Best Dumpsters Poems
Ferreting around, in dumpsters of dreams
In the back alleys of my imagination
Through swill, liaisons, and cheap rendezvous
And words misspoke in conversations
Rummaging for one morsel, an old tattered remnant
In a disregarded or discarded memory
For that one piece of the puzzle, a maggot's repast
To feed a starving, rapacious fantasy
I find a face, in a crowd, dark eyes and dark hair
It was only a passing glance
There's a memory, lost, of a soft tender touch
From a young girl at my first high school dance
Then mixing and matching, of shapes and sizes
I've always been partial to curves
A voice, a whisper, an exciting laugh
From a stupor that's still just a blur
In this jigsaw fantasy, some light conversation
At a restaurant by candlelight
Some soft music, slow dancing, funny improvisation
Then a romantic walk in moonlight
She's intelligent, engaging, laughs at my jokes
I'm forever lost in her eyes
While we dream with the stars, with her kiss I'm awoke
In the dark , I sit and I sigh
an original poem by Daniel Turner
When I think of the plight that children face all over the world
I just want to cry
Hunger starts and ends their everyday
As many of us continue to waste away
The scraps that we toss could save a child’s life
I’ll tell you the human race is nothing nice
We have no problem spending trillions on war
As children starve to death outside a millionaires store
They put locks on the dumpsters to keep them out
To greedy to give what they are throwing out
I watched a show just the other day
That showed Children just wasting away
Right there in their mothers arms
As I ate my giant bowl of lucky charms
Pirates raiding off the Somalia Coast
Because their children’s eyes are hollow as a ghost
If my Children were starving these words are true
Captain Hook wouldn’t hold a light to you know who
I think in the overhaul scheme of wrong and right
Mankind in general has lost all sight
Could you imagine kissing your child’s last breath?
The rich get richer as they starve to death
So as you all tuck your kids into bed tonight
Kids all over the world will lose their fight
They will simply lie down and die
To hungry to fight to weak to cry
Shelters that feed the Hungry are in every
town, when was the last time that you gave
something. No person is any greater than the
depth of their compassion. To give is to receive
for there is no greater blessing in this life. Keep
what you need and give the rest and the Lord will
make sure you never run out. God Bless, MJ
Written for Sami's contest
Thought you folks might like to read this. Someone sent it in an email to me.
The following is a poem written by Judge Roy Moore from Alabama . Judge Moore was sued by the ACLU for displaying the Ten Commandments in his courtroom foyer. He has been stripped of his judgeship and now they are trying to strip his right to practice law in Alabama ! The judge's poem sums it up quite well.
America the beautiful,
or so you used to be.
Land of the Pilgrims' pride;
I'm glad they'll never see.
Babies piled in dumpsters,
Abortion on demand,
Oh, sweet land of liberty;
your house is on the sand.
Our children wander aimlessly
poisoned by cocaine
choosing to indulge their lusts,
when God has said abstain
From sea to shining sea,
our Nation turns away
From the teaching of God's love
and a need to always pray
We've kept God in our
temples, how callous we have grown.
When earth is but His footstool,
and Heaven is His throne.
We've voted in a government
that's rotting at the core,
Appointing Godless Judges;
who throw reason out the door,
Too soft to place a killer
in a well deserved tomb,
But brave enough to kill a baby
before he leaves the womb.
You think that God's not
angry, that our land's a moral slum?
How much longer will He wait
before His judgment comes?
How are we to face our God,
from Whom we cannot hide?
What then is left for us to do,
but stem this evil tide?
If we who are His children,
will humbly turn and pray;
Seek His holy face
and mend our evil way:
Then God will hear from Heaven;
and forgive us of our sins,
He'll heal our sickly land
and those who live within.
But, America the Beautiful,
If you don't - then you will see,
A sad but Holy God
withdraw His hand from Thee..
A euphoric emptiness that lasts forever
An eternity trapped in tangled time
Emotions that fly through the nilpotent never
A lasting love with a calamitous climb
Floating memories that sail through space
Where tears are shed and shadows weep
And saddened souls have lost their place
Within the dumpsters of the desolate deep
Mind and matter creating crystalline hells
There demons roam with a restless rule
Where blood turns cold with crusted cells
Slowly salivating with their demonic drool
Can love be found in this cabalistic cave
Or is it laboriously lost but only to enslave.
May.30.2016
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
I would like to ponder wisdom
loving relationships and things
A life lived beyond good intentions
What it means to have strong wings
To know that life has a purpose
When it is lived beyond myself
I don't need to fill all my cupboards
It's better that I share the wealth
All those things I think I'm needing
are trapping me within the want
I see heartache written in graffiti
Why am I blinded by colourful font
If my more means that I'm taking
Is any of it truly gain
Others find food in dumpsters
and I am ignorant to their pain
In this world of want and plenty
I know I have more than my share
By remembering where it came from
I should know I have plenty to spare
God implores me to be giving
To have faith He won't let me down
These hands have a special purpose
If I'm willing to venture down town!
in the quiet of the night the owls hoot
violence erupts and guns do shoot
colors become enemy lines that many will cross
another random drive by another tragic loss
preying on innocent lives in the jungle
waking up everyday is a struggle
hiding behing dumpsters from the cops
the cycle always continues and never stops
death is in the air mixed with violence and rape
blocks upon blocks covered with yellow tape
you say that the drug game is run by the blacks
i know for a fact that the white man introduced crack
statistics proove that a weak man will drop a dime
while a woman will stand up and do the time
too be real you must stand up for your rights
and be willing to go out with a fight
despite the outcome if we believe in our facts
and understand the truths
no greater power can one hold over the other
respect few fear none
Nightscapes
...inspired by 'Rhapsody On A Windy Night'
by T.S. Eliot
Late night summons
madmen, madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours bathe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, no happenstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace,
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metal, broken things
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned buildings, hollow-eyed
and winking in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamp spots
the cats a'creeping, worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Just 38 Cents a Day
Throughout history food has been used as a
Weapon of Mass Destruction. The Romans
would pillage and plunder – then burn the
fields of the defeated, punishing all who
survived. The Apache are alleged to have
poisoned the water holes when retreating
through the desert – a form of death by
desert inflicted on the pursuers. Sherman
marched to the sea punishing all to break
the will of the beaten confederacy.
Today, trucks stand idle, food supplies
rot in the heat at checkpoints that keep
those in the “ghettoes” confined and
dying. Children and the elderly scavenge
through dumpsters for simple sustenance
as armed “thugs” loot and destroy the
“humanitarian” aid denied them.
We preach “mindfulness” as we plow crops
under to satisfy the calculus of a subsidy,
divert rivers to irrigate golf courses,
preach nutritional values to the malnourished,
gasp at the news footage of starving children
as we prepare “gourmet meals” for our pets.
Our consciousness only aches when WE
are hungry and is soothed when WE are
sated by the saturated fat of a fantasy
wherein the solution can be purchased -
for just 38 cents a day.
John G. Lawless
7/1/2015
submitted to – Food Can’t Live with it can’t live without it – poetry contest
sponsor – Debbie Guzzi
I am a pig, and that's all I'll ever be.
Just like you're human, and that's what I strive to be.
Seriously, though, call me ungrateful, but pig food?
Do you humans know what pig food is?
It's leftovers, man. Freaking leftovers.
Yeah, of course I'm going to inhale them,
It's free food. Who says no to free food?
Oh, and have you seen my house?
It's made out of oak, and its pretty sturdy, sure, until it rots,
And where the heck are my windows? You have windows. Why don't I have windows?
And no door? Give me some privacy? Kidding, it gets freaking cold out here,
And all I have are these bundles of hay. Hey, did your granny knit you that quilt?
I mean, you put me thru all of this just to get slaughtered?
Just to call me Roast, or Bacon, like Roast and Bacon Sr. before me?
Maybe I'm just ranting. Maybe I don't have it that bad. I mean, look at the veterans.
