Best Flats Poems
oh the limerick it ain’t quite a sonnet
and the learned, they look down upon it
for they cannot grasp
its head or its ass
nor the cleansing effect of its tonic
John G. Lawless
6/18/2017
On Good Friday after church we eat
curried pickled fish and hot crossed buns
and drink black coffee because we share
in the painful agony of the Lord.
On Easter Sunday after church we braai *
meat and drink like fish and rejoice
in the victory over death and grave.
* (rhymes with "bye" ) - barbeque / barbecue
Twas a little piece of heaven in a bigger spot of hell,
Nestled in the bosom of the Sierra Nevadas.
I wasn't sure just what planet I had just landed on,
An alien invader in a strange mountain fold.
Oh, they looked at us with those skeptical stares,
Knowing full well their way of life there was to end someday.
But they took us in anyway, finally seeing our flags were the same color,
And taught us the art of rock-flicking and tree-bending!
Miles and miles of tormented roads and depressed dwellings
Peppered the backs of the manzanita hills.
Pine pitch wafted in my nose in the sunshine,
And cool, sweet water in the faltering twilight.
Like fleeing snakes, the rivers and creeks charged down-hill,
A Pacific grave was the prize at the end of the run.
We found the Red Planet above Prussian Hill,
Waiting for us to be the last of the guard of an older way of life.
The only real laws out there were the laws of common courtesy,
Don't tread on me, and an eye for an eye.
Folks were as real and as painfully set as a re-broken bone,
High-falutin' ways were as real to them as Hollywood dreams.
The summer sun burned the devils out of your bones,
The winter chill froze the snow angels into your flesh.
Funny, I never heard the whistle of a train,
Where were the railroads?? Hell, where were the FLATS??
West Point was pointless, Wilseyville was full of wiles,
Independence sat in lonely forgottenness,
Glencoe, a plaque in the artery of Hwy. 26.
Mountain Ranch and Sheep Ranch sighed in amnesic slumber,
While Mokolumne Hill and San Andreas kept vigil to the gateways.
A part of my soul is still buried in the flesh of those fractured rises and draws,
A part of who I am... there's no shame, I feel, to admit it loud and proud.
So, to the new dwellers who've changed her lovely, rustic face
Into the image of what they deem beautiful and of value,
Don't forget there were lives lived out before you came,
And remember they cleared the way for you and your ways!
Resist the temptation to rush to change a land that never asked you,
And treat her with the respect of your fathers' graves and your childrens' futures.
the staff here at lim’rik flats
has noticed a shortage of laughs
poetry soupers
need some whoopers
Please double your sillies by halfs
And just so you will not get bored
the staff here will give an award
“giggle-of-the-day”
is easy to play
(and playing is half the reward!)
There on your tongue, on the tip,
is a jest, a joke or a quip
turn it loose, silly
it might be a dilly
Don’t be roosting aloof with tight lip
Not everyone is a clown
but better a groaner than frown
an addle pratfall
just may be your call
you might even light up the town
Lim’rik Flats is, of course, biased
We will pick the one which laughs highest
we are subjectives
but give no invectives
and we’ll praise everyone for their tryest!
*if you see “GOTD!” under your sillies, you have won!
from down on the flats we can see
high-on-the-hills poetry
sonnets like mansions
sestinas in stanchions
they fill our dulled hearts with much glee
Crossing the mud flats
of the bay daily,
on 137,
back and forth,
back and forth,
I see lives with choices
and freedom.
Birds free to take wing
and float on a warm
updraft,
bask in the sun,
wiggle in the mud,
hunt for grubs in the grass,
paddle around with
the new ducklings,
walk on water
for awhile,
fly in formation
for the heck of it.
Freedom in the twitch
of every muscle,
freedom in a wingtip
hitting the water, while
I trapped in modern bondage
travel back and forth
on 137.
Writing limericks is a fine art
Yes I write about poop or a fart
If you show me someone
Who has NOT dropped a ‘bomb’
then from poetry soup I’ll depart!
Inspired by Lim'rik flat's poem 'Collaboration can be fun'
06-18-17
The other day I had a "first", two flat tires.
Could it have been worse?
I was on a narrow country road and
driving very, very slow.
Suddenly my car made a loud pop
and then it fell. The right side dropped.
I drove a bit further with a little hesitation
and fortunately reached my planned destination.
I got out of the car and said, "oh no,
on this lovely day I'll need a tow".
I must have hit a pot hole.
Two thousand dollars I had to pay.
The road less traveled can stay that way..
She loved to gaze, at the tall buildings
As she walked along the road,
Clinging on, to the hand of her dad
A little girl - who loved to dream,
And think of the happy families
Tucked away, cozily in their flats.
She dreamt of the togetherness,
Of the deep bonding in those homes
Of the love, that lit the rooms
And the peace that adorned the walls
Of the music, in their laughter
And the serenity, in their lives.
To her - flats with dim lights
Seemed entrancing, in the nights.
Dreams lost their lustre later,
When reality crept in with age.
