Best Dustbin Poems
We used to laugh when poor old Mum
Would call me “Eve-Dor-Fran”.
She wasn’t old (about my age!)
When first it all began.
But now I’ve come to this same state,
I’ve realised the brain
Is not some great computer
That gets left out in the rain.
It’s just a giant dumpster
For the things we learn about.
We throw in scraps of knowledge,
But it’s never emptied out …
And then, as we grow older,
The dustbin gets so cramped
We have to root around in there
For any thought we want.
I know if I search long enough
I’ll find my marbles there.
They’re packed away so carefully,
But I can’t remember where …
So if you take a longer time
To latch onto some thought,
Remember, it’s your dustbin mind
Through which you need to sort!
Piles and Piles of trash thrown into,
which takes various kinds of garbage .
Some fresh ,some spoiled
and some rotten .
sometimes so strange that
the worst trash is rolled in
a good shiny cover.
people throw,some even puke
their venom into it.
Silently it just takes in the
trash without ever complaining.
its stupid that it lets itself
overflow without realising
its capacity to hold
From time to time it needs
cleaning too.
its just a dumpster,but
maybe if we litter and trash less
everything will be clean around
which is next to godliness.
PS:Kindly post your first reaction /thought after reading this poem.
This is a metamorphic poem about people who are just shoulder to cry on for others
but never cared by those same people.I hope this poem carried out that message .I really welcome your suggestions .
Summer Hiku 10
brown cedar waxwing
devouring privet berry \
\
ground is her d n.
u i
s t b
On a busy night, near the streets as I stood,
When something felt off nothing was good,
I saw a dirty, abandoned plastic bin,
The widely and popularly known as the DUSTBIN.
How it came and what it became were poles apart,
It must’ve been shiny but now it didn’t look smart.
Just for the sake of people, the unknown, the others,
It was shedding tiny pieces of its shine and colours.
Its unpleasant look was never his fault,
It was the result of society’s assault.
It could feel the disgust on people’s face as they used to smash,
Their very own, handmade trash,
And very easily make it the bin’s property,
And that naïve used to assume it as its responsibility.
Some angry smashes used to make the bin tremble.
It had the courage to still stand but never enough to rebel.
Eventually it couldn’t withstand other’s trash and it started to overflow.
It tried its best to hide but now it was open to show.
Everyone started to blame it, blind to understand,
But still that naïve had the courage to withstand but never enough to take its stand.
It had the intention to clean and create happy faces,
But all it got was dirt, anger and happiness in traces.
Maybe the traces were enough to live while having lost its originality.
Maybe that’s what we call its speciality.
At that very moment as I gazed at it and waited,
How the dustbin had felt its entire life and my feelings resonated.
Once, they claimed to hold the torch,
To light the world with truth and reason.
But the West’s media empire—
Was born not in truth,
But in treason.
From BBC’s royal scripts,
To CNN’s manicured myths,
From Fox’s fury-laced fables,
To NBC’s polished distortions—
They were trained, not to inform,
But to perform
For the empire's applause.
Every lens tilted,
Every headline coded,
Every silence calculated—
To shape the world
In a mirror that flatters the North
And shames the South.
Africa—your beauty drowned in dust,
Your children shown in flies and famine.
No word of your wisdom, your gold,
Your thinkers, your songs,
Your revolutions and sacred soil.
Only "chaos," "war," and "tribe"
Like shadows on a cave wall.
Asia—painted with dragon breath and fear,
Latin America—forever "corrupt,"
Middle East—where "terror" walks with every name,
And yet no mirror turned
To NATO's blood-soaked hands,
To sanctions that starve,
To drone strikes in dawn’s silence.
The Global South has turned the dial.
We do not listen,
Not because we cannot hear—
But because we now know.
We are not fooled
By the Oxford accent of a liar.
We are not convinced
By statistics that reek of empire.
We see your scripts,
Your cutting rooms,
Your photos cropped like colonial maps.
Truth is rising in Timbuktu,
In Caracas, in Kerala,
In Harare, and Hanoi.
And you, Western media,
Are being archived—
Filed away in the dustbin of history
Where all fallen empires rot.
The world is watching,
But not through your eyes anymore.