Best Dustbins Poems
Lunar eclipse plunges me in shadow.
Orbital, I spin in the dark.
Nebulas, I am insignificant amongst many,
Extra-terrestrial, alone and apart.
Limbic, I drift with creation.
Interstellar, I reunite with my past.
Neutron stars, immense galaxy dustbins,
Eat planets while I watch, aghast.
Severance, I have never felt so keenly,
Screaming, cart-wheeling, into the dark.
Categories:
dustbins, anxiety, fear, loneliness, loss,
Form:
Acrostic
The days fly by
one and the same
too busy to pause
to earn their own name
Unearthly winds
sweep moments away
into dustbins of perdition
painted colorless gray
Categories:
dustbins, color, day, identity, image,
Form:
Rhyme
Trains used to be Chain Smokers.
But we helped them Quit
By Electrifying them.
Dustbins used to be Illiterates.
We taught them to Differentiate
Organic from Plastic.
Communications used to be Lazy.
We motivated them to Run
And to be Quick and Active.
Cultures used to be very Lonely.
We trained them to Mingle
And suspend their Superstitions.
Gold used to be Dusty and Buried.
We pulled it out of Poverty
And helped it Rise and Shine.
We being a Mentor to many,
Still fail to Guide ourselves
Into a Self Disciplined Path.
Categories:
dustbins, change, introspection, irony, mentor,
Form:
Free verse
I was dead the day I was born
She looked straight into my eyes; as she sat right across me
I could see fear right through her, as she mumbled with the thought of my vicious actions
Trying so hard to understand how did I become such an animal overnight
An “A” student abdicating life due to life sorrow daily incidence
I burst out loud behaving like this is a big buffoon and replied
”I was dead the day I was born”
Its amazing how one angel can transmute into Lucifer
So horrifying like witnessing a saint transforming into a zombie
How a GURU can incline to prostitute tendencies with no remorse
As she fell on her knees with tears hopelessly growling kissing the floor
I could smell blood coming out from her wounded heart as she said silently
“Forgive them lord for they don’t know what they doing”
I giggled out loud with anger written all over my scar, scary face
As I perpetrate the idea that what kind of a loving parent that abandon the world for so long
The parent that left even unborn babies striving to survive life termination
The war survivors thrown on the streets self-catering on the dustbins
“I guess heaven have its people and I’m definitely not one of them”
For I WAS DEAD THE DAY I WAS BORN
Compiled by: Sphelele Brian Aubrey Ngubo (P.F)
Categories:
dustbins, abortion, betrayal, hate, heaven,
Form:
Acrostic
it follows that
sharp slivers of time
warp like wild geese reflected
across still water winging
faces sway'd as wheat seas
pitied not by thresher's flail
rictus hidden in a camera's eye
fetus, elders left to die
teach and learn as life grows short
moments gulped in forgotten days
sun rays down
casting men without shadows
tragedies in bildungsroman
of children innocent but heartless
folded parchment in dustbins hidden
blossoms thrive in ancient midden
justice, honor, paean to the gods
distill down to cold control
foreign tongues with open hands
empire's wall breached wide within
and so, with prosody quicksilver fled
small words swallowed by larger mien
I, deep sigh, with agon's leap
fall back defeated in dreamless sleep...
Categories:
dustbins, life, loss,
Form:
Free verse
He lives there, where people love
Land as mother, worship agriculture
People of his nation, after independence
brought green, white, yellow, blue revolutions
to meet with the crisis of food
to wipe out hunger
to up root poverty.
He tills his mother earth
carries plough on his shoulder
sheds his sweats
turns himself into soil.
After a year of severe flood,
several children of his homeland
are at risk of death
due to lack of proper nutrition.
He returns from his polluted land
carrying a basket on his shoulder
full of golden harvest.
Flood stricken cornfields
Harvests destroyed, paddy fields washed
yet he carries food grains on his shoulder
The cattle Kraals are empty
The goats gaunt
No protein food for children
but he is carrying a basket
full of golden harvest.
In his motherland
where people worship food as god
Through away it and feel proud for it
where some people also search dustbins
madly hoping a handful of stale rice
to do away with their hunger.
The experts do research on cropping
Those with power keep their power.
Only he, the nominal farmer
trusts himself with earth’s treasure
is carrying a basket full of golden harvest
on his shoulder.
The sun does not dissuade him,
nor the water logging
that blows against him
as he ploughs barren land,
grows golden harvests
on the other hand,
drowns into the deep sea of loans
beaten by poverty.
He feeds the nation,
cannot feed his family.
He trusts his hand for his countrymen
what they used now,
but cannot do his family and himself.
Between life and death,
he is carrying a basket on his one shoulder
full of golden harvest
carries fear of suicide on his other shoulder.
