After the sirens fade
and the yellow tape is gone,
the street breathes slow again
as if nothing went wrong.
Neighbours close their doors,
windows shut tight,
no one speaks of the blood
that was here last night.
A mother wipes the floor
where her child once stood,
scrubbing and scrubbing
but it does no good.
The stain does not leave,
it lives in her mind,
repeating the moment
time left behind.
Morning still comes,
people go to work,
but under the quiet
the memory lurks.
quirky bats from lemon flats
rolled up into the orange mats
did not come out until Halloween
hidden until they chose to be seen
the children liked them right away
parents were not yelling “yes, hooray!”
but children are not fearful until they are told
by people who are prejudiced, staid and old
Cape Flats is my town
But it always lets me down
I feel like a clown
With a crown
The violence
We cannot silence
Rob kill and maim
To the gangs its all the same.
where childhood is stolen,
where mothers bury their children
Heart broken and sorrow
A life so hollow
You they will follow.
Like a barn-swallow.
A township so vain
Full of pain
A killing everyday
This is the only way
With violence everyday
All we can do is pray.
Childhoods are stolen callously
Stolen very tactfully
Cape Flats live in brutality
And hate and fear angrily.
A lot of hate crimes
At the best of times.
Rape and killing
This is so unfulfilling.
Let this be a lesson
And not a mere session
To teach a session
Let it be a lesson
Not just an obsession
But a positive progression.
Of our own confession.
Murder and mayhem on the Cape Flats.
This is life and that is that.
From the youngest to the oldest,
the murderers are bold.
Murderers kill at random.
On their heads should be a ransom.
Every day is a killing season,
killing for no reason.
Children cry and mothers die,
living by the sword.
The murderers must be caught.
Gangs for whom killing is a must,
mothers and fathers want them bust.
Teenagers join gangs to kill.
For their parents, it is a bitter pill.
The Cape Flats is a killing field,
if you live there, there is no shield.
Thirty-four people killed in a week.
The Cape Flats gangs are not weak.
They shoot to kill and maim,
to them, it’s all the same.
Let’s be real,
the gangs are a bad deal.
In them, there is no good.
To them, death is like food.
You must fight to live, every day.
Being bad is the only way.
They rule the street
and the innocent must take the heat.
Seven days a week
they feed on the weak.
The gangs have no love to give.
They don’t forget or forgive.
In the Cape flats the bullets are flying
Today people are dying
The gangs are killing
To them it is fulfilling
It is a deed so sad
It can only be done by the bad
The gangs don’t feel a thing
They love the sting.
The gangs are like wild animals
Like real damn cannibals
Running in the street
Wanting to kill whoever they meet
Whether night or day
The gangs will have their way
Even If they have their own way
It is their way night and day.
They smoke weed
Even if there is no need
Like the drugs they snort
Their life will be short.
They live by the sword
And die by the sword
They don’t really care
To them life is one big dare.
They drink a pill
In order to kill
They smoke weed
Because they have a need
They consume a lot of alcohol
Till on the floor they crawl
Harming people is what they do
Heavy drinking is what they do.
In this life they cannot cope
Living a life without hope
Living a life so hollow
There Is nothing to follow.
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..
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)
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
The dust sifts and falls with the Rosebloom powder
To sieve and assume, survival hast made him prouder
All alone like a wolf that's lost
Roaming and trotting, breath crystallising a soft cloud
No Mum, dad or Cubs that's the cost
Apocalyptic fields lead him under and over dusty arches
Sent upon his penultimate marches
A two way transceiver, voice from the heavens
Job 27 the last job in the bloomfields
Hookers lips and dancing girls sad eyes of repression
What a spectacle @ the rosebloom flats, startling frequencies
Warping screams of a girl incorporating ballet
Into a escape attempt from the jigging flames
Welcome to the rosebloom flats hysteria in the air
A hundred infinite Windows expressing her adversity
They all perish not forgotten, you've forgotten that they point
Apocalypse and lonely wolves and an impossible mercy
Off you go on your final walk
The walk towards your delusions
Dreams and nightmares don't mix at least with sandy roses
a squeel on the tires frozen in time to watch the passerbys
a decorated soldier pierced with emotion as he hands out a poppy
thank him for his service
Salvation Army is covered with brightened pamphlets among the youth
the exploits of temporal emancipation
cover me through the leaves with cadence of a swell
the dealer hands out a trump card black
as if a Duracell battery on the radiator waiting to explode
the mere notion of sweet heightened laughter prepared for the great here after
a silence stills the pottery on the edge of desolation
we work words to intertwine the frequency
captivated by a pulse that negates a bit of laughter
Barren trees after the Fall look in disarray
fallen embers pump out its hesitation
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
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
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..
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!
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