Best Slab Poems
That tiny pause to skirt the truth, half-reals you'd paraphrase,
The subtle softly spinning gyre of cunning in your gaze,
Vague reflections from your skin - a shedding, sheltering plaque,
All concerned syllables sent swiftly bouncing off your back.
Ever adrift on fiction's lost sea, never blown to shore,
Too late I saw your hidden thirst - too easy to ignore
Evasion and avoidance - thus was piloted your ship,
You'd dance around, not run aground - you gave us both the slip.
I failed your buried, rooted pain, I missed the reddened tracks,
All facts would step aside your rime of displaced parallax,
I slighted each secluded wound, the false-trod thoroughfare,
So ends a life of wary silence, cloaked mutely in despair.
No one knew you as I did, my reward there sadly sure,
I'd like to think away now, yet the hard truths are too pure,
Blinded, perhaps, by my own fear, I let out line for years,
And all my stock of forward time now fills with bloody tears.
Upon my closing sight of you, muzzled words within your eyes,
Your final hour released you not - you'd walked too long on lies.
Santa hasn’t drunk cocoa tonight,
and he’s not dressed in red trimmed with white.
In blue denim so cool,
he is toasting the Yule
with a drink surely not mixed with Sprite!
Santa’s drink was a little too red,
and I think we have something to dread,
for he’s now in the sky
and he’s flying “too high”
as his sleigh widely veers overhead.
Had been use for the Humor Contest of Carol Eastman
* Slab City is a snowbird campsite in the Colorado Desert in southeastern California, used by recreational vehicle owners and squatters from across North America. East Jesus is part of its artistic community.
Raised a thumb, hitched a ride
random raced, inside
a freaky, desert mirage—
—then took it——solo
and slammed smack dab
into Slab City.
Oasis to lost, wandering souls
outcasts, living off society’s Grid
—crash landed—
into immediate immersion
of oddball oddities and eccentricities.
Psychedelic dreamscapes
mixed with Truth tellers—
—Salvation Mountain, God’s love
and John 3:16.
then, around the corner
East Jesus, where heathens
and aliens commune.
Find your path, your truth
along Coke bottle walls
Madonna shrines, plastic people
junk art sculptures—-
—-RV snowbirds and hippies
living side by side.
Commentary complimentary—
—spun from a grey bearded elder
telling tales of the glory days—
—of protests and picket lines
—of hazy days, flower children
and far out, rainbow dreams.
Written: February 26, 2025, for Antony Biaanco Contest
*************************
City hum drifts through spurious ways,
teeming in a wild, woody ward.
The jasmine vine twists down to
a jagged sill for a moment before
sinking into a cool, katabatic pit.
Early rush-hour sounds—farts and snorts—
cram the air, moments blending
into the drive-by without a stroll,
as rain-soaked, worn stone slabs
Mark the corner store—
where you used to grab milk,
soap, or other staples.
The chill of an icy night—
gives way to a sun-kissed morning glow.
Sitting at my desk, chatting on the phone,
canceling appointments for the boss.
He’s staying a little longer in Honolulu,
musing over which states—
the neighbors moved to.
Do they remember how
crabgrass took over?
The streets are empty except—
for a fridge that somehow
made it to the avenue,
lingering there,
its story is low and uncertain.
Does this questionable life count?
We can’t amend it,
it won’t yield precious plums,
only a mournful structure,
shadows lurking,
and worn trousers that tell tales.
The horizon lies obscured—
by haphazard highways,
stretching into stark,
barren spaces,
where even the flowers have wilted.
Countless scorched dreams,
strained savings,
and buried letters—
linger in forgotten corners.
The fire hydrant no longer
cries out for the world.
"Honky Chateau" continues to compel—
as it meanders the sporadic streets,
streets cloaked in anonymity—
and emptied of life.
The dwindling dirge of
a forsaken place hangs heavily,
with dreams dangling—
in line for food stamps
and community cheese.
Buildings shatter, splinter, and crumble—
crashing, crushing, collapsing
submerged with rivers of fire within.
Crisis tamed,
calamity curtailed,
the police stroll in pairs,
collecting discarded shopping carts.
Dust gently falls—
as yesterday's laments hush
the pigeons to sleep,
mold mingling with the memory—
of barbecued ribs,
those hardened bones
left since last year.
We went in a cab to see cold slab,
That did appear to be dull and drab;
Letters were distinct when viewed;
So much sadness there we ensued.
Tombstones arranged row after row;
All around green grass grew and grew;
In background were abundant trees;
In faces we would feel a cool breeze.
On a long beach many boats landed;
By an officer had been commanded;
Such a horrible place surely had been;
They died never to ever be seen again.
In graveyard each dead body will abide,
Remember all of those who there died;
Bugle issued forth such a lonely sound;
For all those who no longer are around.
In review soldiers would soon pass by,
Proudly, but still were wondering why
They did gallantly die with things grim;
Forever will never forget any of them.
Am open to all criticism and recommendations.
You might look at me
with your blushed pink face
Your hard pimpled complexion
But above it all I know
that your sharp edged
square attitude is all a bluff
For/Four cornered
we can all see that you really are
two faced so double the math still
just a slab
standing the test of time
waiting to be cracked through age
when your crevices may be filled
smoothed over
to tidy your appearance
and make seem renewed
a little younger cosmetically
by the touch of skilled hands
steady in their chosen profession
Yet at the end of the day
everyone knows
you are just going to get walked over
The door to our bathroom is tiny,
Made of a faded red plastic nearly two decades ago,
One of its hinges has already been eaten away,
By time & rust that blossomed at its end,
Its latch has never worked,
The builder had his drawing wrong and we never managed to fix it,
And the door never really closed all the way.
Sometimes we used buckets,
Half-filled, not empty,
To hold the door in place.
Sometimes we placed the stool there,
It was an old iron stool,
Starting to bleed in its own rust,
And often we tripped.
Sometimes we closed all the doors,
In the rest of the house,
So that we wouldn't tempt the wind,
To push the door across.
So my mother brought out a small granite slab,
The size of her palm,
The colour of our kitchen floor and placed it in the corner.
It was heavy enough to close the door,
And small enough that we didn't trip over it,
And it was easy to move,
With just our feet,
And I wonder how much,
That little stone slab has seen for,
Much of our loneliness is cradled in that bathroom.
My father with his fury,
At how his daughter didn't live up to his dreams,
At how is authority is questioned every half second,
Wondering why we don't see his great sacrifices,
And get hung on to petty details.
My mother with her fear,
At the deep doubts, she has over her daughter's sexuality,
At the disappointment, she has in what she knows to be a dreary future.
Confused why her children just won't do what they're told,
Instead of trying to be their own persons.
My sister with her confusion,
At the sudden attention being poured on her,
Caught with a sudden pressure weighing on her back,
Unable to ask for reprieve and always, wondering,
Which expectation is real and which one a trap?
The worst sight,
The slab has to see,
Is possibly,
It's perception of me,
And I have to wonder,
If my family,
My seemingly loving,
Desperately perfect family,
Know each other any more than the slab,
Knows us.
Orphaned Slab
by Odin Roark
They call me a foundation
once supporting siding and stone
wire
plumbing
shingles
Through the doors of my house
trailed family and friends
across kitchen floor
slanted slightly
letting Benny’s agate marbles
migrate to the corner
Atop my shoulders
a house of character once stood
usual middle class floor plan
even allowing spidery webs
their solace in pantry corners
squirrels their roof
foraging to cottonwood trees
shading the three second-story bedrooms
kept perfect for home visits
from children away at college
Downstairs
Everett’s TV room rocker
always moving back and forth
massaged my back
well
it was a mild massage through the flooring
mostly my imagination
coming as it did
through layered rugs and cat hair
Yeah
used to hear mother’s complaints
“That old vacuum is useless. We need a Kirby, damn it”
He’d usually stop his rocking for a second or two
then let her know “Just lean in more. All it needs.”
and back to his rocking “Kirby. Out of her mind.”
But
Come spring break
Sara’s boombox
was rocking of another kind
no imagination needed there
reminded me how secure
this old foundation was
until the afternoon when…
Felt like a distant train
but the clackety-clack of rail cars
was out of sync
out of control
Wind moved in
then rain
then wind and rain
then that God-awful train again
had to be from Hell
or someplace worse
thundering through…
It was a long night
Been a long couple of weeks
Weeds and spider webs now connect
through cracks in my body
A squirrel or two survived
peeking about once in a while
still clinging to their downed cottonwood
wishing the foraging path was still there
wishing there was something to forage
Me?
Well
I’m just a surviving foundation
awaiting tomorrow’s sunrise
hoping for just the right temperature
early in the morning
before the sun adds its bleaching effect
and I start to remember again
Perhaps I’ll have earned
some afternoon showers
some nourishment for the weeds
some droplet sparkles
for my spidery friend’s web
and who knows…
We’re regretful of so much loss
the other slabs and me
but a foundation is a foundation
that’s what we’re built for
The start-ups
The start-overs
Orphan today
adopted tomorrow
So goes the life of a slab
A life some might say
is a thankless existence
Not so
My love, Josefin Slab
My first thought the time I wake up
My inspiration in moments I create art
My joy when we chat and laugh together
My strength when I'm on job
The last person I contact before my sleep
The only girl in my mind
The beautiful creature I found
With your sweetest voice and charming smile
With your amazing chatting emoji and laughs
And that walking-dancing baby emoticon
With your crazy mind I love
One with wonderful picture posing
With your brilliant yogurt skin color
With your perfect dressing fashion
With your fantastic ideas and advice on me
From your inner attracting power
A person I can submit my soul to
A person I commit to end in love with
I'm too favored to meet and know you
It isn't enough saying I'm crazy about you
You made me love
You're my weakness.
You make mincemeat of attention on calling my name
It's splendidly something we're grabbing ourselves at
My sleight of hand is premiered by your discernment
But understate yourself in giving someone a drubbing
And provide no rooms for amendments on your skids
Which depreciate the possessions in your proficiency
To affect wiping the floor with joyous love of ours
Really that it needs our synergistic ink to put on paper
I wish to destruct that part of you, likewise you'd
Unto me to paint the tints, shades and tones of loveliness
To sketch the signs of courage and put tolerance details
Keeping warm hues and cold saturations on our tongues
Kindly I request to open your mind and meet with mine
That we can share such fruitiness as matching goals
Safely and sufficient enough getting to our destined cliff
Though you impairs the ontology behind, I quite wonder!
I'm no more down at heel as you slowly met
And no longer experience little love laughs
Which solemnly stole my entire belief on
To smell the sense of dirt on our papers
By free graphite shine no other can see
In that a wild manner stirring sincerity up
My keen to rub the dots of one another
An eraser whose outcome is dusty
The pixels I granted to suit the resolution
The saturation of my tolerance being warm
With all recipes from your soul make up
Frozen springs partly exploiting our intent
A little I'd hatch is a one you crossed
A garment you wore set your eyes into no blink
That my feet found no sand to stand on
But only sweet regrets and sad charms to fall in.
Need Rehab on Cold Slab
Could be because I became a crab;
What we really need is some rehab;
For while waited;
Was reactivated;
They found us lying on a cold slab.
Jim Horn
My Goodness and Great Lord
Oh my goodness and great Lord,
So He will welcome you aboard;
Will invite,
More poems write;
Hearing from does look toward.
Jim Horn
On test started with vibe and verve;
Then results had downward swerve;
Afraid;
Failing grade,
So teacher did grade us on a curve.
Jim Horn
Was a bitter quitter of the liter;
Had horrible time being a hitter
Saw some trees;
Swang at breeze;
So ended up being a rail splitter.
I got water and weed
I'm richer' n richer
I ain't in need of cash
you can drop me your trash
gonna make me an art
for the East Jesus shrine.
Hear this from a wizard
ole Stalin is the man
red dolphins are the truth.
Plastic legs on the roof
of my old pink Chevy
(not been to the levee)
Barbie girls, haunted dreams,
painted rats and crosses;
all singing at the Range.
Slab City; nothing's strange
a show called Jester J**z
sings semen has declined.
Blue pig fortune tellers
in yellow school busses
grow purple-flowered weeds,
sell early traded beads.
The wind howls, the dogs bark;
the dreamcatcher misses.
I chase empty beer cans
for one that might be full
use ultraviolet lamp
in Pink Flamingo camp
I am just another
wandering refugee
Snowbirds come in winter
UPS delivers.
Past Salvation Mountain
there's no soda fountain
for those that don't believe;
head back to Babylon.
“Squatters’ Paradise”
contains concrete remains of
an old training base
head west where trailer life reigns
and vanish into freedom
You don't like my story. You don't like my song.
I guess I never did belong.
Adios amigo. I say, so long.
I'm going to Slab City.
You told me that we're insane,
the angel and devil in my brain.
There's only one place that frees us -
East Jesus.
I don't think I can stay afloat.
I need somewhere remote -
maybe, Slab City.
What's left of my life,
it ain't pretty.
I'll be on my way
to Slab City.
The sun's so hot, I'm gonna drop,
but salvation's coming. I won't stop
'til I get to the mountain top
in Slab City.
who remembers trees
when air was free from fares
guiltless
tankless
unassailable
cliches of rustling leaves
enchanted forests
infanticidal practices like nestling newborns atop boughs
cordate declarations etched beneath oak bark and canary sashes
as dead as concrete blocks
and the nearest approximation is a toy broccoli flower
wire wools welded for steel topiaries
laud the arboreal knights
growing figments stalking the future
with whom was shared breath and hearth
in Slab City
some level of falling from grace happens in slab city
its twisted humanity
when kindness stops being nornal
when green crusaders are dismissed, unseen
like burying waste in landfill
city of slab-stick
where we live normal lives within shuttered malls
affluence superimposed on poverty
can anything mellow us
with nature clotted under sprawl?
breeding, feeding, receding
within plated walls
unable to bend the city to one's own wishing
to carry on with things just as they are
slabs pinned to the ceiling of mind
sometimes shutters open
to sun-dappled streaks on slab walkways
what are we to make of the dandelion in the crack?
a dark energy blooming between comfort and chaos
maybe we can piggyback on the hope of others
when small acts radiate
like children who empty their piggy-banks to charity
or laugh in summers of safe places
towers girdle the city
midst what we crave for but can't always name
in our stash of consumer baubles
urges like a swollen river
our weak stock options that never find a ladder
in the meantime we tread on - hungrily