Best Rubbish Poems
The minstrel and the rubbish
To a homeless in N.Y., who had a guitar to keep him company
But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant.
(Matthew, 23, 11)
The rubbish was blown aside
by the arid marching of the wind
leaving the whole street clear
for the minstrel who was crooning
his latest composition
to the street’s dream-recipients,
while the voltage of the wind
was going down at intervals
under the burden
of the unexpected stave.
The night was watchful
- you’d say she dreaded –
lest she bumped into the chords
and crush their solitary waving.
Breastfeeding music the minstrel
was opening up new pathways
to the question marks
of his melodies.
Me, what was I then
I still haven’t found.
Wind, rubbish, onlooker
or something else?
The minstrel ’s mute audience,
the rubbish, transcended its nature
at Time’s attendance register
and, after all, it would not
have always been rubbish
and some of it would have had
its own illustrious past, too,
and it must have known
what it means to have
eyes that leave Love
as a map to find them back
and warmth that has left,
as a memorial,
its fleeting past,
with Hope
as its one and only stamp.
All alone the minstrel,
homeless with his homeless guitar
housed his trivial dreams,
under the yoke
of the obese city’s wind,
in his Heavenly Melodies.
(translated by the original ‘O ???a??d?? ?a? ta s???p?da’, by the poet, from his book of the same title.)
Gonna improve my poetry
gonna dispense with stupid rhymes
I'll never again force it together
instead I'll write those random lines
It's suppose to be all modern
avant garde sort of thing
concentrating just on “feelings”
keeping it concise, with well, zing!
But to be perfectly honest
I'm finding it hard to do
You see, for me, rhyming
well... its really my literary glue
But I promise to do my best
be conscious of bad habits
analyse my lines so very closely
and change them where I can
Capitalism is rubbish. Socialism is much worse.
Fascism with nationalism are so bad, of course.
I was looking for nice and positive with "ism" .
Went through everything. And found one- Nudism!
I thought that I should say what I mean
On the subject of ‘****’ and its synonyms—
Derrida’s caveat notwithstanding.
We alternatively dub it turd, crap, poop, etc.
But the whole set of synonyms,
Given its connotation, is not politically correct.
Of course I do have my points.
It is true that the referent has
A lot of nuisance value
– as what is not –
And hence the connotation.
If you leave, for instance, a child
On a commode unattended…!
But you should respect it for some other reasons:
What if your **** refused to leave your bowels,
Or by chance or mischance mixed
With other solids (or fluids) in the body?
Or made hell as it left
The other end of the alimentary canal?
All that you may, then, insist upon is:
There’s a place for everything
And you don’t want ‘****’ in unwanted places.
Fine.
On the positive side, however,
What is **** to you is business
For a pathologist or physician.
So they would all call it sample,
Excrement, feces, refuse, etc.
For a farmer, it’s fertilizer.
So, s/he would call it night soil.
For civic workers, it’s rubbish.
So, why this negative connotation?
I’m not here to prescribe.
I am no Webster or Fowler.
I would, however,insist that
The present connotation should go!
***
Jennalyn, Jennalyn,
She took out the garbage bin,
Tripping over the rubbish went
Right over her, it was all spent,
Such an awful din.
Jennalyn, Jennalyn,
Family wouldn't let her back in,
They threw out some sanitiser,
Followed by deodorizer,
They don't want no smelly kin.
the council had sub-contracted, to Beresford & Dodd,
the collection of rubbish in the street, and the workforce
had reacted, (badly);
now a week without an empty bin and it's smelly,
fly-blown breathing;
we knew the boss was Catholic, so us neighbours wrote
a "letter-prayer" and we called the TV in; they filmed
our pious throng, as we worked through our heavenly song;
" Beresford and Dodd, who take away the bins of the world
hear us!"
"Beresford and Dodd, who take away the bins of the world,
hear our prayer"
"Beresford and Dodd, who aren't taking any bins at all,
talk to the dam union!
"It is right and fitting!"
***************
so was it the prayer, or was it God, or TV gave the nod, to
Beresford and Dodd ?
well, we're really not that sure, but now the air is good!
thanks to the union, Beresford and Dodd.
in hind sight
now when i sit down and
go over the
past in my mind
i have come to realize
that i never truly
loved you
i have also discovered
that i was never happy
with you ever because you
had this way of
making me fell bad about
myself from the very start
i am glad you decided to leave
good riddance to bad rubbish
No plot of ground to serve a bed
Against the dark you lay your head
For expedition much abused
Contemptable in your afteruse
Defiled by Adam's selfishness
Your face unrecognizable
A mute remains of ravishment
To world unreconcilable
A dying bird with broken wings
Your fate lies with unloved things
Too weak to cry out heavenward
You close your eyes from pain!
(Be exalted Lord, who designed this bard
To refrain from all things sane)
rubbish to some
I am an old lady and sorry to say
the powers that be are coming today
and bringing a skip to take my rubbish away.
i sit hear alone in my rubbish strewn house
my cat quite happy to catch the odd mouse
old dog Bess doesn't mind the mess,
papers are warm and keep out the cold.
My life all round meupset and strewn
the carpet stinks what a smell in the room
old books piled high and ornaments rare
expensive clothes lying on chairs,
no one comes near I'm sad to say
I try to wash and put things away
but I struggle with no one to help
the problem is I wont let them in.
I'm ashamed of the dirt and the mess I am In
so their coming today to take my treasures away
If they throw ME in the skip I wont mind a bit.
Sand cool and gritty underfoot,
Pebbles here and there,
The odd shell peeking out,
The beach can be a wonderful place,
It its treated right.
Buried in the sand are hidden dangers,
Broken glass, plastics and cigarette butts,
Your rubbish you left behind,
Dont you care.
Needles discarded and buried in the sand,
Sand used like a toilet by dogs and humans alike,
Dirty nappies thrown down,
That's dirty,
Dont you care.
Clean up after yourselves,
Dont leave your rubbish behind,
Show you care.
Advertised as an Estate Sale
Which I took to mean
Not just yard sale discards.
Here are some
Of the things you could obtain:
Aluminum baking pans
Plastic punch bowl
Four segments of track from a train set
Discolored tea-towels with embroidered edges
Christmas themed throw pillow
Velvet painting of sailing ships
Flimsy dollar-store wall mirror
Cheaply framed picture of Jesus
A used tire with "free" sign taped to it
Tupperware, a bit stained
Tiny shelf for back of toilet
Chipped bowls and plates
Mismatched spoons
Wobbly lawn chair
Book club mystery with coffee cup circle
Bread basket, slightly crushed
Half a box of staples
Cookie tin, rusty inside
Fragile teacup with handle glued back on
Melamine resin plates
VHS tapes in sun-faded boxes.
The leavings of a life
Can certainly be sad.
Publish Rubbish Horn Limerick
In newspaper many things may publish
And most of them were pure rubbish
Trump kind and considerate have heard
And in his vocabulary is no such word
For him to go away we sure do wish.
Jim Horn
The forest fire
Is everyone concern
Even it is too far away to be seen
But the air becomes haze
But the surroundings become dusty
But the weather becomes dry and hot
But the skin becomes sticky
And we soon feel thirsty and drowsy
And the same will come with
Burning rubbish in the open air
And the “same” will come with
The spreading of an epidermic too
Wobble chops in 99, was driving cars and doing fine'
He'd was in 'top gear' where his sweaters looked drear
On a roll, he was always really; ready to talk and stroll
Smugness poured out of him, he may be deaf from his own din
Also discontent I saw' he changed loyaltys as a revolving door
Rover built the 75, it was easy on the eye, orders just began to fly
A solid build the people liked, time for old wobble chops to strike.!
Its like a doctors car he groaned, him all grimace and stone dead tone
Causing orders to dry up quick, bashing British Jeremy thick.'
Clarkson you should have been banned' pushing rover into quicksand
Causing so many jobs to die, pompous twit are you satisfied.?
Granules of recollection rub like salt
Flailing in the fog of seven years ago
Deafened by incessant frog cries
Vines dangling began attaching to each other
Drying river stagnated, slime slippery with algae
Vigorous tree growth stooped in defeat
Muddy river banks fixed my feet, prisoners
Quick sand sapped my energy, ate my memories
Spears of bygone javelin my lungs, make gasp
Emerging from the mist of six years ago
Mountain side incredibly steep left me breathless
Static crinkle hissed between my eardrums
Channels flip changed without my inference
Hard luck hollowing trunks of high altitude
Offered to swallow my past, kindly include present
Flattened cushions of childhood fights , bring distance
Spinning cartwheels into oblivion of five years ago
Faintly flickering home movies startle between grins
Marbled images depict how we were, junctions punctured
Paths deviated, split decisions, moments distilled
Bottles broken, options poured, down the sink
Faltering swell glimmers foaming overdrawn fantasies
Slices rewound reflect fleeting of four years ago
Head barely above, awash in nonsense, victim of tides
Pushed under and pulled above, or is it more apt
the other way 'round, heavy, ocean surrounds drowns
Pencil case zipper obediently conceals, shoved down
Fragmented fragrant shavings of three years ago
Greyed erasers took too much, left the wrong stuff
Coloured stubs refuse to function, shrink upon prompting
Mirror tells me glamour remains against toughest test
High eyebrows, pristine lip lustre of two years ago
Marilyn wink in the blink of camera, busy filtering truth
Tree hugging Boho took over, appealed to populus ideal
Cocaine sand between toasted toes, garland encircling forehead
Currently I'm languishing in roses
bestowed by crown of thorns
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