Best Flagpole Poems
They kick God out of classrooms
And evil walks right in
Innocents are led to slaughter
Before their lives can even begin
Our jaws drop from the shock
We are appalled by such a crime,
But we voted for laws to kick god out
To usher in such times
I remember morning prayers in class
And a hymn or two we'd sing
We would join hands around the flagpole
A give thanks for the grace he brings.
This nation was founded on godly principals
And his blessings poured out each day
But we grew up trying it on our own
And look at the troubles that come our way.
You dont have to believe me
And keep turning your head away
But the proof is happening before our eyes
And gets worse each passing day
Theres now a number of innocent children,
Who are sitting before Gods throne
And hes wrapping his love around them
Because this world has let them go.
How much suffering must we endure
What will it take to make things right
We must allow God to rule our lives
Til evil is banished from our sight.
We can blame it on the monsters
Or some will curse God for what was done
But we should look real hard at our own direction
If this battle is truly to be won
My grandma was a steeple jack,
Of heights she had no fear.
The crowds would gather round to watch.
They came from far and near,
To see her swing and pirouette,
Doff her hat and wave.
And gasped and cheered each time she feigned
A slip and then a save.
Roof-toppers winced and bit their lips,
Tight rope walkers screamed.
Treetop loggers looked away
At the daring they were seeing.
Women gasped and children shrieked,
Fearful she would fall,
But at full ascent a massive roar
As she stood upon the ball!
She blew a kiss to the those below
As she turned around with ease,
Then there atop removed her scarf
And cast it to the breeze
But the crowd went wild as before their eyes
They viewed her final feat…
Into a handstand Grandma rose,
Then she waved and kicked her feet!
Whether flag pole, steeple, TV tower…
My grandma climbed them all.
For the freedom felt there in the clouds,
She was at their beck and call.
That grand old gal inspired me
Her legacy I've retraced.
Now I too dance upon a pole
At a club called Mary’s Place.
An old Ethiopian veteran of the love wars
once told a newlywed Kenyan kid:
If you want the infant marriage to survive,
make it to the golden years Mt. Kilimanjaro side
You gotta keep the giraffe standing up,
when the ecstasy mountain air gets thin at night
When you’re starting the climb,
don’t early reach
for the apex of a lovemaking climax
You gotta stay rock hard,
climbing the pleasure wall for the long haul —
Or don’t even shorty night come at all
Keep the flagpole reared tall;
because the minute your
testosterone stone levels fall,
you might as well go geld yourself
Premature burial ...
put the family jewels in a coffin box
Don’t bother to take off your pants,
might as well keep on your socks
Prepare to have plenty eunuch days
of abstinent nights
Too many failed erections
gonna get you shovels loads
of opposite sex dissatisfaction
Expect a bedroom eviction notice,
telling you to
get your droopy drawers packing
Frequent impotent performances,
gonna get her eyebrow curtains raised
So many flaccid phallic early encore excuses made
gonna get you tossed out of the bed,
and kicked downstairs onto the couch
Premature ejection is coming,
your woman’s been too long frustrated ...
doubts gon start creeping in:
Where you been,
who you seeing ...
Why you keep coming home
with your love sacs empty?
Those suspicions gon start stiffening:
She’s gonna wanna know
whose arms been keeping your bottom mind bent
You’re gonna wanna know
where in the world did your lost manhood get sent
If you don’t wanna lose access
to her intimate-starved heart,
you better start trying harder on keeping it hard
Learn to get a second wind of stamina,
too much soft effort gon get your love privilege barred
Premature pleasure aborted love
will have your armadillo snout soul dragging
Premature love not long enough
will have your elephant nose spirit sagging
Don’t depend on bottled passion,
pharmaceutical extended sex
Too many early evening elongated failures
gonna get you a premature ex
Staunch, spine straight as a flagpole
Chin tucked into neckfolds of flesh
Face itch, lips blubber incessantly...
Hips thrust forward... twin bulldozers
Life expectancy, a speck in a sandstorm
Rows of medals under gray sash, Iraq
The Yellow Dog
A skinny yellow dog walked 'round
Needin' to find some shade
The dusty little one street town
Was hot as God has made
He eyed the flagpole in the square
No shadow could he see
He raised his leg an' aimed it there
You ain't no help to me.
He laid down in the sand and dust
His chin upon his paw
Didn't move unless he must
Beat all he ever saw
He knew he'd have to move right nigh
The sun would bake his brain
He sighed and put his nose up high
An' sniffed the air for rain
The air was still an' desert dry
No water comin' soon
He headed for a dusty lie
Beneath the town saloon
He rested there with one eye shut
An' wondered how he'd eat
The garbage cans behind the hut
Don't last long in this heat
About that time the batwings swung
An' out walked Booger Red
He looked to see if low clouds hung
Then thought of gettin' fed
An' there he saw the yellow dog
Just squintin' with one eye
He said, "Ol' son, get off that log,
You'll starve there by an' by."
The dog had never had a friend
But somehow he just knew
This redhaired cowboy with the grin
Was somehow somethin' new
Booger swung up in the saddle
An' said, "Come foller me.
We'll get grub out where there's cattle,
An' then, young friend, we'll see."
For five years now that dog was here
No better friend could be
'Til Red was killed by a Longhorn steer -
No better friend than he
The yellow dog hung down his head
An' wandered back to town
He seems to know Booger is dead
As he searches around
Then he heads for the town saloon -
Becomes a watchful dog
He listens to hear one day soon
"Ol' son, get off that log."
May, 2016
For contest Weepy Quatrain. for Laura Loo
The Avon Lady sold her some lipstick in the colour of plum
It was on special offer and she couldn't resist buying some
Then she bought a purple dress to match her purple lips
The purple pirate is about to find, he's really had his chips
He was swashing his buckle and both his eyes were crossed
As she squeezed his nuggets he admits she's the boss
She unzips her dress to reveal violet underwear
The pirate fell out of his hammock and banged his head on the chair
His mistress in dis dress couldn't believe her eyes
She removed his elephant thong and couldn't believe the size
It was like a flagpole but was lying at half mast
To raise it was a challenge if he failed he’d be aghast
She stood before the pirate in her purple underwear
He was really into boobies and boy has she got a pair
He stuck his head between them and she said ' Hey that's enough
He couldn't hear a word she said, her boobs acted like ear muffs
They caressed each other gently, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing
His todger was gigantic, but can he use it for a little more than peeing?
He deftly removed her panties and onto him she did climb
When they finally came together the explosion was sublime
My love you are a treasure and to you I did succumb
We will be together forever and I’ll always dress in plum
No other man can match your love and no other I will seek
You can be my purple pirate every day of every week
10th June 2014
Submitted to Colours Contest Sponsored By Shadow Hamilton
the cool breeze fondles
the old tattered flag as it
hangs on the flagpole
displaying it's frayed faded
colors of red, white, and blue
fluid in the wind
drawing your ears to the flags
flapping sounds trying
to tell manifold stories
of men and women's valor
8/19/2017
The Committee of Five edited Jefferson's draft. Their version survived further edits by the whole Congress intact, and reads:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. ——
Happiness; 1776 the common meaning may have been "prosperity, thriving, wellbeing"
Aussie Flag o the Convict spawn
Under this flag we fought for sure,
defending Pommy gits and more,
defending of our nation,
in murderous situations,
tween Afghans and the Boer...
we'd run it up the old flagpole,
fluttered there our heart and soul,
the Aussies are on station,
the convict spawn relation,
adventure is our goal,
you step on us we will step on you,
careful how you treat us blue,
right cross to the snotter too,
in a stirry situation,
the Aussies and the Kiwis saw,
that we were cannon fodder for,
pommy overlords of nations,
respect for them no never when,
we spearheaded Tobruk and Alamein,
less pommy casualties to frame,
colonial extermination...
Don Johnson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACFGr3G1In8
It's date night once again,
almost near the witching hour
You dread the dimming of the light,
as the clock chimes the midnight strike
Half-hearted display of staged re-enactments
of bygone semi-passionate days
Youthful days in the rearview,
both bodies not looking like they used to
So you pop the pill Viagra,
still no artificial desire erected
Another impotent plea for forgiveness,
in the bedroom chamber of confession
Where did it go,
where did it go?
Where went the shrunken libido?
Where did it go,
where did it go?
Who hexed the phallic head with zombie voodoo?
Now you can't raise the love flagpole,
Tarzan can't swing into Jane's jungle
Limp, sagging wet desire
prematurely puts out
any spark of passion fire
She don't look like she used to,
but as a matter of fact neither do you
It was always a marriage of convenience,
based solely on appearance
In the nether region, you can't raise the bridge
Caution: low stamina clearance
Love sacrificed for a security price,
in exchange for a stale, empty sex life
Now every date night, your ego takes a blow,
and you're left to wonder
what happened to your throbbing libido
Where did it go,
where did it go?
Where went the shrunken arousal?
Where did it go,
where did it go?
Where went the shrunken libido?
Like medieval trash,
machismo got thrown out the window
Weeds and grass grow in the cracks
of sun-faded, crumbling pavement,
a parking lot that once was full
of stressed parents and cowboys nascent.
A grand sign over the entry
now is rotted two-thirds away,
this old piece of my childhood
truly has seen better days.
It was an old-west town once,
where we learned of the frontier,
now the totem pole is fallen down,
brings to my eye a sad tear.
The old Indian village, long gone,
is now just some concrete pads,
not the grand teepees I explored
back when I was just a lad.
The cavalry fort once rose proud,
a solid wall of rough-hewn logs,
now one rampart remains, broken,
sinking into a nearby bog.
It’s old flagpole still stands tall,
but Old Glory no longer flutters,
trash and graffiti lie about,
the whole place looks like a gutter.
And up at the bank where long ago
the ‘bandits’ always struck ad two,
I can recall how kids with cap guns
always ‘made’ them drop their loot.
Nearby is the big stable
where families could take trial rides,
the roof is gone, it’s been ten years
since any horse was inside.
Finally I see the arena
where rodeo riders ran wild,
wrestling steers, breaking a bronc,
clinging to a bull with style.
The old stands are half-collapsed,
the corral is full of small trees,
hard to believe it ever enrapt
young children in such revelry.
Some say it was P.C. parents
afraid of imaginary strife,
some say the Hollywood now
can’t make a western to save their life.
Others say that the owners died,
and their kids didn’t want to load,
whatever the reason, it was sad
the day the old-west town closed.
I hear that there are now big plans
to turn it all into a park,
a taxpayer-funded state debacle,
as such projects usually are.
They have their designs but we all
know what should really be done,
it should be rebuilt so that our kids
have a place to run ’round with cap guns.
Gold is the color in the veins of that ore
and red is the color in the veins of war.
Bankers have bested alchemists of old
and found a way to turn blood into gold.
With a false flag attack invent a foe
to rally the nation around a flagpole.
Then ignite emotions till a vengeance flows
that sends the troops to die in foxholes.
In the business of war you fund foe and friend
with flows of equipment to wars without end.
Allies and enemies, they’re both the same,
destroy and replace is the name of the game.
Equip your armies with bombers and tanks
then deposit the proceeds into the banks.
Blow them all up and when that’s complete
order replacements from the corporate elite.
Those who protest can often be coaxed
to close their eyes and join in the hoax.
Money has power to eradicate proof
and nullify all indisputable truth.
Morals and loyalty have prices and range
that are traded like stocks on an exchange.
As the bribes go up ethics go down
and there’s never a lack of sellers around.
The wealthy think they’re a class of high priests
and the crumbs of their greed are some kind of feast.
They are held in the highest reverence and awe
by those hungry for power and morally poor.
So anxious are some to devour the scraps
they lick up the floor beneath their bootstraps.
There isn’t a lie that they would not eat
to stay in the grace of the corporate elite.
Those who seek justice are told that the law
is a remedy that’s so righteously pure
that it will imprison the vilest of men
to rectify evil committed by them.
Those who believe the rich go to jail
are lost in the pages of a fairy tale.
There’s no happy ending at the close of the book
all chapters are written and penned by the crooks.
The “enemy is” those who threaten the pork
devoured by Wall St. up in New York.
And if you want some bacon to put on your bread
you’d better tear all who oppose them to shreds.
Put boots on the ground with a sky full of drones
to slaughter resistance in the killing zones.
Let oil and blood flood into the streets
for the profit and pleasure of the corporate elite.
Complete Dependence
“God, the Master, The Holy of Israel, has this solemn counsel: "Your salvation requires you to turn back to me and stop your silly efforts to save yourselves. Your strength will come from settling down in complete dependence on me— The very thing you've been unwilling to do. You've said, 'Nothing doing! We'll rush off on horseback!' You'll rush off, all right! Just not far enough! You've said, 'We'll ride off on fast horses!' Do you think your pursuers ride old nags? Think again: A thousand of you will scatter before one attacker. Before a mere five you'll all run off. There'll be nothing left of you— a flagpole on a hill with no flag, a signpost on a roadside with the sign torn off." Isa 30:15-17 The Message
There are many who profess to serve God,
But rely on their own efforts to obey,
To form a right character
And secure salvation in their own way.
There’s no deep love of Christ in their hearts,
But they perform Christian duties anyway,
Thinking that by doing so they’ll gain heaven,
Because they’ve done the same always.
When Christ dwells in the heart
The heart is filled with His love;
There’s a joy of communion
With the Savior up above.
Self is forgotten in this communion;
The will of the Lord reigns.
Profession of Christ comes joyfully,
Without any formality or contrains.
Christ is trusted to change the character,
And repentance is sweet;
Pleadings for His work in the heart,
Each sincere soul does entreat.
Prayer and communion come naturally
And a song in the heart does stay,
Regardless of the circumstances,
That for most would dismay.
There’s sincerity of purpose
And upon Christ Complete Dependence.
Obedience comes naturally,
Rather than thoughts of compliance.
There’s no fear of failure
To reach the standards of heaven,
But faith in Christ’s robe of righteousness,
And salvation by Christ alone given.
© Copyright 2012 Maureen LeFanue
www.maureenlefanue.com
George Schultz
1898-1917
I was reposing voiceless on my deathbed,
As with the silent fog on a winter’s morning,
On the way out of here from kidney failure,
And as I closed my windows there,
On north Painter Street,
I tried to recall the greatest day of my life.
In pain, I remember grimacing there,
And then, ten minutes before my heart said “no,”
To this sad comedy called “Existence,”
I saw inside my fading mind
That still moment in time,
That priceless artifact of mere memory:
I saw Georgia Brown and me,
Embracing and shivering like two birds at sunrise,
Holding on to each other in the December drizzle,
Of a long-forgotten morning in 1913,
By the tall flagpole at the high school,
There on busy Philadelphia Street.
And even though I knew her heart,
A loving heart which belonged to another, and another,
She still accepted my romantic entreaties;
My hushed whispering words of sweet infatuation;
And that, my friends,
Is what I miss the most:
The fragrant audacious flirtations,
The deeply passionate naïveté,
Of the one and only Georgia Brown!
It’s late. I’m becoming paranoid. I can hear the thumping of bass from passing cars. Doors slamming. Screaming. My window shudders with me. To look into my peripheral- my irises must cross oceans. Waves crash. Everything blurs.
Life is now an abstract painting of the surroundings a young man sees on his way to make sure that his car is locked. The gleam of a cell phone shining onto the untended grass. A barren flagpole. A mossy wishing well that serves no purpose. The car door opens with a whine. I turn over the engine to make sure the battery hasn’t died. Sit. Waiting. Not sure what for. The radio’s red face shines. I turn up the volume. The music is static. I cannot feel its pulse. There is no throb of emotion. No shining agony. No comforting roar. The car’s engine begins its own song. Misfiring as if it were crying out to God. A last, tragic statement of attrition.
Everything is broken.
I turn off the engine, retrieve the keys.
Grab my gun out of the glove compartment.
Lock the doors.
Grind my teeth along the path that leads to the roof
under which I hide my sickness.
Wishing I could feel the beat of something other than
the hammer pounding against my crumbling resolve.
-James Kelley 2018
Riotous revellers' laughter drifts up from their apricot lit late night haunts, four cafes are notoriously avoided venues for overindulgent consumption of alcohol.
Across the street, from my thirtieth floor apartment window, remote portrait of bodies bent enthralled over their beers,
toads on stools at mushroom stem tables.
Flicker of forbidden recognition crosses my cortex,
- I'm a resident of Broadwater Tower now.
Unstated policy prohibits proximity with riff raff.
Our bar ensures we wear careful attire,
floor gleams mirror marble.
Chrome and cracked leather oud absorbs expensive scents.
Ladies laughter upscale conflicts the low fading mens' vocal.
Tipsy sensation enhanced by deck docked
rolling prestigious flagpole chiming yachts.
Over the road, neolithic neon signs post grotesque cafe names,
Salivate, Green Grotto among them.
Customers come from squat squashed suburbs,
five minute drive away.
Dive bar dark sparks alcoholic amphibians unremarkable bravado.
January holiday season sees sardines huddled heartily under awnings, abandoning next morning necessity.
24th February 2023
151 words
Written for Contest: Four Cafes
Sponsor: Julia Ward