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Jim Sularz Jul 2012
© 2011 (by Jim Sularz)
(The true tale of Frank Eaton – “Pistol Pete”)

At the headwaters of the Red Woods branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of dry sunflowers flail.

In a grave, still stirs, is a father’s heart,
that beats now to avenge his death.
Six times, murdered by cold blooded killers,
six men branded for a son’s revenge ….

Rye whiskey and cards, they rode fast and hard,
the four Campseys and the Ferbers.
With malicious intent, they were all Hell bent
to commit a loving father’s ******.

When the gunsmoke had cleared, all their faces were seared,
in the bleeding soul of a grieving son.
Ain’t nothin’ worse, than a father’s curse,
to fill a boy with brimstone and Hell fire!

Young Eaton yearned and soon would learn,
the fine art of slinging lead.
Why, he could shoot the wings off a buzzin’ horsefly,
from twenty paces, lickety split!

Slightly crossed eyed, Frank had a hog-killin’ time,
at a Fort Gibson shootin’ match.
Upside down, straight-on and leanin’ backwards,
he out-shot every expert in pistol class.

By day’s end when the scores were tallied,
Frank meant to prove at that shootin’ meet.
That he would claim the name of the truest gun,
and they dubbed him - “Pistol Pete.”

In fact, Pistol Pete was half boy, half bloodhound,
a wild-cat with two 45’s strapped on.
In District Cooweescoowee - bar none,
he was the fastest shot around!

Pistol Pete knew his dreaded duty had now arrived,
to hunt down those who killed his Pa.
He vowed those varmints would never see,
a necktie party, a court of law.

Where a man is known by his buckskin totem,
in hallowed Cherokee land.
There, frontier justice and Native pride,
help deal a swift and heavy hand.

Pete was quick on the trail of a killer,
just south of Webber’s Falls.
Shannon Champsey was a cattle rustler,
a horse thief, and a scurvy dog!

Pete ponied up and held his shot,
to let Shannon first make a move.
The next time he’d blinked, would be Shannon’s last,
to Hell he’d make his home.

With snarlin’ teeth and spittin’ venom,
Pete struck fast like a rattlesnake.
Two bullets to the chest in rapid fire,
was Shannon’s last breath he’d partake.

Pete galloped away, hot on the next trail,
left Shannon there for a vulture's meal.
Notched his guns, below a moon chasing sun,
and one wound to his soul congealed.

There’s a saying out West, know by gunslingers best,
that’ll deep six you in a knotty pine casket.
One you should never forget, lest you end up stone dead,
“There’s always a man – just a shade faster.”

Doc Ferber was next to feel Pete’s hot lead,
“Fill your hand, you *******!”
With little remorse, Pete shot him clear off his horse,
left him gunned down in a shallow ditch.

After getting reports, Pete headed North,
to where John Ferber hunkered down.
A Missouri corner, in McDonald County,
filled with Bible thumpers in a sinner’s town.

Pete rode five hundred miles to shoot that snake,
with two notches, he welcomed a third.
He carried his cursed ball and chains,
to **** a man, he swore with words.

But John Ferber was plastered, and he didn’t quite master,
deuces wild, soiled doves and hard drinkin’.
Someone else would beat Pete, the day before they’d meet,
sending John slingin’ hash in Hell’s kitchen.

There’s a night rider without a father,
under a curse to settle a score.
In all, six murderous desperados,
Three men dead - now, three men more ….

Pistol Pete was now pushin’ seventeen,
just a young pup, but no tenderfoot.
With two men in the lead, he was quick on his steed,
to **** two brothers who killed his kin.

Pete rode up to their fence, with a friendly countenance,
spoke with Jonce Campsey, but asked for Jim.
“There’s a message from Doc, that you both need to hear,”
Pete readied his hands – both guns were cocked!

Pete continued in discourse, and got off his horse.
all the while in an act of pretense.
Jim came to the door and Pete read them the score,
and shot them both dead in self-defense.

