Best Lank Poems
Wie waak oor ons gans die wakkernag?
Vind sondes.lank vergete
n aanklag eggo in die gewete
Dalk net stank demone
Wat slaaploos toi-toi in talle drome
Watter wekker skrik sy meester kaal
Wyl hy rondtol.in n lakenhel?
Skape, pennies en sy woorde tel
Of plak gebede saam met drome vas
Teen blank plafonne en die linnekas?
En ook skimme wat eens mense was
n vingerskrif op die klagstaat straf
Ander sluimer niksbeduidend
Wereld werk nog steeds misleidend
Introspeksie hou het geen verband
Onwelkom het net ingekom
Soos infeksie in n agtertand
Prokureur teem onbeholpe
'k kort n advokaat
n leuenverklikker wat moet wèèt waarvan hy praat
Opgetof en opgetoga en n omkoopmagistraat
Sinies en insomnies
naghof ronddool in n doodloopstraat
Wie sake uitgooi maar dan skelm uitstel
Weereens more ons beroof van geld en slaap
Reverie of Reflection
How may I serve thee, when I have grown old?
When the rocking chair arms embrace their hold;
And silence cuddles lank and limping legs,
Uninvited tears roll down cheeks of age.
My dreams of passionate youth grandiose,
Fighting and failing for “good” bellicose,
Undone deeds clog the gutters of the past.
The sum of life’s days dashing far too fast.
The sun beams drifting through the window glass,
Reverie floats – the untenable pass;
“Cans” buried in the can nots of real time.
Opportunities lost as wilted vines.
How may I serve thee, when I have grown old?
I will pray dear prayers asleep in my soul.
A restless girl in a pink bedroom
Scans the implacable ceiling,
Or buries her face in a book
To subdue the hurting feeling.
And the days fall flat as roadkill,
Grind on and cool their heels
In minutes and hours of deadlock,
Like rusted cogs and wheels.
Childhood sneaks to closure,
And nothing does no good
On the border between confusion
And the bloom to womanhood.
In the tangle of ebony hair
Lank and listless on the sheet,
And the summer-kiss tan of her skin
Lie the sorrowful signs of defeat.
She could cry for the ending of times
Rose-tinted with visions of love,
Now a restless girl in a pink bedroom
Sighs and stares at the ceiling above.
Lank shimmery hair flows off her shoulders
Cascading aloft sweet midnight zephyr
Alone she sits perched on seaside boulders
Under somber moonlight where he'd left her
Night after night she's at the rendezvous
Serene silhouette against the skyline
Amorously bidding her love adieu
Should by design the stars divine align
The twilight shadows hide the tears that flow
Deferring to cosmic powers that be
Prayers released beneath a live tableau
Akin lost mermaid lingering at sea
Love lost in surf leaving a soul in strife
Fate to reunite love in the next life
AP: 2nd place 2025
Submitted on May 13, 2019 for contest CHOICES (PHOTO #3) sponsored by SARA KENDRICK - HONORABLE MENTION
and January 8, 2019 for contest BEAUTIFUL SADNESS sponsored by JOHN HAMILTON - RANKED 10TH
Masai Mara Migration
When Mother Nature calls
A wildebeest then recalls
Yonder, to migrate en mass
In search of Greener Grass.
Great a Hand that beckons
Utopia is yonder he reckons
Perfect is the Clock of Time
Telling of the right clime.
Behold, the forest on horns
Jutting like stirring thorns
Lank calf on mother’s tow
Alert not to lose the cow.
Bliss is calling I can hear
Who would not brave fear
To ford the River of Death
To the calling Land of Mirth;
Survivors of the long trek
Or, Croc’ menacing wreck
And prowlers in couchant
Intend for an easy hunt....
Verdant Land that waves
Leaves on trek many graves:
To gain a thing though small
You stoop to give your all!
** An epitome of the Diaspora and Africa’s Forward March into Liberty and Economic Emancipation.
JM
04th Nov’ 2013
Thar was once an old buckaroo named Hank,
Who was very absent-minded and lank.
He told his hoss to skedaddle,
Fergittin' to mount the saddle.
'Twas not the first time old Hank drew a blank!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
The fisherman sat on the bank
patiently he waits for a bite
but his reel stayed very lank
He wanted to score a good rank
but was having no luck at this site
the fisherman sat on the bank
A few nibbles and his reel sank
his bait gone, words he did incite
but his reel stayed very lank
With a splash his reel it did tank
with a whooping enormous bite
the fisherman sat on the bank
The gods up above he did thank
his luck he believed not quite
but his reel stayed very lank
By now he had got very dank
and shaking off a pesky mite
the fisherman sat on the bank
but his reel stayed very lank
A fisherman sat with line all lank
perched on crooked stool that soon sank
backside now all mud covered
his face an embarrassed red
off home he went with his pants all dank.
11/13/2014
contest: limericks clean and clever
The nights are long, the weather drear,
An eastern wind blows cold and keen –
This is the mean time of the year.
The clock’s go back and winter’s here.
Grey skies : the sun is seldom seen,
The nights are long, the weather drear.
Season of misty atmosphere,
Forgotten days that might have been.
This is the mean time of the year
When falling leaves will disappear
To leave a stark skeletal scene.
The nights are long, the weather drear.
The weeping willow sheds a tear
And silver birch looks lank and lean –
This is the mean time of the year.
Long icicles on roofs appear
Like gnashing teeth – a monster, mean.
The nights are long, the weather drear,
This is the mean time of the year.
HOMELESS, NOT HOPELESS
Put on my face brave
Buy razor and shave
Change socks even if it’s not
Really winter yet
Ice has not yet set
But socks have started to rot
Trim my long lank hair
(what’s left and still there)
Check the skip for new sweater
Maybe new shirt too
Don’t mind red or blue
Before weather gets wetter
Check roof of cardboard
Where my world is stored
Lunch with can of cold sardines
From café spoil heap
Just before cat’s leap
Tomorrow there might be beans
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck for
Nette Onclaud’s Contest “ALOUTTE YOUR CLEANSING RITE”
Morning; I awake
with stiffness in my
lank legs.
Yesterdays long run
has taken its toll
on my
ungrateful, ageing
body.
N TROTSE AFRIKANER BOER
Ek staan vanaand en kyk na my land
Suid Afrika.
Waar is ons land dan? Waar gaan
ons le vanaand?
Ek sien weer die voortreker wa. Ek
sien weer my oupa se oupa waar hy
jonk en vrolik die osse inspan, want
net oor die volgende bult le ons rus,
net oor die volgende bult le toekoms
rus oor daai bult le Louis Trichardt
en oor daai bult le buffels fontein.
Ja ons Afrikaner bloed le diep. Ver
loop ons bloed in bloedrivier in. In
die grond le ons swoeg en sweet. Is
daar dan nou nie n plek vir ons
afrikaner hart nie. Word ons nie ook
n plek gegun in die aarde waar ons
voorvaders baklei het vir ons
bestaan nie?
Hoe lank moet ons baklei om ons
plek te kry in die afrika se son en
sand? Hoe ver moet ons dan trek om
weer eens die land te maak waar ons
kan opbou soner om te dink water
plaas word weer geplunder water
een van ons Afrikaner boere se vrou
en kiners kry seer.
STAAN OP MY BOERE VOLK STAAN
OP UIT DIE AS EN KOM STAAN
SAAM TEEN DIE WAT SEER MAAK
WAT AFBRAND
Want ons hart le in ons kiners se
toekoms en soner ons aksie is hul
verlore. Sal hul omdraai en vra waar
is ons trots afrikaner waar was ons
Want in die land van moord rape en
barbare kan ons ook weer n land vir
ons as afrikaner skep. Kan ons die
Afrikaner weer veilig slaap vir ons
kiners n toekoms gee as daar aksie
is as ons ook weier om op getrap te
word
The Ancient Mariner of the parliament square
Like the mariner he was, a scrawny, skin unfair
A loner with a glittering eyes, possibly a bit touched
A Clint Eastwood impersonator look, he seemed to bear
But a powerful speaker than professional speakers.
Urging world to live a more Christian life cleaner
Lived and slept outside the parliament for a decade
In his hand holding, with broad thrust, a loudhailer.
Against Western groups killing thousands Iraqi people
He fought and spoke for 3,600 days like an eagle.
Of traffic, clock bangs and the hordes of visitors.
When Haw at his mouthpiece, all the voices disabled
Haw had a remarkably insistent, irritating voice
And Mr. David Blunkett was irked and annoyed
Reacting to 2005 organized crime And Police Act
It was “using a maul to crack a nut” to destroy.
The More Brian noise caused with his loudhailer
The more MPS demanded to remove the bother
But the word “Bother” sounded too weak
Compared to warmongering by Blaire & B-liars.
With an Antipodean woman Haw shared war choirs
With his trademark cries of “ Tony B-liar, Tony B.I.A.R”
When another woman started up, public was grateful
Sharp as seamstress’s needle was Sheila’ s crisp voice.
Despite his Left-wing favor, he was a Right-wing figure
A man, standing up to the state, never thought to disfigure
Brian Haw had plenty more fuel for all his protests
The war in Afghanistan and the war in Iraq to configure.
When Milosevic was tried at the Hague for war crimes
He said, “why not to try Blair and Bush’s Crimes?”
Like Coleridge’s haunted mariner: long, lank & brown
He had one vice: tobacco, he died of lung cancer prime.
+++
March 12, 2014
Dr. Ram Mehta
Form: Rubaiyat
Contest: One Against Many by Joe Maverick
He stared at the pictures,
faces of the love searchers,
twenty first century wanted posters,
scanning their rewards,
nothing pecuniary ,
preliminary,
maybe,
move on.
“Shall I advertise myself,” he thought,
no one appears sold or bought,
given to the mass,
on a screen of glass,
the physical hidden,
abrogate madness in description,
we are all still strangers,
with keyboards,
watching screens.
Laptop lap dance dreaming,
muscles screaming,
from the primal theatre,
soul said rise,
clearing eyes,
bleary plasma vision clearing,
fresh air endearing,
left behind the digital desert,
went out to speak,
parched vocal chords starved,
thirsting for voice.
No dust on the keyboard,
he moved away in dead skin’s storm,
hunched and wild,
hair hung lank and ragged,
bedraggled wardrobe on blood and bone’s frame,
almost lame he walks,
to the shower stalks,
water staving off the slaughter,
the hot water,
a dream of cascading falls,
at his feet the last days drowned,
washed to the sewer,
where screen days live,
blending easily;
with battered shopping trolleys & ****.
He dressed slowly,
went to his front door,
where the mirror smiled,
I remember you,
you once passed by often,
don’t be a stranger,
I’d rather see you leaving,
twisted contradictions of a mirror’s perspective,
not because you’re ugly,
because you’re beautiful,
and you shouldn’t be here with only me,
he laughed and said goodbye,
fresh air and light,
a missing intoxication,
he drank deeply;
walking to bid the strangers hello...
©David Nickle Read2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author
The fiery orb now grows in warmth slowly,
Liquid gold, limpid glows,
Gilds lank skies in godlike pose,
Dispels grief and human woes.