They sit at your house like gunslingers
well too bad I rent an apartment
you lost it pal try again later
black coffee
got a latte I was sipping on and it just hit me
no bite no vigor
just weak soft creamy syrup
yeah there’s wind in the sails but no catharsis
maybe that's what's wrong with kids these days
they got their iced coffee Frappuccino bull
no gumption
no Moxy
they want their cream and their sugar
maybe that's why I’m bitter
bitter coffee straight black like my soul
even the crema betrays its true intention
god the kids these days just wouldn’t understand
maybe its just over here in the states
I wonder if the kids in the UK still partake in tea time
guess I should read up on this or maybe just strike up
a conversation ha yeah right. Talk about on brand
nothing too relevant
I like the sound of that
makes me think of how poetry ought to keep itself
or at least the poems I write
need to read
need to go to the library
I need to feed once again on the blood of knowledge so that I might fill my veins
with more of this sweet sweet writing juice
painted in black from head to foot
like a mourner
why not a veil and snowy white
showy wedding gown
after all, nunsense knows
that we are the bride of Christ
while we are at it let’s glue
some angel’s wings and halo
to our ensemble
and heigh ho purchase
a white horse of course
the nuns are coming
fast like gunslingers
but prettier
and the weapon of choice
the two-edged sword
no, nunsense knows, it’s sharper
the good book
open all day
what nunsense knows
you might suppose
is that God
really knows it all
and might suppose
if he really does
that we might want to
glitter-gold plate
our fingers in the endowment
of the Great Creator
of the paramount groom
his word is his promise
Christ’s grand promises are always kept
and on point
is that brothers and sisters in Christ
from all lands
will wear white
and inherit all, beside the lion and lamb
fill your lamps with oil
don’t spoil your marriage
when it’s dark you need your supply
of extra oil
the nuns they ride
as they hear the groom call
as they hear him call
too many nuns are left behind
in mourning gowns…
It looked unassuming and quiet, but when I walked inside
I saw gunslingers and aliens, and a bear dancing as he imbibed.
The gunslingers were shooting, so I dove behind the bar.
The bartender was hiding there, he told me hush my car.
Yes, my Lincoln came with me, and was now zooming up and down.
The dancing bear peeked over the bar and gave me a little frown.
I was snatched up in his giant paw, and he sniffed me up and down.
I was sorry I had ever heard of Zootlefritz, this bar in weird town.
Expected to be eaten, but instead she said “Let’s dance!”
Thought she was a female for she was wearing girlie pants.
We dance up and down the room, but the car ran into her leg.
The aliens snatched it up and took it way past Winnipeg.
Zootlefritz is the place I recommend if you ever feel too uptight.
The gunslingers will humble you by giving you a cowboy fright.
I actually truthfully cannot guarantee the aliens will be there.
But since she is the owner, you will meet my dancing bear.
Summer Water Weapons
Forty caliber water gun
Holding off the summer heat
To lay in wait behind the hedge
Then beat a hasty wet retreat.
Super soaker weapon of choice
Beneath the scorching summer sun
Secret cache given away when
Drippy footprints circle back in fun.
Squirt guns douse the O.K. Coral
Gunslingers in flip flops
Stand off at the hot street corner
A sneaky planned ambush to stop.
Oh that all disputes over rights
Could be settled by water fights.
5-6-21
Contest: Guns
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Marion his given name most called him the Duke,
American lad made good living the dream,
Started as a bit actor,
B movie followed B movie he strived for more,
His big break came with the movie stagecoach,
Then everyone knew his name,
A true cowboy rugged good looks gravely voice,
Going to war with indians, gunslingers and more in his films,
The war he lost was to Cancer it won in 79,
Yet he is still remember today a tribute to his acting skill,
A new generation watch his films once again,
John Wayne legend a true star.
Fort Worth to El Paso, a long stretch of tracks
Deputies securing Wells Fargo money sacks,
With reins in hand, stagecoach en route
Jessie’s gang kicks dust, chasing the loot.
Oil lamps hanging on the tavern’s post
Saloons filled with men who drink the most.
Split rails and troughs in make shift corrals
Mask men flee, hiding in many locales.
Posse of six saddle up to chase
Jessie’s gang leading the pace
Wanted posters hung on banks and stables
A round of whiskey lies on saloon tables.
Colt 45’s rest on the long wooden bar
Ranchers arriving soon from Omaha.
Rustler’s rope up a head of cattle
Rifle on the side, rope loops on the saddle.
Looters grab the bags, each one rides a mustang
Two gunslingers jailed, one will hang
Conductor steps out, train whistle blows
“all aboard”, wheels turn, white smoke blows,
Across the plains and over the notch
Riders travel with flasks of scotch.
Straight beaten paths and dusty trails
Someday those will be wild western tales.
Brexit Sonnet No. 29
‘Snake Oil’
The tumbleweed rolls with silence across our set,
Saloon doors swing to access boarded walk,
As gunslingers stride their silent deadly threat,
And graveyard stones of next to greet do talk.
The Sheriff’s jail is filled with drunks and bums.
Saloon plays not its upright western tune,
While honest folk await to see what comes,
As stage pulls up in town at highest noon.
A pair of leopard-print shoes now peep out proud,
From stagecoach door as arrivals drop down stairs.
Their owner stands, surveys the gathered crowd,
And pulls from carpet bag their snake oil wares.
To sell is easy in one crazy town like this,
My snake oil offering for Brexit’s deathlike kiss.
©Keith Murphy
Slimy gloppy corn smut
Smeared on a tortilla
Tastes like a monkey's butt
Thank you, Pancho Villa.
Crows' hearts in chili sauce
Beer-battered crickets
Bad luck and double-cross
Ten dollar tickets.
Bar fight in El Dorado
Devil on the trail
Mule train in Colorado
Bandits of the rail.
Vampires and gunslingers
Snakes off the grill
Harlots, saloon keepers,
Ghosts of Boot Hill.
I wish to be in the bowl
Where the moon and the sun shine.
Outside here is the Armageddon
Where the saint gnash their teeth
In pain and in vain.
In the bowl lives the repentance:
The gunslingers turn the Seraphims
And the gaolbirds become the Cherubs
Singing sonorously at the treasury gate:
Lord spare the gullible.
I wish to be in the bowl
Where shame becomes fame
Where indolence is the excellence
Where impunity is two for penny
Where immunity is: buy one and take four.
I wish to be in the bowl;
The paradise of the foul.
out to sea
countless miles hand to the tiller
to find that brief moment
on the crest of a twenty foot breaking wave
as a nor'easter wilds the sea
when you glimpse it
in the stillness between heaven and earth
she hid in her bedroom
looking at a late fall paris passing rainstorm
and on the run down east side facing the setting sun
she could just make out another lover fleeing town with
his creditors in hot pursuit
he owed so much for the words he had abused
up on paris's boothill
the gunslingers and thieves wouldn't have ya
it was in that darkest hour she glimpsed it in the mirror
under the bewitching stars
in the anvil of desolation's wasteland of high desert
on the cusp of the suns imminent rise
you can see it in the broiling fire
as the edge of the world itself appears to burn
you can see clearly that this end
of your little world
is but a door which you stand at the threshold
many times in your life
step into the fire or frying pan
step into the next world you will live in
or try vainly to escape into the past
make believe wild west
fingers pointed and thumbs cocked
back yard gunslingers
For the "guns" contest
The path was becoming pathless
after seeking the deluge.
Gunslingers were climbing on trees
to shoot the white doves.
There were ice needles in my eyes
to check the inheritance of height.
Desires move with a feline grace, lynx-eyed.
You taste me like a lamb.
I am unfolding,
layer by layer;
year by year. From end to beginning.
The benign tumors are going to attack
my afterlife.Falling,falling
my bliss in midnight of words,
across the solace of killer gaze,
on a stretch of ancient footprints.
Satish Verma
She pats her combed and curled up hair
painted lips twist into a sad smile.
Tucking her mama's hanky
between her powdered bosoms.
She thinks of Home
Lonely Cowpokes drift in from the badlands
gunslingers crowd around the bar.
Card sharks bluff and bluster at every table
playing till their money is gone
The hot night air thick with whiskey:
cigar smoke and danger
She gasps.. an excited shiver
trickling down her spine.
Stepping out onto the landing
she gathers her courage
she hurries to her admirer's side.
For a little hanky panky the drifter has traveled far
She will drink and dance the night away.
A sweetheart for his dime
The morning after.. Daylight
will shine on just a painted lady
sleeping sweetly;
dressed only in her angelic smile..
He use to carry guns,Back in the day.
But he had put them up,to start a new way.
He found a wife,and would settle down.
Just a short stretch,on the outside of town.
A young daughter,the two would raise.
And soon forgot, his gunslinger days.
Then they came,their intentions were clear.
To rob and kill,anyone who was here.
They left that house,one thing they would dread.
They didn't make sure,everyone was dead.
He opened his eyes,saw her laying on the floor.
As he caught a glimpse of them,a dozen or more.
He healed from his wounds,laid his little girl to rest.
He vowed for revenge,as he opened the chest.
He put his guns on again,looking straight ahead.
He would not stop,until they all were dead.
Out the door he went,to the house he would never return.
He would go to his grave,with a heart that would burn.
And now you know,the gunslingers story is told.
The killing of his family,and the way it would unfold.