"winchester" poems
I don't want prince charming
suited up in armor.
I want a flannel clad man
who will help me
keep my demons in line
and I can help him tame
his inner monster.
You Disney girls keep
looking for Charming,
I'll keep searching for a Winchester.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC
When Winchester races first took their beginning
It is said the good people forgot their old Saint
Not applying at all for the leave of Saint Swithin
And that William of Wykeham's approval was faint.
The races however were fixed and determined
The company came and the Weather was charming
The Lords and the Ladies were satine'd and ermined
And nobody saw any future alarming. —
But when the old Saint was informed of these doings
He made but one Spring from his Shrine to the Roof
Of the Palace which now lies so sadly in ruins
And then he addressed them all standing aloof.
'Oh! subjects rebellious! Oh Venta depraved
When once we are buried you think we are gone
But behold me immortal! By vice you're enslaved
You have sinned and must suffer, ten farther he said.
These races and revels and dissolute measures
With which you're debasing a neighboring Plain
Let them stand —You shall meet with your curse in your pleasures
Set off for your course, I'll pursue with my rain.
Ye cannot but know my command o'er July
Henceforward I'll triumph in shewing my powers
Shift your race as you will it shall never be dry
The curse upon Venta is July in showers—.
3.4k
I went to Winchester again,
It's been forty years since then,
When we were awed in the nave,
Stood over Jane Austin's grave,
And loved the irony of golden St. Joan.
The chest coffins hold bleached bones,
The stained glass mosaic filters the sun,
And everything appears the same.
I had perfect recall,
I remembered it all,
Before returning my self-guided tour.
I lowered my head
Through the Refugee door;
To return no more.
Your memorial has faded;
My memories got jaded.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 8:43 PM UTC
Marched in step
Toting a little red wagon
Stride carried pep
Dragging that little red wagon
Weathered in rust
Creaking in the sun
Covered in dust
It weighs a ton
Overburdened by basic trinkets
Remnants of Christmas 05
Macaroni made cumulonimbus
From school days off winchester drive
Photo of family for evidence
Not that it means a thing
Victim of malevolence
Thrown out in early spring
Winter brought about the cough
Toting a little red wagon
His whole system seems off
Dragging that little red wagon
He's feeling old
Went and turned lethargic
Held onto the cold
Wallowing in hardship
Deterioration apparent
There's something horribly wrong
Behavior aberrant
His strength is gone
Innocence in tow
Holding onto reactionary bliss
Writing name in snow
...Blood marked abyss
Death encroaches.
He falls before his little red wagon
A young boy approaches
And steals that little red wagon
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
Sitting in white shirt
(Loosened yuppie Windsor knot)
Armchair laughing
Having realized the grand joke of life
Satisfied little Sanskrit honey
Is it a bohdi tree or burning bush
(When really are one and same)
Don't think too hard
Suburban white boy dreams of trap houses
With tie over shoulder
As the tv says it prevents
***** on tie
Little air planes
Round and white
Hard pressed (to explain)
Make one fly at high speed
Get it? (never mind inside joke laughing)
Talks like a gang banger
Can't take it seriously
Little big boy equals not shook
Drinking rot gut tallboys
Days after and minutes away
Zehaf-Bibeau war memorial
Winchester repeater in hand
Supposed ideological threat needed
Expand the police state
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
sorrow found me when i was young it stood over me in my crib, as the fire burned , as dad shouted and dean carried me out of that house, as i cried for dean when dad left us alone, as i begged dean for lucky charms instead of beans
sorrow waited for me as i grew up he watched over me like a guardian angel little did i know that the shred of doubt i had in my mind was only going to grow as he watched me carve my name with dean in the impala, as i watched dean die over and over, through every demon i killed , every monster i slaughtered , every mistake i made and every slip up
then sorrow won he took me at last using Lucifer as a distraction as he wiggled into my brain and fed on all my thoughts until i was nothing no that's not true i was something, i was ruined, i was empty ,i was nothing but sorrow and despair and the worst part of that is i knew it was there all along shadowing me hunting me like i do monsters waiting for me to give up fighting against it
sam winchester
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 7:03 AM UTC
One hop and a skip
one tab
one more trip
and I slip into dreaming
effortlessly really,
effort, less me,
seemingly floating while
swimming through syrup,
my feet in the stirrups
on a horse called
Winchester.
