Bang 

He’d just gotten a haircut. Bang. 

She was an exchange student from Pakistan. Bang. 

He was the world’s best son. Bang. 

She was his sister. Bang. 

He was fifteen. Bang. 

They came to the United States to escape violence in their home countries of Eritrea, Iran and Vietnam. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

She loved the Dallas Cowboys. Bang. 

It was her first time in a gay nightclub. She was with her uncle who she called Guncle. Bang. Bang. 

He was 25, one week away from finishing his internship. Bang. 

They were Mexican. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

They had twelve great-grandchildren. Bang. Bang. 

He was a standout athlete. Bang. 

They were at a prayer service and invited him to join them. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

She was 86. Bang. 

They were Black. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

The baby was alive under his mother’s body, covered with her blood. Bang. Bang. 

He was visiting from Germany. Bang. 

He was shot by police. Twenty-eight bangs. 

They were gay. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

He was protecting his wife and grandchild. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

He was an off-duty police officer. Bang. 

They were twenty children, ages six and seven years old. Too many bangs. 

He was a bus driver. Bang. 

She was his mother. Bang. 

He was a Petty Officer, Third Class. Bang. 

She was his girlfriend. Bang. 

He dreamed of becoming an art teacher. Bang. 

She was the last victim to be shot. Bang. 

She thought about bringing her pistol to work the night before. Bang. 

He was three. Bang. 

He saw the shooter brushing his teeth in the bathroom moments before. Bang. 

She begged for her life. Bang. 

They were watching Trainwreck. Bang. Bang. 

She was pregnant. Bang. Bang. 

They had sixty-three combined years working for UPS. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

They were at home, eating dinner. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

Our president sang Amazing Grace.

by Margo Jodyne Dills

January 2019

April 25, 2016 - For today’s prompt, write an exercise poem. The poem could be about a specific exercise, or it could just incorporate exercising into the poem

It was an accident he said

Clearly unintended

It started out as just a game

But that’s not how it ended.

A summer morning, on a day,

That should have been for fun

Was turned completely upside down

When Billy found a gun.

The closet was a perfect hiding place

Nate didn’t make a sound

Breathing barely, standing still

He doubted he’d be found.

It turned out to be Nancy’s fault

Coming in from walking

She thought it odd with kids at home

There was no noise or talking.

She crept in on catlike feet

And snuck around a corner.

There was no one in this game

Assigned to yell or warn her.

There are two views presented here

That cause dividing fights;

One is the man who claims

He’s just exercising his rights;

The other side has a loss

Of no comparing sorrow,

To have a son or daughter

Who won’t wake up tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading.

Jimmy and Fred

Weapon of choice



















He claimed it was his legal right,
Protection his ultimate need,
From varmints that came out at night,
And thieves with an unhealthy greed.

“I’ll lock it up and hide the key,”
He told his mothering spouse.
“The bullets and the gun will be
On opposite ends of the house.”

“That hardly does you any good,”
She made her point quite clear.
“If you must protect this brood
You’ll need to have it near.”

Jimmy was a most curious lad;
At dinner used his mouth to eat
While listening to his mom and dad,
Chewed thoughts as well as meat.

In the field out back the grass was high
And the crows flew overhead;
Raising rifles they aimed for the sky,
Jimmy and his best friend, Fred.

It didn’t seem to them that morning
That anything bad could take place.
The weapons they’d borrowed were marked with no warning
Of the tragedy the small town would face.

Little did he know that what goes up,
Earth’s laws dictate must come down.
He fired and gave a command to his pup
To go fetch a bird on the ground.

Poor little Fred never knew what hit;
The bullet went straight to his brain.
He was dead in less than a minute.
It wasn’t a bird that was slain.

The little dog barked and jumped on Fred,
As Jimmy plowed through the weeds.
One small eight year old boy was dead,
But both of the children would bleed.

In a small town, word travels quick
And stigma becomes who you are:
The boy that shot little Fred Schmidt
Would never go very far.

Both were students their teachers had thought
Had the promise of men who’d be great,
But who could predict what the future brought
That would be Fred and Jimmy’s fate.

Fred in a grave when just a small boy
And Jimmy who never forgot
The day he discovered what he thought was a toy
Ended two vital lives with one shot.

.

.