Categories:
dustbins, feelings, funeral, grief, poetry,
Form:
Fibonacci
I just saw this purple monster
As greedy as a pig
Not sure what kind of monster it was
But it was this purple thingymejig
I know that it really loves food
Its tummy was really big
It was searching through the dustbins
This purple thingymejig
He had a head of brown hair
Though to be honest it looked like a wig
And it is sure to give you a scare
This purple thingymejig
I looked around at the back my house
When I heard a sob
There was this turquoise monster
A turquoise thingymebob
This monster looked oh so sad
Sat there all alone
Looking really down a heart
Chewing on a bone
I can’t find my brother it cried
He ran away and hid
You’ll know him if you see him
He is this purple thingymejig
Where I live is a really strange land
It is really, really odd
To have as well as a thingymejig
To have a thingymebob.
Categories:
dustbins, children, kids, funny, silly,
Form:
Rhyme
We are all from an Osucaste,
those prepared for the gods of the land but rejected by the sun.
The sand we march on are our brothers and sisters, who were discriminated too.
They died a shameful death leaving their shadows behind,
Leaving their spirits wailing at every dustbins that modernity brought.
Leaving an awful images behind doors;
Leaving their emotions on the bodies of the sky to hunt and hurt us.
The noise named us into death and we smell silence through noise of death,
Discrimination tamed us and we tamed the firmament of the smoke that chase us.
You can see the ghost of my fathers in that smoke going up there,
You can retrieve the bleeding tears of my mother from the wind,
You can see the broken words of my sisters on the palms of the stars;
You can still see my brothers' virgin fears hang on the cloud,
They died through this course, Osu!
We will gather this cowries of Osucaste in Igboland.
Part ways for the fierce spirit of ogbanje for the punishment of this culture.
Obi Okwonkwo and Clara will marry,
and Achebe's spirit will be at ease again.
We'll survive through the skin of the moon,
We'll survive through this ringing tone
of civilization.
They made us learn to trade life for death when life becomes a threat.
We'll find ourselves coming back when we die at will with their torture.
We'll swing swords and missiles in the name of survival,
We can't marry others, we can't love others, we can't speak to others, what life is it without a human relationship?
Our lives are bags of black colours,
Our images smell horribly to them,
Suffering from what we don't know,
We have placed our plates upon the face of morning;
We have removed all our tears from the belly of the night,
Hoping that this will end when the earth and the mars cross path and we become the survivals.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
Categories:
dustbins, abuse, africa, art, care,
Form:
Blank verse
First class brains
Streets populated with them
Flaunting certificates--useless
Plus innate knowledge practical,
But unrecognised
Tightfisted bourgeois;
Alienated job opportunities
Reserved for own kids born and unborn
Capitalism overblown;nauseous
Grab and keep philosophy elevated
Who do you know?Who don't you know?
Keys to haven
You could trudge to the Sahara,
Build sand dunes,clamber atop
To reach the top and maybe sunlight
Slight wind,and you are on the floor:
No foundations
Pack sands,feed on them
Who cares?
Hollow eyes witnessing a party
The favoured few,on Owambes
Overfed.Toothpicks in mouths
Dogs too,fed fat with flesh
Dogs now reject bones
Leftovers left to sour,thrown away
First class brains,crawl in dustbins
Vultures competing
Some days,vultures feed too
On first class brains' corpses
Hollow-eyed pleas.Unheeded
Gentle songs of plea,
Didn't make them yield
Clangs on empty sardine tins
Music violent,tempo risen
They glanced at them,and looked away
Then one day,hunger and anger fired desperation
Bread knives came in handy
Well-fed guts are carved apart
All energy used
Denouement.
The vultures came in the evening
And held a huge feast
Categories:
dustbins, sad, class, class,
Form:
Narrative
A jerrybuilt jumble, so shoddy, diminished;
just cubes of grey concrete with windows and doors.
It started to crumble the day it was finished.
Franco’s “solution” for gypsies and moors.
It’s called “La Dehesa”, the pasture, the grange.
The old ones say once there were orchards here, too.
It’s undergone quite a formidable change:
there’s nothing but concrete obscuring the view.
Like rabbits in hutches we live in our flats,
with neighbours on both sides, below and above,
surrounded by dustbins and children and cats,
and noises of squabbling, noises of love.
Each Sunday, some woman (I can’t tell you where)
starts singing, as morning creeps in through the shutters.
Flamenco, like woodsmoke, just hangs in the air,
and laps over drainpipes and outlets and gutters.
She’s clearly a gypsy. I can’t say I’ve seen her,
but singing is thoughtless, as easy as breathing,
and something about her, her aural demeanour,
is caught in her song, which comes seeping and seething
through windows and clothes lines, as if by osmosis.
She sings for herself. She’s not grabbing attention.
There’s no petty ego. Aesthetic hypnosis
is selfless. Seduction, without condescension.
She sings of her pain and her ecstasy. Both
can be borne on the air, like a children’s balloon.
Her art is unconscious, leguminous growth,
yet as hauntingly lovely as the light of the moon.
Gitanos, gitanas – delinquents and whores.
Well, maybe – but, seeing those ravishing eyes,
or hearing The Song as it wavers and soars,
I know in my soul where my sympathy lies.