With the help of the law, they verified Pete’s call,
then gathered any loot they found.
Laid Jim and Jonce out, in their rustic log house,
and burnt them both and the house to the ground.

Might have seemed kind of callous, but weren’t done in malice,
that those boys were burnt instead of swingin’.
They just sent them to Hell, sizzlin’ medium well,
besides, it “saved them a lot of diggin’.”

There was one man to go, he’d be the last to know,
that a hex is an awful thing.
That a young boy would grow, with a curse in tow,
to **** a man, was still a sin.

Pete garnered his will, with the best of his skills,
to take on the last of the Campsey brothers.
It would be three to one, Wiley and two paid guns,
Pete knew his odds were slim and he shuddered.

At nearly twenty-one, Pete knew he may have out-run,
his luck as the fastest gun.
This would be the ultimate test of his shootin’ finesse,
only a fool would stay to be outgunned.

But Pistol Pete weren’t no liver lilly,
and he loaded up his 45’s.
He rode into town with steely nerves,
maybe no one, would come out alive!

Pete knocked through that swingin’ bar-room door,
Wiley stood there with a possum eating grin.
He said, “Hey there kid, who the Hell are you?”
and Pete shouted, “Frank Eaton! You killed my kin!”

All four men drew quick, with guns a’ blazing,
Wiley got plugged first from two 45’s.
The bar-room crowd dispersed in a wild stampede,
everywhere, ricochetin’ slugs whizzed by!

When the shootin’ had stopped, there was just one man standin’
all four men got plugged, includin’ Pete.
But only a shot-up boy rode out of town that day,
and a Father’s curse, that played out complete –
was a bitter mistress to bury….

At the headwaters of the Red Woods Branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of morning glories flail.

In a grave, still deep, is a father’s heart,
that lays quiet in a peaceful sleep.
And six men dead, who now burn instead,
compliments of Pistol Pete!
This is another one of my Historical poems.   A true story about Frank Eaton, an eight year old, who witnessed the shooting death of his father.    Frank Eaton was encouraged to avenge his father's death and by the time he was 15 years old, he learned to handle a gun without equal in Oklahoma territory.   You can read about this man by obtaining a copy of his book  -  "Veteran of the Old West - Pistol Pete (1952).   Born in 1860, he lived to be nearly 98 years old.   My poem describes the events surrounding Pistol Pete hunting down the outlaws that killed his father.    I hope you enjoy the story.

Jim Sularz
Lauren Tyler Jun 2012
someone at the door
knock knock knock
try to keep my eyes straight ahead
do not let them roll away
when I spot the leather book in hand.

no thank you,
no thank you.

but, but, but
just in case
here's a card
have a pamphlet
date time number

no really,
no thank you.

are you sure
sure sure sure?

yes, thank you,
I'm sure.

ma'am do you believe in god
have you accepted jesus in your heart?

no, I do not.
no, I reject him
with all my heart.
please go.

oh.
I see.
okay ma'am
thank you for your time.
I'll pray for you.

(do not look at me
like that,
with your god's judgment
in your eyes.
this is my house,
my door,
my porch.
you are the intruder.
this is not my fault.)
Michael W Noland Aug 2012
its
the TV commercials
the fake ****
the campaign trail
the welfare recipients
psychotic shooters
bible thumpers
and athiests
salesmen
gangsters and
special interests
its junk mail
the court system
its the poor paying more
the ignorant
the scared
the recluse
the extroverts
the sales tax
the hospital bills
zombie ammo
beggars making more than me
nuclear threats
starvation
animal abuse
drug addiction
half assery
its the bullies
the police
its advantage
in retreat
the lies
the masks
the crys
the laughs
its all the ******* that ******* annoys me
The cops took my ****!
Beautiful living creatures
Extinguished by extraction

This message made possible by
The bible-thumpers passion

A simple farmer, simple life
He's caused no one pain or strife
The victim absent, non-existent?
It matters not, just throw him in prison!
Heidi Shavill May 2013
Sunshine warms my aging face
I pray God keeps my loved ones safe.
For it takes a toll upon my heart,
pondering that in time, death will do us part.

Dearly missed are those who have passed on,
I cannot believe it's been 9 years since my son's been gone.
I've often wondered through the grief how it never stayed my feet.
Why don't I join, what I can't beat?

Am I truly moving forward?
What then, am I aiming toward?
I thought I'd die the day he did,
Instead his absence increased my will to live.

What if the bible thumpers are right?
And the truth is if you take your life
the darkness douses the proverbial "light"?
Leaving the soul ill-fated, eternally alone,
Stuck somewhere between Hell's fire, and home.

On this note I've decided not to take that risk,
It won't be long, for life is brisk.
If Heaven truly exists I'll see,
my angel son has saved a place for me.

Heidi Shavill
2013
To Alexander the Great,  Ashleigh Michelle & Gram
Vegans are from Venus
Meat eaters are from Mars,
Vegetarians sit around the
breakfast nook light years
from Polaris, knee deep
in far away stars.
All the bread eaters are
closet bakers in disguise.
Those who lunch out
of dumpsters
spend their days
pulling the wings off of flies..
Nobody knows the
troubles they have seen,
and the apathy of the
middle class, well that
is nothing short of obscene.
The protein shake pumpers
sneer at  old time
Bible thumpers.
While the yoga
young collectibles
leave a good portion
of the day largely unsung,
knowing full well they
have nothing worthy
to kiss off the tip
of their tongue.
It's only when your alone do we forget what a true pain in the *** people tuely are.
Maybe for some it's just missing waking up next to warm body your face burried deep within her hair.

Others may be something altogather different and for others it is a true friendship far beyond a cheap **** it's the laughter i miss.
Thoose moments I took for granted i guess it's just her I miss.

It was nine years of hell mixed with touches of heaven.
I had tried to erase the memorie with gallons of ***** and cheap flings
Forgettible faces *** can be empty at times and can do more dammage than we know.

The bar that sits only a few paces from her door is still there.
The places all the same yet they seem cold as I am no longer welcome there
Or was it just me and a paranoid refletion.
portsmouth is a strange place indeed where on one side of the street are people sitting outside in the summer sipping cocktails eating overpriced meals.
and right across the street people wait in line at the soup kitchen.

niether group looks towards the other like the old color lines during the times in america we'd all like to forget guilt is a ***** indeed.

Still no matter the problems in this world it always goes back to are own simple lives why you may ask?

Cause we cant solve the worlds problems and thoose who belive they can seem.
to have this habbit of always getting shot.
So here I sit in thumpers the local yuppie bar I used to look at from her window.

the view was a lot better  from her place but the drinks are a lot better here.

Do I miss her?
Yes.
Will I knock on her door tonight and beg her for her love like some desperate love struck fool?
No. I just sit here get drunk talk to some woman and if I'm lucky get laid close my in the mist of passion and pretend it's her.

Maybe I'm a coward but I'm  also a man and we all need that contact even if for only for one night.
If only I could reverse that view maybe then I'd just sit there and remember just what a pain in the *** she was.  

And rememeber why I'm in this goddamed bar to start with.
So I'll drink to her in my seat by the window underneath the neon sign.
And pretend that my life was misery with her so I can stand this crap i'm  living now.

Women are the worst drug you'll ever know.
But ****** there fun and I'll die befor I leave em alone.
I can't wait to watch society crumble,
under the weight of their own ignorance.

Mannequin models shrivel and turn to dust,
just like the rest of us.
And political figures get tangled in lies,
and strangle themselves,
leading to their demise.
Muscle head gym members workout to death,
their muscles explode,
and their ego's implode.
And bible thumpers cry out for Jesus as they pray,
in churches set a blaze.
I can't wait for our not so glorious fall,
and you want to know why?

Because I'm sick of standing up for a society that doesn't try.