Look at the way they eat from dumpsters, and the way they don't eat,
And then look at the way I'm eating organic waste off the plates of neighbors.
Oh, and look at the way I am now, snuggled in a corner, my head poking out
Of cozy stacks of hay,
And then look at the way Crazy Mason makes a pillow out of the curb.
Just look at the way he dies for no reason, and how he isn't remembered.
I know for sure that when Farmer Jon is scarfing me down,
He'll remember every grit that went into me.
And I'm damn sure he won't forget how good I tasted.
Jose, the kid on the corner --
El Macho -- who knows no English
and who sells himself to eat
(being still not quite dry)
slept last night in an alley
shielded from wind and eyes
by the bulk of two dumpsters
positioned at angles to each other.
This morning, his smile's
as brilliant as sunshine.
And if he's not exactly squeaky clean,
he's only a little the worse for wear --
probably more immaculate than are we,
potential buyers to whom he flaunts his wares.
Little pebbles of broken glass, litter the streets, but the children run barefoot anyway.
Stubbing toes, contracting disease, playing with cigarette butts and discarded syringes.
The teens hide by the dumpsters, and quickly pump a vein.
A homeless man, jealous of the teen; instead, clenches his timeless drug of choice, a good ole' fashioned beer.
The sun still shines on the dust covered signs.
The streets crumble under the weight of America's ever increasing obese population.
Nothing has really changed, besides new acceptance of tried and true vices.
There’s always little kids causing trouble, teens using drugs, depressed old men drinking away their shame.
America is still the same great country,
Far superior than all the rest!
Despite their reduction in crime, lowered drug addiction rates, drop in homelessness, and constant upkeep of their buildings and streets.
Well besides all that... America is still Superior in Every way….
I grew up on the streets
Where you fought for your life --
Welcome to the Jungle
Meant fighting to survive.
Shelter in a cardboard box,
Bloated and flimsy
Like that homeless teenager --
Pregnant with her father’s baby
And who escaped home because
Here
Anywhere
Would be better than
The Hell
She was in.
Welcome to the Jungle
Meant food was a delicacy --
Dirty, bleeding hands sifting through dumpsters --
**** you’d never eat unless you had to
But which to you meant one word:
Survival.
Welcome to the Jungle:
You can take whatever you want
As long as it’s not from me:
Truer words were never spoken.
Girls no younger than that little niece,
Or that little sister,
You loved with all your heart,
Forced to prostitute herself for dimes
That might get her a warm meal.
Girls that should be in school
And going to the mall with friends.
Welcome to the Jungle
Where those things are as foreign to them
As a warm house and a loving family.
Girls
Who are too young
To know of blowjobs
And back alley abortions
Of meth and pills --
Of alcohol and rape –
Of STDS and pregnancy --
Of madness and fear.
A skid mark on the road of humanity
A scar across the face of a nation
Who claims to be great
And whose power
Lies in her people.
But what do you do
With those people
Who are ignored, ridiculed –
Treated as sub-humans?
All we want
Is a little sympathy.
All we want
Is a voice.
All we want,
Is for life to stop shitting on us,
Long enough for us
To make that climb
Out of that hole
And back into the light.
But that’s easier said than done.
Because when you live in the Jungle
Where every day is a fight for survival,
How do you plan for a future
That ends at the end of the day
And starts all over again
The next?
With no shoes upon her feet
She searches for food to eat
In garbage cans and dumpsters too
Each day trying to get through
The brutal winter that’s ahead
Praying she wont end up dead
Leaving children to survive
Without a mommy in their lives
Because she could not afford
To pay for any room or board
Laid off from her part time job
Life just started to get hard
Curled up in a corner tight
Hugging children through the night
Fighting to stay nice and warm
In their clothes all ripped and torn
Looking up into the sky
You can hear her start to cry
As she says a silent prayer
Someone will soon find them here
And the other families who
Are living like this daily too
Went to Wal-Mart to buy a Christmas ham
All I could find was a giant traffic jam
Near the toys__decorations
By my calculations
Come day after Christmas, dumpsters see cram