Laughter in the cloisters and
the toaster pulling faces
while the priest catches monkeys
that swing through the
door.
If life is for anything it cannot be this.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
I tried not to look at it,
But I couldn't help myself,
The blue sky burying me completely,
The sun shedding visibility
On the edible chanterelles--
Little fungi, little mold spores
Treated as food, soft and porous
Sponges, fragile like egg shells.
We hunt for the orange gleam
Showing through the duff
As if we are savages,
Lost in our search,
Forgetting our state.
I'd forgotten what a sight they were:
Unfunny clowns always having
Arguments over who gets what space--
Quality family time.
Every home is a miniature dictatorship.
Now, savages rule our thoughts
And actions; they fight
For control; they
Pump Estrogen into our
System so that we
Will not fight back.
The dream is not a dream.
The Police are a privilege
For those who can buy it.
All this was a week after
The dust settled. There was no music.
Even the chants of Buddhists
Were silenced, the replacing hum
One of screams
And gunshots.
The sound of
Your enemies being sautéed
Is what loss truly is:
Accounts holding our Humanity
Have been depleted.
The only unclosed door
Leads to Egypt.
When I think of it now,
What I remember is
Debt. Once, I saw
A college student
Buying cheap ramen
With a grin.
And, in a dream once,
There was no sound,
No color. Everything
Was the same—taste,
Touch, smell. Red lipstick marks
On a shirt would not
Remain. And hippies,
With their tie-dye clothes
Were just working stiffs,
Looking out a window
To see
Brick and mortar.
They say,
“This is your police state.
This is your Haunted House,
Your personal Winchester House
With no exits. This is
Your nightmare,
Your stench.
These are your maggots in your eyes.
This is what you want.”
We listen.
I do not want to be
The kind of person
Who makes it okay
To want to die.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
Home - what is home?
Most people equate it with where they live,
but I have a different idea.
Home is where the heart is, right?
And what's to stop your heart from going to some place you've never been?
Nothing.
Just as you can't help falling in love with people,
neither can you help falling in love with places.
That's why, to me, Hogwarts is home.
221B Baker Street is home.
The TARDIS, the Shire, the Burrow.
All are home.
The USS Enterprise is my home away from home.
Same with the Winchester's 1967 Chevy Impala.
They say you can feel homesick for places you've never been.
Most people can't quite understand how that works,
but I know what it's like.
While I may get to visit all of these places in my mind,
thanks to the stories surrounding them,
I'll never be able to physically visit these places.
They're real to me. They just don't exist.
But I have been there - to all of them.
Through words on a page or through scenes playing out on a screen,
the stories surrounding these places have allowed me to visit them.
I know from these stories what it's like to travel through time and space.
To live in King Arthur's court.
To witness Sherlock Holmes bored.
Stressing over Potions essays, adventuring to Mordor,
bonding through hours-long drives across country.
These things, these experiences;
they've filled gaps in my soul that I didn't even realize were there.
And that, I think, is why I call them home.
So that even when their stories are over,
I'll still have that connection to them.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
While driving home today,
a small boy pretended to shoot
at my van with his toy rifle,
as if I were the bad guy.
Our culture is fighting to strip
our children of violence,
"guns are a danger
and they pervert our sons."
I agree,
we should be purposeful
on how we raise our kids.
Violence is not always
healthy for the young heart.
I disagree,
we should not be dictatorial
on how we raise our kids.
Violence is not always
bad for the young heart.
Taking away guns from a boy
is taking away paints from an artist.
Stripping a son of his warrior-spirit
is stealing the melody of his song.
He was John Wayne
wielding his Winchester,
and I was the bad guy
escaping on a stolen horse.
In his mind,
he was a hero.
Why would you want
to strip him of that?
Teaching him self-control
is absolutely necessary,
but removing his ability to learn
is killing his growth as a person.