Flats could also house - families
Who shared claustrophobic years
And just stayed together,
Bound by the chains of a society.
Each- an island with no ties
They became strangers in a room,
With no desire, to know the other.
Lonely in their large beds
Living- a life of pretence
The bleak walls- adorned by silence
Despair seemed beyond repair.
Soon flats- became a nightmare,for her..
Here in Toledo
I live in a Flat
Infested with rats
who keep crawling up my back
My toilet needs a plunge
From the crap that I keep
It is starting to smell
My nose can't even sleep
the Stew on the stove is a week old
Milk of Magnesia is my poison or so I've been told
The landlord wants the rent
But the money has been spent
on fixing my cot that continues to rot
Sick and feeble I keep using the needle
Ants are nice to eat but so is that beetle
John is a friend who likes to drop down his draw
But his waist is a bulge,that much the ladies all saw
Sad times are here as I throw up my beer
My tv set crashed so the eye sheds a tear
It is never boring in Toledo Heights
Where the man is unashamed to display his unsightly tights
Streets to get mugged on,Avenues to booze
I like this wacky environment, it's the only life I choose*
*Please don't be offended by this poem.It is purely fiction and is not applicable to
the city,the people or their environment
welcome to lim’rik flats
where boys wear only spats
it's in a valley
called nonsense alley
(psst... they also wear hats)
That cream-coloured car is there again
in the parking space at that block of white flats.
She's there every weekday, its owner:
a warden, official, administrator?
Does she work in a room there,
or wander the corridors, nattering to residents
who seem to be the walking dead?
Or does she shut herself away till home time?
Why do I find an interest in
that block of apartments,
full of those who amble from one part to another,
if able to move, are not closed off?
Am I to find myself in that place one day soon,
or dead before they can haul me there?
(Sep 2022)
Dale had a date
at Red Road Flats,
but the girl he's at
had no need of him.
She had gone out walking
with her dog,
and wasn't there
at Red Road Flats.
So Dale went knocking on her door
on the top floor of Red Road Flats.
There was no barking of the dog, for sure,
in Red Road Flats, in Red Road Flats.
He stood there an hour beside the door
of Red Road Flats, and was so bored...
Eventually, the girl's he's at
came home with Smog, the little dog.
"What are you doing here?"
said the girl he's at at Red Road Flats.
For that rudeness, Dale was floored,
and says no more she's the girl he's at.
----------------------------------------------
1/13/2016
Contest - Strand Selection 6
Sponsor - Brian Strand
2nd place win
When I'm walking through the tide flats
I'm creating a space in my heart
For gladness and gratitude
I taste the tangy bite of the clam
As the seagull gulps
The wind against my hull feels briny
Buffeted by the seas breath
I follow warm currents
Finding shells ravished by the years
Similar to my own
Crusted with barnacles, living
Still as shelter to crabs or daughters
High the song of the scavengers
Mournful sound cannot dappen me
My eyes gaze the horizon
Follow the waves back to shore
Hear also the silence
Of islands distant blue bulk
Hanging from beneath stormy clouds
Pushed west by the offshore fan
The sun warms my hands as i walk
I see a heron glide with grace
Past me to land among the gulls
Crabbing must be good here
Empty carcasses left behind in the sand
Lead me to the edge that lines the earths shape
To dip my toes in serenity's ample arms
Brighter are the days thus spent
The harmony of the sea
Alive beside each step as I cruise home
So, maybe you can tell
Heaven from hell,
blue skies from rain,
a day full of pain.
Can you trade a walk in the park
for a glimpse of the dark?
We are the captured souls, like fish in bowls.
Do you want to exchange, from living in chains?
Beating around the bush is not of any use,
in the blink of an eye, you will die.
Life in the Cape Flats
has been taken over by brats.
They will rape, kill and maim.
even though they don’t know your name.
Every gang has a name,
they also have no shame.
People here live in fear.
There is always some parent who sheds a tear.
Young girls falling pregnant
from boys who will not leave a remnant.
A child heavily pregnant with a child
has been left alone like an animal in the wild.
The boyfriend is long gone
making a call to another one.
Parents going to work, trying to make a living
leave their kids at home in a life so unforgiving.
Kids must look after themselves,
even though the oldest is only 12.
Most households live a life of struggle.
That is a life so radical.
The gangs rule the street.
To them, somebody must bleed.
The community forms groups
but everybody has their moves.
The gangs make them fearful.
If they cross the gangs, they will soon be tearful.
The gangs of the Cape Flats
are like wolves in a pack.
If you cross them at your own risk,
you will end up on their hit list.
The gangs have no regard for the law.
To them, the law is a flaw.
Drugs rule their lives.
They will do anything to survive.
The Cape Flats has become a hive of activity.
If you are not careful, here you’ll meet your destiny.
Known for the activity of many gangs.
The shots fired, bang, bang, bang.
Innocent people run away.
There is no way they would want to stay.
They have no chance of leaving.
On the Cape flats, their lives have little meaning.