We say that we aren't the degenerate generation,
that we are lovers and fighters,
that will fight for what we love,
but in the end,
everyone is still acting like the same ******* they were the day before.

So I'm done defending you,
society.

Go **** yourselves,
and destroy the greatest gift in the universe,
because frankly,
I don't care if you do anymore.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Nyteshade Mar 2017
An injection of self, a reflection of self
Orphic explosion, in this brain of mine
I touch the sky, my shaman-self lifted
To realize some kind, of undefined divine
My soul wants to soar, although some parts to plod
Among the grey citizens of order
Dull thumpers of the one, dull god

(And as I come to fear, the night, boredom
And my internal extremes, the hyper-brain
Says ‘enjoy this, though it ends in a crash
You were dead before, so live and fear not death’)

Somehow free of the hate that claims others
Oh those self-defined, self-refined prisons they create
Only to lament their loss and deny their place
In the ranks of bile, and spite and hate
Maybe to cloak themselves from the leviathan-machines
Which provides their plenty, as the global south screams
Their ****-eating hypocrisies, judgemental non-philosophies.
And I have landed among their pretention, problems hidden
Beneath the rug, the armoured iron carpet
That supports the weight of their bloated heads
And blood-drenched souls.
"My name is Ligion , for we are many"
    Luke 8:30

Every Sunday we went to church
Never really thinking what was it for
Always wore our best shinny shoes
***** slacks , and who was it for

After church we would always eat out
Get lucky and have trout Almondine
Spanish Mackerel fresh off the grill
It always gave me a thrill

Couldn't wait to jump out of those clothes
Put on shorts and go outdoors
Collect toads right about dark
Put them in the bathtub
Mother looked so stark

Everything was going just fine
Then we moved to the heart of Dixieland
Home to more Bible Thumpers
Than a toad bops his ***
Told my ways must change
Or I hadn't a chance

So I was graced by the light of the Lord
Baptized in the holiest of ghost
Dwelt on a heavenly high
But things changed for the worst
In the by and by

Once saved always saved say they
That's not true oh by the way
I fell into repute , became angry at all
I no longer heard the voice
Of God and his call

I got worse , let evil come on in
I became gaunt , more bone than skin
An evil presence I projected like *****
People stepped back
They didn't want any of it

I was one ot the many
I was surely destined for Hell
But like a new copper penny
Two sides are there to tell

I was struck down
And my ways were clipped
My boat was cast out
Someone had cut all my slips
I floundered on the fast rising seas
God had knocked me down onto my knees

I remember you as a boy
Captured toads and did so much more
Then you changed and walked out of my door
Have you ever even thought about
Coming back for more

You became evil , deep in wicked sin
Over and over you sinned again
You mocked me , my son
And sacred holy of ghosts
I ought to make you into
Blackened burnt toast

But I see one glimmer of hope
If you return to your former post
And repent , no need for forgiveness
It's already spent , come now it's all for the best
Jon Shierling Feb 2015
Right on the cusp of sleep,
warm and cozy and drifting off....

Haha, not happening

I'm an American
Caucasian
heterosexual male
and make more than
twenty grand a year.

Therefore,
according to pretty
much everybody that isn't
republican (God help you)
everything wrong in the world
is my fault.

So sleep is a luxury.

Let's proceed down the
strangely hate filled
and guilt slinging
reactionary list.

American: invades whoever
we want for whatever we want,
whenever we want.
We'll bomb you back to the
stone age and then station
fifty thousand ***** dudes
with guns in your capitol
and force feed you Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Caucasian: I may say I hate
racism in all it's disgusting
forms, but in reality I'm
just lying because I want to
buy your sister and **** her
because I have daddy issues
and think ****** was a God.

A dude who likes chicks:
I only pretend to be a gentleman
and sensitive because it gets
me in between hott hipster girls
thighs, but actually ****** is
just another commodity to be sold.

I make over minimum wage:
I don't really have to scrape to
pay my bills, I just live above my
means with money I didn't actually
make, at a job I don't deserve.

The point being that I can't sleep
because I can't decide whether
to believe what I'm told,
what I've seen,
or what I actually think is true.

Oh, btw I am all of the aforementioned,
but I've also never shot an unarmed
Muslim kid, or ***** a drunk co-ed
because she really wanted it, or bought
another human being.

In point of fact, people like me
are kinda despised by everybody,
since the white supremacist bigot
bible thumpers accuse us of betraying
them and their true calling,
and everybody else thinks we're just
going with the flow of progressivism
because we don't have the ***** to
be open about wanting to buy young
Thai girls and force them into a brothel.

Why can't I sleep?
Too much noise.

Hate in fact breeds one thing...more Hate.
In need of clarification, I am NOT A REPUBLICAN.
LannaEvolved Dec 2020
Take time to know yourself
Find out about your life

Sit in the den and stay silent
Quiet.

You do not know
Who I am.

I am a Prophet he would say
And you’re mine

I'm all yours
But not whenever you want me
I'd reply

Taking dark selfies in a temple
Creepy rituals with the cult of the Tempili Orientis
Studying Bible names
His social script became mine
When I felt like I was losing my mind
a scripture
That repeats itself in mystic fables
Façades of King Solomon
persecuted by his existence

The script:

I take orders from pastors, aliens, angels, bible thumpers, avengers, excuses from sickness, while he spoke of the devil, talking for hours about ******* to thelema, bouts of depression
He was nowhere to be found.

Behind closed screen doors and
phone calls gone raw

The Elimination of Alive
Took over
Spoke of necrophilia
Casting spells by saying
‘that's hot’
“I miss you” but only ever saw me 1x3

To risk my need and call it yours
When you’re out $125, starving for a hit, no love or affection, beaten to a pulp, and emotionally marred
‘It’s hard to heal’

When his real fam goes by
A man named Sam
He would go with him everywhere
A false son
Playing the part

A spitting image of the dark
Left in a pool
of hypocrisy

This was nowhere.

Off the grid
Forever lost inside a universe
that fails so many.
Not everything can be saved.

He was born into modern day slavery
An absent mother and father
Trying so hard to make it
Money is all he wanted to make
And lost it with his words

Addiction
Tunnel vision
The drug is the delusion
that craves and prayers
Can’t afford

And yet how peculiar that I looked at everybody like they have 3 eyes blind
Feeling like I wanted to leave my body sometimes...

The lost souls out there
That got suckled in

She must know he said.


His script continued:

I am already gone
I had love somewhere  
but impossible to keep
I'm so expired

You're a clown
I told her

But when I look in the mirror
All I see is the loneliness of a dead man buying and selling a dream that can only be found
In a man who is not me.

Begging for bread
The last drop of
pink moscato burns the roof of my mouth

Hot chocolate
Ice cold
And my emotions
Buried in mould
for over a decade
I’m Schizotypal
When I speak to her

I say I miss her but these suicidal thoughts
of death still tempt me
That's why I need Angels to protect me

Projecting who I believe I am
A rich one Flaming
A Rosicrucian Cross on my chest
Throbbing panting for salvation

“I am in the middle of nowhere losing everything that could have ever made me”.  

He was other people.
And that is it’s own Hell
Learning from other people’s pain gives us the perspective to learn about ourselves and nothing can ever make up for that. Not everyone you meet will be for you, but that’s alright because the experience is not a sacrifice. It’s a lesson and it’s part of your journey towards a higher evolution of greatness and the vision you have for yourself and your people.

Do not put yourself down or dwell in guilt or shame for what you’ve been through or the not so good choices that you’ve made when it comes to your relationships with other people. Your growth is more significant and you’re better for it.

Keep striving and live the essence of who you truly are. Never deny it to anyone who tells you what they want you to hear. Words can only mean so much, but they are not enough. Your insides know what makes you come alive. Your mental health and your sanity come before anyone or anything and let no one take advantage of that. There are so many people affected by mental illness that aren’t even aware they have something that makes them behave in distorted ways. You are not at fault for their harm done. You are not at fault for their pain nor are you responsible for their words or behavior. Whether they can help it or not. Mental illness is a difficult phenomenon to pin down. Some know what they are doing and are conscious of their behavior while there are others who are not and believe that what they do or say especially tactics like manipulation and suffering are normal acts that don’t affect people negatively. Staying away from that is not something you should ever feel ashamed of or uncomfortable with because you don’t want to hurt the person and because you are naturally a compassionate empathetic human being. Do what you have to do for your own health and respect for your own life.
You are only responsible for your empathy and your own wellbeing.

Protect that. And the right people will surround you fluidly in the circle of your own magnetic faith. Your being, your health in all ways, and your self-love is the highest form of psychology you can gain. Never forget it. You’re worth it!

You want to use your experiences as a source of power rather than a source of shame.
Terry Collett Dec 2014
We lean on the balcony
looking down
on the Square;
it's a summer evening,
light still,
kids playing
by the pram sheds,
on up and down the *****
on their scooters or bikes.

Fay smells of flowers;
her fair hair let loose
about her slim shoulders;
I sniff her secretly.

My father's away,
she says,
he'll be back
on Saturday.

Where's he gone?

Business in Scotland;
he said I was to learn
Chapter six
of St John's Gospel.

Why?

Just his way
of making sure
I don't waste too much
time on earthly things.

Will you learn it?

I will have to;
he'll test me
when he gets back
and if I haven't
there will be trouble,
he said.

I see two kids fighting
over by the pram sheds;
a crowd gathers.

Don't your parents
make you read the Bible?

No, my old man
wouldn't know
the first thing
about the Bible;
he thinks it's all
a load of tosh,
but my mother says
we should go to church
and sometimes we do,
especially
the Bible-thumpers
by the iron bridge
who take poor kids
to the beach
in the summer
and they have feast night
with bread
and cakes and such.

Fay looks at me;
her eyes have
a sadness about them
like a puppy
left out
in the rain.

The nuns say
that those who
do not believe
will go to Hell.

Be quite
a packed place, then.

I believe,
but I want you
to believe, too,
she says.

Believe what?

In Jesus and God.

I watch a tall kid
ride his bike
by a couple
and shout
KAZOO!
as he passes them by.

I do believe.

You do?

Sure why not?

She smiles.

I would kiss
Miss A's backside
for a smile like that,
but I don't tell Fay;
I just look
at the brightness
of her eyes
where stars
are born
and an old star dies.
A BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON.
wordvango May 2017
in Ali Ahkbars chariot rode
Iscariot to the ruins of
Rome
had ten gold pieces
in his hand
or twenty forget the rhymes
it's more important we change the
elegy the caricatures to fit modern modality
he met Julius who had  not been born, still the story is better if,
and the Editors  of the Bible know this , will edit it
lets say a real young Julius
with Cleopatra sultry and suave dressed in the best  
designers of the time Togas
his power ascending
had no idea
the thumpers would thump
the Nazis would come he had Cleopatra's ***
on his mind
and say
history has been remembered ,
or not,
let's make haste of frugality
and really get down to the
gist of it,
brutality, fear of the unknown,
worship of gods we dont know exist.
If I were around then, who is to say I was not,
I'd slap Cleopatra on the *** pour wine down her throat
and watch Julius make an orange smoothie
out of Icarus or **** I forget , who he was.
Started with an I.
Patrick Kennon Sep 2019
L0e
I'm afraid of the dark but I've been there to long to care
Just be scared always
What's gonna happen next
I can't see
They're coming for me
With longrifle dart dumpers
Chest thumpers,
two in the heart, one in the mind
Brain matter unwinds on stained sidewalk
No room for talk, only business
Wish I could go back to that kid ****

— The End —