Best Wastebasket Poems
Adam was an
acceptable accountant
And Eve a bubblingly
bright bookkeeper;
Adam loved the
First-In, First-Out
Accounting (FIFO) system,
While Eve preferred
The Last-In, First-Out
Inventory (LIFO) system;
Together they testified that
Inventoried sweet fruit
should neither
Sits and spoil
nor go to the
Garden wastebasket
Wrongfully.
Gargling, a gargoyle’s groan gulps
From the bilingual blackness of TV,
A clockwork advertisement pulps
Knowledge into your worn mind free
Of charge. Nothing but gobbledegook
Everywhere, an insistent humming bee
And you just volunteered for the hook.
You can’t understand it, but still can see
That it’s appealing. Someone wants it.
We now return you to your film with Mr T,
But subtitled. There’s nothing to do but sit,
enjoy – all else is static - and sweatily agree.
Your mind is a sad wastebasket of re-runs;
Rom-coms galore, dubbed films about keys,
Action films with loud explosions and guns.
Poor translation aside, I enjoy foreign Telly.
11009
CharlaXFabels
HOW ROOD
They took a cart with four wheels scootered by me just to almost hit my foot they
tried to run between the bus stop and the bench where eye was standing waiting
for the bus just missing one that left me almost got the dust she flipped at me
with her middle finger she had to knoe that eye was there she meant to make me
feel bad so what she said he was not there at the stop yet this old man found
and scrounge is better than a gang and take this poem is for FOUND things
sarcasm is lost inside a deep dark hole I don’t want to take it with me overheard
and listened to the conversation all anew again in my imprinted memory as I
pen, this; ODE to rudeness, eye have been told there is NO LAW against cell
phones or decent public conversations Its hard to see he is my poor brother eye
keep my own needs simple and eye travel light,
And keep all of Egypt on my back, but some people need the even more security
a four wheeled
Shopping –cart can afford them the demonic teachings of the classroom just
made me realize that eye would leave my education in the great wastebasket of
the sky eye would learn some other thing eye would leave the classroom without
thinking never embracing death and the mark of the rejection of the lord the
millennium mark the 666 mark of the beast called SATAN.
Rood rud - Show Spelled Pronunciation [rood] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA
Pronunciation,
–noun
1. a crucifix, esp. a large one at the entrance to the choir or chancel of a
medieval church, often supported on a rood beam or rood screen.
2. a cross as used in crucifixion.
3. a unit of length varying locally from 51/2 to 8 yards (5 to 7 m).
4. a unit of land measure equal to 40 square rods or 1/4 acre (0.10117
hectare).
5. a unit of 1 square rod (25.29 sq. m).
6. Archaic. the cross on which Christ died.
________________________________________
[Origin: bef. 900; ME; OE rōd pole, crucifix; c. G Rute rod, twig ]
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)
Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc.
2006.
A bandaged broken heart heaps more agony upon emotions and hurt feelings
carelessly tossed away in a wastebasket of ignorance and ill willed
stubborness...
A kiss upon lips clammy cold and with a heart carved as out of an ice berg
floating aimlessly adrift in a sea of forlorn saddened dissappointment can
only attune to screechy scratchings of the musical notes only as long as
earplugs are freely handed out to a misguided deafened heart...
Alas-Sweet or yickiness unleashed to the inherit braveity unique...
Can only for the 'morrow borrow hatred and jealousy inwardly oblique...
An unplugged leak of the heart and emotions may finally at last amout to nothing
more than fridgid ridgid unattentiveness among cross walked lovers constantly
at every turn run over by meddlesome false friends and family members alike...
Maybe Cupid could take out his first aide kit to repair many wounded hearts
after the blood puddles has been spilled all over lover's floors of constant mis-
steps of the heart and love...
Buck up oh careless Cupid-Yee aim cannot always be as accurate as Robin
Hood's or William Tell's, do tell...
Look up to the beautied moon oh lovers of the heart...
Perhaps this romantic image will inspire all lovers to try instead of to just part
their only lone ways further distanced apart.
I really tried to complete the task,
My wastebasket,
Filled with every failed attempt.
The directions seemed so easy,
"Please include this quote"
It was so beautifully uplifting
I tried, to combine our works.
But no matter how I wrote it,
My words refused to blend.
Moods rising and setting like the sun In waking moments of the artful soul Admiring the white so colorful yet none Forming as one love a heartfelt scroll Dipping pen into the bowl of inspiration Stirring thoughts from a spiritual well The crumpled sorrows of miscreation Laughing jealously from a wastebasket hell Their mocking hatred shall not quell desire To bring color to life from a sheet of white Only righting the art that is already locked there As joyful hope rises from dark ashes of night Waiting until glorious colors fly freely in the air Note- doctrine of the affections
Each time I finish a beer, I throw the empty
can at the wastebasket.
They always bounce off and clink about
on the floor, most likely due to the
fact that the trashcan is filled
with trash.
>For the umpteenth time I have received in the mail. The post one not email a letter from a company informing me of my equity release plan. They enclosed a prepaid envelope. Seems a shame to waste it. This is my reply plus I enclosed a list of my books and an introduction to The mad Author lol.
My equity release plan Tuesday 15 March 2016
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your circular letter, I received it just today.
The date that heads this reply which I trust you will read, I say.
I wish I was homeowner, as you're right, I'm seventy-two.
Alas I'm not, as I am not as rich as blinking you.
You see I worked for a charity, caring for animal welfare, every day.
Although they supplied me with a shelter, I existed on low pay.
But it was a job, I chose, when I left the RAVC.
I really did feel for all the animals, I saw treated so cruelly.
I do not own my own home, it does not belong to me.
So I'm really now sad and upset, I am not getting any equity.
But if you bought one of my books, okay, make that two or three.
I only need to sell 999,997 more, to qualify for your equity.
I'm known as The mad Author, not my real name. You see.
You already know my Christian name, as you addressed your letter correct to me.
I'm using your prepaid envelope, which I thank you for.
But guess this reply, will soon occupy your wastebasket on the floor.
That really is a pity,I'll no doubt not hear from you anymore.
Unless you buy one of my books, then could be a fan for evermore.
And if you advertise me for free. I really will have to thank thee.
And I guess you're kind of busy, so this is all now you'll get from me.
And that ladies and gentlemen is how I replied to the unsolicited mail that popped through my letterbox. I often do this, as find it is a very cheap way of spreading poetry about the countryside. And who knows, one of these days, someone might read it whose brain goes, click, this man is good, we must publish him. Hurry up Dragon this cloud is getting very thin. I need a lift back to Earth. 'Paralysed everybody'. I said, 'have a nice day, everybody.' Dragon you must concentrate. (The mad author)<
A bandaged broken heart heaps more agony upon emotions and hurt feelings
carelessly tossed away in a wastebasket of ignorance and ill willed
stubborness...
A kiss upon lips clammy cold and with a heart carved as out of an ice berg
floating aimlessly adrift in a sea of forlorn saddened dissappointment can
only attune to screechy scratchings of the musical notes only as long as
earplugs are freely handed out to a misguided deafened heart...
Alas-Sweet or yickiness unleashed to the inherit braveity unique...
Can only for the 'morrow borrow hatred and jealousy inwardly oblique...
An unplugged leak of the heart and emotions may finally at last amout to nothing
more than fridgid ridgid unattentiveness among cross walked lovers constantly
at every turn run over by meddlesome false friends and family members alike...
Maybe Cupid could take out his first aide kit to repair many wounded hearts
after the blood puddles has been spilled all over lover's floors of constant mis-
steps of the heart and love...
Buck up oh careless Cupid-Yee aim cannot always be as accurate as Robin
Hood's or William Tell's, do tell...
Look up to the beautied moon oh lovers of the heart...
Perhaps this romantic image will inspire all lovers to try instead of to just part
their only lone ways further distanced apart.
The Paying (I wish) Public marvels
at what comes out: those explosive, star-spangled
phrases and melodies (the few times I get it right);
but what of the great-real that went in, the life-struggles,
the tears, the soul-smothering isolation – not to forget
the little left of me, squirming squiggly, imprisoned
with the many nameless, sparsely filled, crumpled-up
white-pulp battlefields in the wastebasket – my inky piles of bones –
clawed-out guts (the years of painful extraction,
likened to going to the dentist, then being told, that I have a serious abscess,
needing an immediate Root Canal, though unfortunately
Covid has prevented our delivery of anesthetic)...
Oh well, here goes again:
Roses are red – so is a poet's blood;
The moon strings silvery, strum-able beams –
myself too busy to play them, running on a
treadmill, going nowhere, in my Write-blocked-nightmare,
ominously pulled from words my stalled mind should be chasing...
So, my Love (Poetry), she does
and she does not – till one
mightily fit for publication:)
I can’t even call it a room
Old mattress, no bed lamp, and fluffy pillows
Just a cabinet full of didactic books on the top shell
Some enjoyable comic books and dull novels on the middle
And DVD collections on the bottom of the shell
Couple of boxes full of crap on the floor
A broken radio and a wrecked watch nailed on the wall
In a pink-walled room
I only have this one piece of technology
A multifunctional diary to write my journal
The only way to express my feeling
Rather than to share it with those who act as if they care
In a pink-walled room
Some poetry are nailed to the wall
With words where others barely to understand
And others start to think that I’m losing my mind
But I think they are the ones who don’t even have a mind
In a pink-walled room
Where others put their junks on it
Filled it with wasted family keepsakes
I would call it a wastebasket
But they keep calling it, my room
What a beautiful life I have
In a pink-walled room
Where the rain keeps dripping from the ceiling
With an old curtain keeps hanging on my window
And the ants are started to make their kingdom
It stills the best place to express my feeling
My pink-walled room
The Love of Mothers
Nerve slicing mercury inhabiting breast milk, slashing
the suckling babe, the one who will not walk until she is four
and endure unexplainable pain. Gold piles up, red tag special
on weapons (no questions asked), palms greased, bribes split by cronies,
Social Darwinism raising it’s 1880’s head, uranium mined at the
edge of the Grand Canyon, poisons spread across the land,
trading crippled and cut-short human lives for corporate profit.
Praise life but launch unnecessary war with unspecified collateral damage, weeping mothers
looking for parts of children, their suffering rooted
deep, deeper than roses, than war, un assuaged by cross or Messiah.
Red, white and blue lies — masses believe
sleazy misinformation, the elephant still invisible,
earth measured by bottom-line profit.
There is a massive disconnect between what
our government proclaims and does.
To be aware of the gap and see it ignored
erodes sanity. W’s pimpish mind is too narrow
for history. 2001-2008 is in the wastebasket.
He has ill-used his opportunity for greatness
and wasted eight years of our lives.
FROZEN in the snow,
she was running with nowhere to hide,
Mental illness took its toll,
for there was no one to confide.
A lonely lamb lost in
the universe,
a lion protruding silence in the depths
of her madness-
She took only with her a journal,
writing verse after verse,
searching for something to mitigate
her sadness.
Hospitals and medications,
finding no immediate alleviation-
What was this manic manifestation?
reduced to a nothing…God-given creation.
Searching for answers,
leaving more questions to bear,
forgotten by the world,
while being nailed to a cross-
Treated like a foreigner,
lived a life not fair,
and her sanity has paid
the desolate cost,
stare. stare. stare...
at the windowpane frost.
Thrown like garbage in the
wastebasket-
FROZEN in the snow.
just another closed casket.
30 lines total in this poem
June 7, 2017
the wooden pencil between my fingers
the led touches the paper
mind becomes blank
words seem to have no true meaning
piles of crumpled up stationary all over the floor
heaping out of the wastebasket
a dull pencil rolls off the table
on top of it shavings on the hardwood floor...
it too has given up
I place the pencil between both my fists like a rod cracking it into two shanks
the lead between the broken bark exposed
like a fractured bone injecting from the skin
Still usable yet cannot be erased without its other half
Tape...I need tape
My wastebasket overflows
with aborted attempts,
Lines that I cannot rhyme
and syntax that limps.
Written November 6, 2022
Submitted to "Bite Size No. 55" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier