can hear a freight train way before you see the light.
I say there are some things we will never see and still be alright.
I did not see you............
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 12:46 PM UTC
Copyrights and patents
"What up reality?"
"Whatch you got for me today?"
The Marksman ****** on his cigarillo
His voice was distinct
A whirring voice
Vocable word choices
A man of great aptitude
Never blinked, never winced
With acute paranoia
And a metallic nucleus
Daft
He heard voices
Egging him on
Baiting him
Taking ****
Nuisances
"How's the ulcer oh glorious gunman?"
They said
"Hurts doesn't it?"
"Ready to give out?"
"Put that plastic bag on your head and end it"
The Marksman pivoted and headed toward the kitchen
And made a stew of whatever he could find under the sink
And ate it
"Hail to the chief and send my complements to the chef!"
He put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger
He was buried and had the most dignifying funeral I ever had the privilege of attending
-Tommy Johnson
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Try, try, try my best to be positive.
Try try, try some more to please him.
Taking classes that I don't enjoy.
Just to please him.
Go home not knowing what to expect.
Did I do everything that he wanted?
Did I do it to his expectations?
Striving to be the daughter he wants me to be.
(He is trying to live out his childhood dreams through me).
Expectations that I always fail to meet.
Try, try, try not to be in his presence when I cry.
Can't show him, give him the satisfaction.
Try try, try to do everything.
(I just want to avoid his dreadful sting).
Straight A's, a few B's. 3.50 G.P.A.
Not good enough for him.
All A's, 4.00 G.P.A. , is nothing to him.
Try, try, try, I am numb, no more feelings,
my "happiness" is all a lie.
He placed me in NJROTC at my high school,
expecting great things.
Be the top marksman.
But how can I be, if he won't allow me to compete?
Become colorguard commander,
without participating in an y of the events.
Become the CO of the program next year.
Without interacting the way I need to.
He expects all these things from me , and so much more.
Expectations and standards.
But makes it so that they are all impossible to meet.
Try, try, try to be everything he wants me to be.
Try, try, try, and only meet failure.
Fail, fail, fail, makes no difference to him.
Cracking under the pressure,
can't be in the same room as him or my stepmother.
Fail, fail, fail, giving them both reasons to yell at me more.
Fail, fail, fail, why even try, when he really doesn't care?
Fail, fail, fail..........
What else is there to do?
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
MY build to suit mind is designed for disappointing,
a warehouse space of dim lights, taunted by an l.e.d. retrofit,
TREPIDATIOUS, unable to sign my life's lease to own,
YEARS spoiled like produce, a dumpster gratefully digests.
I was 7, a little league southpaw, my arm, accurate on the mound.
PRACTICE of carelessly skipping stones over invulnerable ponds.
that day, the equation was misaligned, numbers squared roots and
CAUSED the answer to spawn seismic ripples of infinite affects.
it was the split second that was carelessly skipped and
THIS boy's vulnerable retina, the invulnerable pond.
although I was the expert marksman, I begged William not to Tell,
SO he blindly obliged my apple-shot withdraw request,
NOW spoiled produce my dumpster won't gratefully digest.
WHAT i regret most is not saying, William. Tell.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
Stay
You always seem so far
Away
Even the bleached roads between us
Cannot keep these lies from drowning
Piece by piece
I don't want this to hurt you
I don't write this to hurt you
My hands fall down by broken sides
Bruised love handles telling their own
Version of what always happens
Stay
You don't have to rip away
Tearing what little fabric we still hold
Deafening, the aching numbness that follows
Silence
A sword wielded by an expert marksman
On your own time, sweet heaven hurry
Tensed like a bow string, ready
Stay
Never fade
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
And the Marksman said,
"Aim for the heart, and not for the brow,
A punctured heart always heals somehow."
Through perjury
Through injury
The sting of treason
Rotates seasons.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
the upshot constituted a figurative straw
that broke the virtual camels back
where yours truly fingered as scape goat,
who meekly, passively, and subserviently
felt the stinging crack
of wooden, smooth,
and oblong paddle and stands pat,
asper innocence, though now
(myself more than two score years
orbitz around sun) remains more defiant
for purportedly causing Roberta -
not her real name flack
and clears that blot (now a composite
of petrified spitballs) as a hack
writer of poetry, feels jilted like Jack
donning many major protagonistic ruffian knack
nursery rhyme roles, which fables never didst lack
for upstart precocious, kickstarters impish grin,
as if he just wolfed down a swiped Bic Mac
and goose that laid more than one golden egg
McMuffin running from the Giant,
with spindle shank for each leg,
and sliding down the beanstalk, which didst peg
world wide web Marathon record
suddenly the envy of Queequeg,
which way word ness
far off course from the theme of this work,
hence hold tight
to hazmat bag of **** pin jay dreck,
while poetic license allows me to twerk
intended story aye (captain...
oh captain) moost not shirk,
lemme reel yar attention
back to the classroom of missus Labosh,
hood didst whistle and perk
unbeknownst to me, my scrawny derriere
unaware what quaint, hence danger didst lurk
for letting passivity
find me singled out as the bona fide ****
wishing Moby **** could swallow
hook, line and sinker
with a slight even Steven crane
of his neck, every mother plucking bird brain classmate
deemed Scott free, and Chutzpah didst gain
while this smart *** wannabe took a crash course,
sans weltanschauung "Artful Dodging
Spitball Shooting Maven" in the main
quite heavy on Physics and Trigonometry as became plane.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC