"musket" poems
I want to beat you to death with a blunt object.
I want to grab one of those high-end fashion mannequins by the ankles and bash your ribcage in.
I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them with a rubber band, stick the lead ends in your mouth, and punch the erasers.
I want to strap you to a bed of nails and then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake.
I want to burn your dog in front of you, mix his ashes with gunpowder, melt his bone-shaped name tag into a small metal ball, load it all into a musket, and shoot you in the face with him.
I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and then somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
304
The Day came slow—till Five o’clock—
Then sprang before the Hills
Like Hindered Rubies—or the Light
A Sudden Musket—spills—
The Purple could not keep the East—
The Sunrise shook abroad
Like Breadths of Topaz—packed a Night—
The Lady just unrolled—
The Happy Winds—their Timbrels took—
The Birds—in docile Rows
Arranged themselves around their Prince
The Wind—is Prince of Those—
The Orchard sparkled like a Jew—
How mighty ’twas—to be
A Guest in this stupendous place—
The Parlor—of the Day—
4k
3
“Sic transit gloria mundi,”
“How doth the busy bee,”
“Dum vivimus vivamus,”
I stay mine enemy!
Oh “veni, vidi, vici!”
Oh caput cap-a-pie!
And oh “memento mori”
When I am far from thee!
Hurrah for Peter Parley!
Hurrah for Daniel Boone!
Three cheers, sir, for the gentleman
Who first observed the moon!
Peter, put up the sunshine;
Patti, arrange the stars;
Tell Luna, tea is waiting,
And call your brother Mars!
Put down the apple, Adam,
And come away with me,
So shalt thou have a pippin
From off my father’s tree!
I climb the “Hill of Science,”
I “view the landscape o’er;”
Such transcendental prospect,
I ne’er beheld before!
Unto the Legislature
My country bids me go;
I’ll take my india rubbers,
In case the wind should blow!
During my education,
It was announced to me
That gravitation, stumbling,
Fell from an apple tree!
The earth upon an axis
Was once supposed to turn,
By way of a gymnastic
In honor of the sun!
It was the brave Columbus,
A sailing o’er the tide,
Who notified the nations
Of where I would reside!
Mortality is fatal—
Gentility is fine,
Rascality, heroic,
Insolvency, sublime!
Our Fathers being weary,
Laid down on Bunker Hill;
And tho’ full many a morning,
Yet they are sleeping still,—
The trumpet, sir, shall wake them,
In dreams I see them rise,
Each with a solemn musket
A marching to the skies!
A coward will remain, Sir,
Until the fight is done;
But an immortal hero
Will take his hat, and run!
Good bye, Sir, I am going;
My country calleth me;
Allow me, Sir, at parting,
To wipe my weeping e’e.
In token of our friendship
Accept this “Bonnie Doon,”
And when the hand that plucked it
Hath passed beyond the moon,
The memory of my ashes
Will consolation be;
Then, farewell, Tuscarora,
And farewell, Sir, to thee!
2.6k
147
Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast—
Grant God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest!
Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white—
I should not fear the foe then—
I should not fear the fight!
2.3k
In 1814 we took a little trip
Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississipp'
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans
And we caught the ****** British in the town of New Orleans
We fired our guns and the British kept a coming
There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago
We fired once more and they began to running
Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico
We looked down the river and we seen the British come
And there must have been a hundred of them beating on the drums
They stepped so high and they made their bugles ring
We stood behind our cotton bales and didn't say a thing
Old Hickory said we could take 'em by suprise
If we didn't fire a musket 'til we looked 'em in the eyes
We held our fire 'til we seen their faces well
We opened up our squirrel guns and really gave 'em
Well they ran through the briars and they ran through the brambles
And they ran through the bushes where the rabbits couldn't go
They ran so fast the hounds couldn't catch 'em
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico
We fired our cannon 'til the barrel melted down
Then we grabbed an alligator and we fought another round
We filled his head with cannonballs and powdered his behind
And when we touched the powder off the gator lost his mind
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
Lord time is loading a gun
First, he loads
the seconds
The first time you met, the way you felt
The minutes
soon after
Your first date, knowing it's fate
The hours
afterwards
Sweet talks into the night, the regret after the first fight
Next slightly fazed
he stacks in the days
Getting to know each other, finding love in one another
months goes down the Musket
as he seals the casket
The special why she smiled, awaiting your first child
Lastly, with tears
he forces in the years
You grow old together. Time has cut her tether
Now his work is done
It's time to fire the gun.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
How she silences all my senses remains a mystery to me. She numbs my core but yet makes it beat rapidly.
My insides turn to jelly whenever she gnaws at my belly, when she sinks her nails into my back and bites my bottom lip like a liquorice stick.
Some others would call her a bottom ****, but there's so much more to her being than being more than a side chick.
She sings melodies which resonate with the hums of my heart when we touch,
much of which is far from lust but is purely just.
To me she's more than a nutbust, she's more of an infinite ****** from which i cannot overcome.
VS
my botttom ***** she.. changed the scene, I: the bottom ***** loved and gave in once again, Into all the blissful ******** she spewed using her tongue.
Her tongue numbing everything...everything except my hands clenching, gripping knuckles turning white, my teeth drawing blood from my bottom lip.
she walked out, leaving me , bleeding , aching core. she left my house, my little bit of heaven.
Calls at 3am , the top, begging to be let it and just like that the words " go **** yourself " stuck in my throat yet my arms are missing you.
i turn to mush when you make that face... this is why i remain in the darkside, feeding the demons you supposedly killed
these demons were fed with lead, resurrected and led by madness.
Rage!
or a caveman savage!
Or..
i could call her over and offer her some tea and muffins, from a musket.
Hemp rope and hang (with) her, bound by invincible chords to the Lord but what more could i ask for but harmonious love from broken keys.
Broken keys for broken hearts, broken hearts deserve shotguns to pump bullets into the minds of those who sugarcoat the truth.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
The ghost of Bill Kettchel still sits glumly on the bluff
Not but a few paces from where he was fell
He has risen majestic at night from the well.
Still screaming out loud, Hey give em hell boys, give em hell
Dropped in head a foremost by the heel of his boot
Give em hell goes the echo, by god give em all hell
The fields glistened brightly with crimson and gore
The fighting was grisly like none seen before.
All stacked up like cord-wood a good ten foot high, they smote grey and smote blue
by the hip and by the thigh.
Give em hell boys by god, came the echoing cry.
Now musket ball splatter, now cannon grape rain.
March through the death gauntlet and line up again.
As the dying lie crying Under shade tree spread wide.
I'm a Yankee doodle dandy. Yankee doodle do or die.
A real live nephew of my uncle Sam born on the fourth of July.
Look away ,look away look away.
Dumped in head a foremost by foot and by heel. My self, Andy, Caleb
Rest daily in the well. By day we lie peacefull, at night we rebell.
Especially those nights when the moon is aglow
We rise to the mouth and we holler and shout.
Give em hell boys by god, just send them all straight to hell.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 2:33 AM UTC
There are bluebirds flying all around
Inside my head
And I am reminded that tomorrow,
I may not hold your hand again
and I may never feel your teeth sink
Into my skin, again
*and wasn't that
supposed to be
a good thing?*
I'm left cleaning up the scraps,
the mess we leave behind
Like it's my responsibility
to carry your heartbreak, too.
*wasn't it
supposed to be good
when I was with you?*
I read somewhere
*This is where you fire your musket,
and this is where you fall and die*
but I've fired my musket-heart
and I haven't fallen and I'm still dying
for you to look me in the eye
Like you still mean it;
Like there isn't some line in the sand
you have drawn arbitrarily
to measure what has been inside my heart
When you never cared to ask.
Love, those bluebirds are making it hard to see
through all their Pulsing wings,
But in their eclipse,
I'm finding a ring of light.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
•high in the
mountains, he grew we-
ary and ragged•
• his sight turned
cloudy, chin un-
shaven and face hag-
gard•removed his boots
for his feet did stink•
sleep he wanted but not
without a drink•one big
swig and he downed it all•
then he was asleep before the
sun could fall•many days visited,
many shadows cast•over this slum-
bering man, many moons had passed
•one fateful day, his eyes did twitch
and then did open•he sprung aw-
ake to the life he had forsaken•his
musket dusty, his clothes in di-
sarray•his chin - a long beard
that has seen countless days•he
ran to his home before noontime
chime•he found only disbelief, for he had slept
a lifetime•
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 7:08 AM UTC
Four score and seventy one years ago,
fifty thousand men, in blue and gray
divided, became one, in red united
to consecrate the ground where we
now stand. From the Shenandoah
Valley, and the Potomac banks they
marched, and fell at Cemetery Hill,
Little Round Top, and Devil's Den.
But on this day, they rise to give
meaning to their sacrifice; they leave
behind their sabers and their musket
rifles, their cannon silent, their battle
done; they rise in peace at Gettysburg,
they rise at dawn with the morning sun.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
With eyes of black obsidian
And eagle's beak of nose
Black turban of the Taliban
Worn everywhere he goes,
Warrior of God's mountainside
Mujaheddin, known by name,
Pashto is his verbal tongue
And Allah's quest, his fame.
Razored knife in braided belt
Long"Jezail"musket points to sky,
A gimlet glint to garnet gaze
One thoughtless move , you die.
Gliding fast from rock to rock
Gazelle like in his easy grace,
Silent as an adder's strike
Assassin black with turbaned face.
For centuries invaders came
To vanquish this stark land,
Persians,Romans, Russians
And British redcoats tried their hand.
And recently the Yankees
Came with automated war,
To find themselves engulfed
And fleeing for the exit door.
Inexorable Afghanistan
Has bleached their bones as one
Vendetta for the insult
While there's air to breath and gun.
Like Shah Massoud, the warlords
Descend from mountain cave
To slaughter all who venture
Be they terrified or brave.
Tribally disconnected
From Islamabad to Kabul,
Tajik versus Pashtun
Versus Koranic Islam's rule.
No prisoners are taken,
The women always use their knives
And ravines echo shockingly
As tortured slowly lose their lives.
But the sunsets are glorious
Valley mists by morning rise
And row by row of fractured peaks
Rise in grandeur to blue skies.
And the children croon to goat herds
As they graze high meadow's green
And above the taloned goshawk glides
Ever watchful and unseen.
Hulks of Russian gun ships
Litter valleys and the plain
And the ghosts of many nations
Walk these dusty roads of shame.
For the legacy of the Afghans
Is a ****** litany of war
And the road to their tomorrow
Is paved with promises of more.
Marshalg
Wanganui
30 December 2009.
www.worthyofpublishing.com
www.hellopoetry.com
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
I could never be Raglan the knife man
nor a slippery Thames eel.
I haven't enough apologies
that heed wings.
In the act of caprice
borne musket and grape
I floored Thomas Avery,
Tavern proprietor
who lay cold as ecclesiastical stone,
having raptured my Ussela
in cheery Bishopsgate.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
A horseshoe made of iron
Strikes against the ground
As the horse carries his rider
To the place which he is bound
The riders horse is quick
Traveling under a midnight sky
Gliding silently through the night
As lightly as a butterfly
The horses stride is long
And like a musket ball in flight
He moves about unheard
Unseen within the night
At last the morning comes
But no rider no horse no sound
Yet there upon the trail
A horseshoe print is found
RLB
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
Your reader quakes like a ready reactor
Steady burn an incalculable factor
On your mark, we approach the next chapter
A quiet pen, without ambition
Keeps each plan from happy fruition
And pressure mounts, some new type of fission
Carve yourself out a space in time
Mark it well so it’s easy to find
History don’t repeat, but rhymes:
Solicitudes concede to style
Somebody just filed suit for libel
One more murmur to add to the pile
To be a made man is to be man-made
And so you dull your colors down a shade
The arsonists took over the fire brigade
Step outside of your burning home
Pavement stand, dial your phone
Ask whomever if We are Rome
The receiver will no doubt laugh a little
That is, if she caught the preceding riddle
Somewhere Nero bows the fiddle
Tell me something, if you please
About the world pregnant virgins see
Oblivious to a state emergency
A noble fourth, our D’Artangan
Has the sharpened instinct of a jealous man
Oh, you know him? And you’re a fan?
He’s wants a girl who drinks whisky and gin
Musket holstered, what a sin
Somebody asks, “What shape’s he in?”
One assumes he’s kind of tame
A lion, yes, but with a shampooed mane
He don’t play ***** but he plays the game
Shoes on, button up, wipe your glasses
Time to shake up contented masses
Donde hay educación, no hay distinción de clases
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
Gettysburg a small Pensylvania town gave the battle its name
At its end it became a place of graves
Behind the town a small round hill
Guarded by the 20th Maine
Little Round Top hill now held the flank
So that the union troops could now advance
If the grey could crush the line
They could with their lives buy the time
And give Lee the victory he so desired
But the hill was strongly held by men
Led by Chamberlain
Joshua L Chamberlain, a professor was
A man who had a love of god
But now with blood upon his hand
He and the 20 Maine did make their stand
On Little Roundtop hill
He knew that if his lines did break
The conferderates might win the day
The war might there be lost
With a mighty rebel yell
William Oates and his men did charge the hill
Into a storm of musket ball and minnie round
Now dying men on the ground did fall
Time and time again they charged
Into that inferno of ****** hell
Never ceasing to give the rebel yell
Now Chamberlain with shot near spent
Turned and ordered bayonets fixed
And charged the rebel line
The confederats now turned and fled
Down the hill now slick and red
With the blood of fallen men
Chamberlains men of Maine had won the day
From their duty they did not sway
For many the hill was their last resting place
And in their deaths was no disgrace
Chamberlain had held the hill
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
A village of bears sleeps in the trees
10 miles North of a town called Amveese
The humans keep busy and away from the wood
If they'd desire to hunt, they certainly could.
The bears are afraid of the humans so close
And hiding is what these bears do most
But Billy the bear is anxious today
His teeth are a mess, a complete disarray.
“Bears need to toughen and deal with the pain.”
“Bears don't have dentists, we aren't the same.”
Billy was tired of all the excuses
For once he heard dentists that satisfy Mooses.
So on a cold night, as cold as expected
Billy crawled quietly, pray not be rejected.
A 10 mile walk in darkness to light
A new set of teeth was Billy's delight.
Upon reaching the town, the sun had arisen
Hustle and bustle blurred Billy's vision.
He hid behind corners and a big garbage can
The dentist in sight, he had a great plan.
Uprooting a bush, using cover to hide
He moved like the wind, in big bear strides.
He moved around back, and knocked on the door
A new aspiration for humans galore.
“Welcome my fury and large bodied beast!
Come in, take a seat, prepare for a feast!
While you are here, you will dream a new dream
For humans, pray tell, are not what they seem.”
The doctor moved quickly and dragged him inside
“There's no time to waste, my work I take pride.”
He danced and he moved like no human seen before
And snuck into a dark and closed wooden door.
“I'll be out in a minute, just preparing a sample
For you will be next on my prize winning mantle!”
The door flung open, the doctor stood grand
For he had an old fashion musket in hand!
Billy was frightened, and tried to retreat
But noticed a dart sticking out of his feet.
Someone had drugged him, he didn't know how
BANG went the musket, and then, no more sound.
So the days went on, and the doctor was pleased
A new trophy cleaned, polished, and seized.
See, the thing about humans and animals alike
They'll behead anything if there's an available pike.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
The night winds sing,
the chorus rings through
the dead hour of the valley.
Hear it, the music of the wolf’s pain.
Against the backdrop of the new moon,
high on an icy blue rocky ridge
with the pine trees stabbing the black sky,
there shivers the weeping wolf.
*This day he has lost
two precious things...*
Hunters came bearing muskets,
bayonets and torches.
They rampaged through the wood
shooting everything that moved.
The air hung heavy with the stink
of the musket shot.
The wolf’s mate,
a beauty amongst beauties,
had been suckling her pup
when a hunter’s sabre silently sliced
through her fur
and cleaved her silky shoulder.
Death silenced her
and snatched away her pup.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 12:30 PM UTC
The old man is in the wilderness,
His children never borne.
His parents torn.
He lives alone.
And he likes it so.
No one to tell him what to do.
No government to bore him too.
No lost or love...
Little effort, and much fun.
Yet still for this man,
There feels a hole,
Something inescapable,
Yet not quite describable,
Somewhere within him,
Something is missing.
Lacking a vocabulary,
He finds himself lacking.
So he carries on his day
Chopping wood for winter,
Eating fish for dinner,
Beating his dog for pleasure,
And sleeping for leisure,
He lives a simple life,
One away from danger.
A hatchet for protection,
And a musket for intervention.
But slowly the hole grew.
Until it weighted more than he did.
Bigger and stronger than he,
Eating him from inside.
Yet he was a stubborn man,
And he would rather die,
Then ask for help.
Or a neighborly "Hi,"
So his illness went untreated,
And his loneliness grew.
He beat his dog more,
and ate a little less.
Cried at night,
And knew naught why.
Like a black hole it consumed,
Everything it could see,
That hole slowly grew,
From out his heart it bleeds.
One Day,
Their was nothing left.
Just the hole,
In the guise of man.
It did not move,
And it did not breathe.
The dog had already went away...
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 9:29 PM UTC
Noxious cold blinds,
his blood pulses and
the brain goes numb.
Panic fills the smoke-thick
atmosphere.
A "Who's there?" falls
before a silent response.
A clack under a thumb.
The musket metal gleams
like water in the moonlight.
A fire's scent drifts into his nostrils
as a steady beat of drums --
"war drums"
wiggle through the trees
into his electrified mind.
Moving forward,
the forest canopy transforms--
illuminated tangerine.
Sparks snap like upward
travelling orange muse.
Feathers dance
above the flames.
[war cries]
He retreats back
into the leafy abyss.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
I heard you're talking about
Splitting the fortune into two
With the silver revolver in her hand
Gasping her breath she's walking down the aisle
Burning red than fading blue
The odds of your lumbered existence fall flat
If only the armour was repossessed
By a harbinger from your mother womb
Would you realise the game ceases to exist
It's all in your mind in caught in your rigmarole of lies
Overhwhelmed by your streak of luck
You command the move to be played
If only you knew
the result already is checkmate
When the lady sitting across placed a bet
You lost it all to her and satiated yourself to her charm
But she's walking down the aisle now
Burning red than fading blue
Black and red you lost it all
You went home and pretended to be unscathed
But this time there's no way back
It's the lady coming towards you
With the biased musket at her disposal
This is not your gambling den
Here comes apocalypse
It's Russian roulette.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
How many of you belong to the AMERICAN FASCIST PARTY (formerly the Republican Party)?
**** Trump is the first (Lincoln was a Republican) to be elected president of the United States of America. During **** Trump's tenure, there were 1,716 mass shootings in America and close to 2,000 human beings killed.
The AR-15, a weapon of war. Heard of it? Have one? It's legal. Buy as many as you like. If you tried to shoot a pheasant with one and you hit it, you'd have only feathers.
It does the same to a child's body. A grieving mother in Uvalde, Texas had to identify her dead son by a sock he had worn to school. The AR-15 had torn up the body so badly, the mother could not recognize her dead child.
The 2nd Amendment guaranteed a citizen's right to own a MUSKET, not a de facto machine gun. The right to own as many AR-15s as you wish, even one, is insanity, pure and simple.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 7, 2023
Apr 7, 2023 at 12:55 AM UTC
winter fir
–ing of a thawing musket
crows scatter
Aug 12, 2020
Aug 12, 2020 at 3:02 PM UTC
She lived in a tiny cottage
On top of a sea-bound bluff,
Looked down on the cold blue waters
In fair weather, and in rough,
The smoke that curled from her chimney piece
Was snatched away by the wind
So couldn’t obscure the window where
She stood, and her eyes were pinned.
She saw the gaggle of soldiers
Rise up, and out of the marsh,
And remembered a past encounter,
Their treatment of her was harsh,
She snipped the lock on the window, then
She hurried to bar the door,
Raised the trap to the cellar, and
Slid down to the cellar floor.
She lay in hopes they would pass on by,
Would ignore her humble home,
Would think that there was a man nearby
Not a woman there, alone,
She knew of the fate of others who
Had invited the soldiers in,
For many a soldier’s bairn was born
The result of a soldier’s sin.
She heard them muttering round the house
And tapping the window pane,
Beating a tattoo on the door
Till she thought she’d go insane,
They’d seen the smoke from her chimney piece
And they called, ‘Hey you inside,
We need to shelter the night at least,
It’s wintry here outside.’
But still she lay on the cellar floor
As quiet as any mouse,
She wasn’t going to let them in
To her tiny little house,
She heard the crash as the timber gave
Away on her cottage door,
And heard the thump of their feet above
As they stomped across her floor.
She heard the sound of their puzzlement
When they found the cottage bare,
‘Somebody must have lit the fire,
But now, they’re just not there.’
She heard them smashing her crockery
And drinking beer from her ***
She never had enough food to spare
But she knew they’d eat the lot.
Down below was a musket that
She’d kept well oiled and cleaned,
Along with a horn of powder that
She’d felt worthwhile redeemed,
She found the shot and she rammed it home
There was nothing left to chance,
The first to open that trapdoor would
Begin his final dance.
The night came on and they settled down,
Above, she could hear them snore,
She wondered whether they’d go away
When the sun came up, once more,
But then, sometime in the early hours
She heard the trapdoor creak,
And a pair of eyes were hypnotised
As they saw the musket speak.
There once was a tiny cottage
On top of a sea-bound bluff,
It’s now burnt out, just a shell without
A roof or a door, it’s rough,
While down in the cold blue waters
Lies a woman, drowned and dead,
And up on the bluff, a soldier’s grave,
Buried, without a head.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 6:16 AM UTC
Nelson :- Kiss me hard on
Hardy :- Kiss me Hardy
Nelson :- No kiss me hard on
Hardy :- Kismet Hardy
Nelson :- **** you man Kiss My Hard On
Hardy loading musket and checking no ones looking fires and pens in ships diary
Today Nelson died of his wounds without saying a word.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 9:13 AM UTC