Categories:
dustbins, culture,
Form:
Quatrain
my life is useful,not a joke,
i'm a plastic bottle,no not just for coke,
everyday i'm important to you,
without me you wouldn't get through.
think,how would you get your squeezy sauce?
or the washing up liquid of course,
cleaners for the oven and the loo,
or the bleach for drains to name a few.
i started life way underground,
oil was drilled for,i was found,
i am a by- product of oil you see,
that makes plastic,you get me.
i have many uses in my plastic state,
boxes,cartons and cling film my mate,
but be careful how you disguard me,
for i'm not biodegradable you see.
but humans are getting cleverer now,
they add bits to my makeup somehow,
that helps us to be eco friendly too,
we can be recycled,and made anew.
i won't always be a bottle,i could be a jar,
or bits you can put into a car,
i've many uses,i'm quite versatile,
in specs for instance,you then see the smile.
my relations are p.v.c. and polythene,
they make bags,wrappers and dustbins supreme,
you should recycle,not just disguard,
then life on the planet wouldn't be hard.
everthing can be used over and over again,
less rubbish,less mess,less acid rain,
so please think before you cause pollution,
the ways,recycle,thats the solution
Categories:
dustbins, social, life, life, planet,
Form:
Verse
From the shadows
The taste of bitterness lingers on tongues
Before it bathes them in anxieties
And they emerge stripped of mind,
Altering into mindless fiends
As hope drowns in the murky waters
They once come from.
Mothers cry sad songs
As sons and daughters were ripped from breasts
Forced into the lives their keepers know too well
And those resisting struggle for sustenance,
With legs open for a few pennies in pockets
To chase the hunger away.
As fathers flee like insects
Their young left in dustbins like rubbish
To propagate in the waste they were born to,
Falling astray becoming wild creatures
And gangs welcome them with a warm embrace
Taught to sling guns and knives until
They rest in small graves.
From the shadows they dwell
Trapped without hope.
Categories:
dustbins, africa, life, society,
Form:
Free verse
words,
like wind,
sweep away thoughts,
of dark cyclones twisting,
truth, friction, half-lies and neither,
informing or deceit, inane and blowing,
mouths moving on removable friends,
smiles on plastic faces,
syrup or pap,
save us!
no,
not now,
maybe not ever,
this bed we made,
then wish not to sleep,
in piles of lies, cheap copies,
of honor bright, a truth,
and loudly act outraged,
at ending's result,
of liberty,
lost,
in dustbins,
or unrealized dreams,
our milk honeyed mess,
grand finale of men's trust,
bold blueprint, balm to burnt history,
of man's inhumanity to man,
but so easily rendered,
by hungering beasts,
bleating lambs,
slaughtered,
easily by,
those darkeyed ones,
wolves in men's skin,
whispering paradise, serving cold rain,
but push back the dark, oh
upright and clear eyed ones,
regain that firm foothold,
grasping the mantle,
willfully, again,
rise.
Categories:
dustbins, corruption, hope, political,
Form:
Shape
A wagon wheel in a sunset is never content with wearing a dress for it is quite partial to jumpers when it is eighty-three degrees Celsius. Excommunicated meal worms in favourite displays of rancid carious carnivals. But should a bee bark its time to touch ten silver coins, milk a plant and enter a castle in appropriate attire. Wow. Wise wheeling wisdoms waving. Great. Fantastic isn't it. But holding hands together to firm a symbol is to display acute accent and arrogance. So one should not run away from this demonstration of significant shallot. In ball gowns. Clicking clock clicked. Hahahaha acidic juice. Citrus fruits. No ha to them non scenic routes in skirts and trousers. Perhaps they are asleep whispered the mouse to the rabbit in the nine metre glass house. Maybe maybe not. Look up nineteen times when passing the right angled tree triangles. And hop and jump over the waves. Weeeee weeeee weeee. Great isn't it? Wow. Dominatrix in a dome. Dustbins. Goodbye gone. In a flood pond. Bye. Bye bye. Number of alienations are rising to the key of a b x d t with no q. Just a z chord chatting to a cooked charismatic capsule. Hahahahahahaha and now sleep. Late. Looks like lit leaves.
Leaning. Levitations'. Learning. Lint. Hahahahaha. Bean bomb breath. How rather pleasant and dignified in studded guilded crest suits. Ornately offers originality. No. N and k waltz with z and f. Xxxxxxx unrealism's z
Categories:
dustbins, beautiful, , cute,
Form:
dark they were
tanned from a thousand suns
gamma-burned
cross generat'd
double chromosomed
time meant nothing
bled out minutes in a cup
my double stares at me from Mars
etched into sand and time
blur and cast lensatic whoa
sharp telescopic view
panoramic whoopdeedoo
all my light focused pinpoint dew
cascades down deliberate holes
I fill them with concern and woe
over fill'd
bursted with eccentric cinders
and I wake to rough tongues
stray cats and regret
both licking my face
in cool dustbins
filled with rubbish
left behind in an alley
shedding retail and hope
and there's no sound
like rain on soiled concrete
and eons of starlight
fall on temporary hands...
Categories:
dustbins, addiction, psychological, space,
Form:
Prose Poetry