Don't be the reason he rebels,
teach him to use his sword.
m.w.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
Mr Kalashnikov I'll ask you nicely
Please don't point that thing at me
Laszlo Biro how nice to see you
Without you where would we be?
Mr Molotov may I remind you
You are in polite company
May I present the Earl of Sandwich
Do partake of his wares
And special desserts are served soon after
Presented in person by Anna Pavlova
The Duke of Wellington brought in some mud
Mr Macintosh is expecting a flood
Candido Jacuzzi and Joseph Pilates
Appear to be making friends
Henry Shrapnel and Joseph Guillotin
Who invited them?
Ferdinand von Zeppelin,
Perhaps you would like a schnapps?
Mr Winchester, Mr Colt, Mr Gatling, Mr Lewis
So many gunmen I'm alarmed I confess
May I trouble you Mr Hoover
To help tidy up the mess?
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Surrounded by darkness
Death, despair and pain
Instruments of torture
Ways to make you hurt
And never think again
Then there’s a light
Something bright in the distance
Enclosed in a safe embrace
Darkness as unconsciousness ensues
Bringing him back into existence
Consciousness regains and he’s back into darkness
Scratching at the wooden surround
Nothing but a lighter to see
That he’s six foot under
And needs to get out of the ground
Fingertips beak the surface
Reaching up to the mid-morning sun
***** hands and a dirt face appear
He stands and looks around
The only thing missing is his gun
Making a trek to the nearest place
Shirt strapped firm around his hips
He finds a small shop
Grabs a bottle of water
Nicks a magazine and a bag of chips
A crash and a bang
Shattering glass
A sound so loud
He’s covering his ears
Thinking how long this will last
For an angel is calling
To his sisters and brothers
That Dean Winchester has been saved
The Righteous Man has been earthbound
Out to save the rest of the others.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
I heard the crow at dawn again.
It awoke me from a deep slumber.
As if to chastise me for not being up already.
There is so much to do, of course.
So I sat up on the edge of the bed.
And stretched up with my hands clasped.
The sun slowly creeping itself over the window ledge
And striking my eye just so...making me squint.
The crow called again.
I must not be fast enough for him.
I stand up with a half- hearted vigor
And rub my eyes.
I proceed with with my morning routine
Skipping the harsh mouthwash today.
Again the crow.
He hurries me as if I am racing a clock.
And makes my heart beat more prominently in my chest.
What an awful call a crow has.
Incessant and prodding.
I feel as if I am being yelled at and I don't deserve that.
I cross into the kitchen and reach over the door.
To the mount that holds my ol' Winchester.
I push open the squeaking screen door.
And step outside.
Again the crow calls but this time I am rallied.
I am too slow for him, am I?
We will see about that!
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
They said Keith couldn't *** without a finger up his ***
they said Ruth was a **** for not sleeping with her man.
They said George was a woman because he couldn't grow a beard,
they said Molly was autistic, because she was a little bit weird.
They said Mr. Winchester was a ********** because he wore an overcoat,
they said Ms. Wheeler as a witch, and once sacrificed a goat.
They said Mr. Winter was so fat, he was more or less bulletproof,
they said Ms. Walker was not attractive, but if it came to it:
she'd have to do.
They said Lucinda was thin because she chose not to eat,
sitting by the bathroom doors in the lunchtime canteen.
They said Leonard was a ****** with his long, blonde hair,
they said Luke was a downy because of his vacant stare.
They said Mr. Fresco was a drinker who beat his wife at home,
they said Ms. Finkel was a ********** seen standing out in the cold.
They said an awful lot of things that decayed away over time,
but it takes a strength to train the mind
to not trod the tracks of a lifetime past,
to keep yourself to who you are,
not those ancient words,
nor those faded scars.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
He’s all green eyes
The type that sparkle
In the early morning sun
That reflect with love
And bravery and protection
He’s all light freckles
That dance across
His nose and cheeks
That can be counted
As galaxies in the universe
He’s all lean muscle
The kind that is
Built naturally
From years of hunting
And fighting evil things
He’s all sadness and defeat
After losing his brother
Just one too many times
And losing all he loves
All the **** time
He’s all Winchester
Stubborn and selfless
Damaged and dangerous
Protective and brave
He’s Dean Winchester
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
A chestnut falls from a chestnut tree. It falls onto the chest or knee of the free.
Please, awaken to the sight for sore eyes. Sounds nice! Beautiful chesty women all around in the night.
Quite the light we got lit for our cigarette. Yet, the Winchester's barrel, bangs a different drum-set.
Best we forget the fright.
Master the art of illusions. Assuming delusions that give birth to contusions.
So, this poem is cheesy, cause Chester the Cheetah thinks so? Do YOU know?
Blow it.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
It has been said
by several hunters
that the Winchester boys
they’re soulless
they’re without inhibitions
that they’ll **** without
even a second thought
Some say
they are soulful
that they care
too much
too hard
and that’s dangerous too
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 6:30 AM UTC
Some thing's can get a little hairy
A little scary
A little daring
blood-curdling are the little vermin
Who love to digest down my harvest.
How they got a surprise coming,
With the good winchester model 37.
Take the little vermin to creepy crawly heaven.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
A speechless hill enthused with history, stands tall.
Breathtaking,gracing the skyline of Winchester.
From the morning train, I see Lady Catherine in all her glory.
A toupee of trees on the top, discard leaf litter, as it tumbles.
Body of plague victims interred deep in the hill.
An iron-age hill fort, a barrow minus wheels.
Teeming.
This hill’s alive with wildlife.
Steeped with history.
Stagger to the top of the beautiful beast, peep at the miz maze, a weird design.
Rest awhile, realise how beautiful it is.
Let peace be the only thing up there, to come and invade your space.
Well worth the climb, now to get down; she's not far off perpendicular.
Gratefully wander down the man-made rickety steps.
Touch base, look up, further survey the climb you just made.
Relish those charms of St Catherine.
OLIVIA 2014
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
Cryptic warnings in
dusty old books.
Lose floorboards and
cuts from fishing hooks.
Memories that aren't mine,
transferred over airwaves
and across time.
Lifetimes of bitter motes
metered out and measured in
Television tropes.
Sam and Diane until Rebecca
moved in.
I recall Coach's signature move,
taking it on the chin.
Frank until Winchester,
Better or worse,
Hawkeye and Trapper/BJ
ever perverse.
It's not who I am.
Not steps I've taken.
I remember it crisp as
overcooked Bacon.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Anger swelled up
Like a huge bruise
All black and blue.
Fear ran the length of my arms
Pulsing, pulsing.
Swimming in desperate despair
Or more like drowning.
Rain falling,
Cool clear blue
Droplets dropping in the midday sun
Hot with an air of cool in it.
Nighttime fell on our small home
In Winchester.
Rain splattered the windows
Like Jackson *******
Sleep was unobtainable
The couch uncomfortable
Another year in this place could **** me.
With the syringes and scapegoats
The dry spells and witchcraft.
Someone here wants me dead.
Another year in this place will **** me.
Your best friend moved to town last week
We met at the local bar
And drank a few shots
And rummaged through your stuff
Laughing and laughing
Until you got home
Another year and I’ll be dead.
What’s this place you call home.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
castiels
wherever you go i will follow you hell,heaven,purgatory till death do us not part i will follow you through the veil
you are my righteous man and i’m your angel
i will be with you through your darkest times till the nightmares disappear and the dreams finally begin
i gripped you tight and i will forever be there to fight for you and with you until all the angels fall and chuck returns even then my Winchester i will be by your side you are the non nonnegotiable part of my life i love you forever
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
Dear Jensen Ackles,
Thank you for being the man with the impala
The one who's character's brother is Sam Winchester and who Castiel's love interest is
Who happens to be the one I try to look like as a trans person
As well as your character Dean Winchester
Thank you for being one of the reasons I will "ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING"
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 9:39 AM UTC
He can fly;
Flit through time,
Glide through dimensions,
And swoop through the universe
It’s all at his disposal;
To use the universe,
To his every need,
(Just like the others)
To get to the Winchester brothers
The stars will greet him;
As long lost celestial companions,
They meet frequently,
Watch as they see his true form,
Soar through the vacuum,
Towards the light of the Earth
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC