Best Waster Poems
You may see me out on the streets
Lying curled up in a foetal position my sleeping bag in a shop doorway
Trying to get a few hours sleep here in my latest home in cardboard city …
I never stay more than a few nights in one place
can never really settle; these streets aren’t safe
You may see me out on the streets
I’m sitting on the cold damp pavement with an empty coffee cup in my hand
Hoping for a coin or two so I can have some real food in my aching belly
Still you hurry past, trying to avoid making eye contact…
Believe me, it’s so degrading rummaging in the litter bins like a wild animal
But some days it’s the only way I can get any food to eat
The biting cold and wet weather is my worst enemy
I can never get warm even when the sun shines
This is no life, just a way of surviving another day
Guess you think I’m a waster, a dirty tramp
You walk on by; judge me without knowing what lead me to life on the streets
Bet you think I’m a druggie or an alcoholic
I guess most people seem to think that
They see my filthy clothes, straggly hair and grey beard
Just five years ago I was like many of you
I had a career, a beautiful wife, and two lovely children
Spent many months away from home fighting for my country
But then I got sent to Afghanistan…
I saw scenes no man should ever have to witness
I was traumatised
Forever suffering flashbacks of the faces of those innocent people
The children, oh those children – made me think of my two boys back at home
I couldn’t cope any more, had a total mental breakdown
I was a broken man …
My wife could no longer deal with the mood swings , the erratic behaviour
The Army did little to help –
discharged me on health grounds, then basically abandoned me
Now I’ve lost everything … my wife, family, my dignity
Many of the people you see on the streets are like me …
We all have a story to tell, but no one gives us the time of day
Passers-by avert their eyes and hurry past like we are invisible
Your eyes may tell you one thing… but please don’t judge me
Because you don’t know me
Categories:
waster, career, drug, identity, life,
Form:
Free verse
Wake not the passions you cannot tame:
A thin line there is between love and madness;
Lest you soon have yourself to blame,
Dear beautiful but an impatient mistress.
Even when in his fine eyes appear the sparks
Which at your sight seem like some magic,
Fall not too flatly for such trademarks
'Cause they could be far more than tragic!
That which often times disguises as passion,
Is nothing but a devastating monster
Which opens the door to vain obsession
—Oh, a feeling but a heartless life waster!
In between love and madness lies a thin line
Bordering every fragile mind by design.
Categories:
waster, love, magic, passion,
Form:
Sonnet
Nay greet for me, I yet live
ne'er was I a bairn to ye
mind me ere I once were
when drouthy neibors met
t'were to tak a dram or two
then tak the gate
na think on lang miles
nor of sulky dame
as frae her ye flee 'd
na catch'd wi' a skellum
blethering lik a blellum
ah lass na greet for me
by the auld haunt kirk
auld Nick a towzie tyke
nay catch'd this bogle
who scre'd the pipes and
gart them all a skirl
til skies a' did dirl
an in cauld hand held a candle
his ain soul now bereft
bides her lass, nay greet for me
translation
Do not cry for me, I yet live
never was I a baby to you
mind me as I once was
when thirsty neighbours met
it was to share a dram or two
then take the road home
do not think of long miles
nor of sullen wife
as from her you fled
not to be caught as a waster
rambling like a boaster
do not cry for me lass
by the old haunted church
Old Nick a shaggy dog
could not catch this ghost
who screwed the pipes
and make them squeal
until the heavens all ring
and in his hand a candle held
his ain soul now bereft
bides her, lass do not cry for me
Categories:
waster, death, friendship, tribute,
Form:
Verse
(What Should I Believe?)
I sit here wondering,
About the sum of life, its delights, its strife,
Its pleasures fleeting, its joys receeding,
With grief impending, and my essence ending,
I sit here pondering
I do sit in wonder,
Time passing quickly, health turning sickly,
My youthfulness gone, my strength fading,
I tend to endure a fearful waiting,
And will soon be sewn asunder.
Life, sadly, seems useless - but yet,
There must be some purpose and meaning,
To mankinds struggles and scheming.
If truth did live with the stoic,
Would man sometimes be heroic,
And give to another his best,
Take anothers pain to his chest,
Can credit be claimed by blind fate?
What manner would anyone show,
But selfishness, greed and lust,
Make mockery of faith, hope and trust,
And with Sartre, debauchery claim,
The highest ideal to attain,
No kindness to ever bestow?
I'm encouraged now that I see,
A meaning to my life finally,
Some courage and kindness in me,
Surely, brought about supernaturally.
Good purpose my life did fulfill,
All bound up in my makers will.
Isa.54:16 - "Behold, I have created the smith
that bloweth the coals in the fire, and that bringeth forth an instrument for his work;
and I have created the waster to destroy."
Categories:
waster, faith,
Form:
Epitaph
The show it is over another one gone
Never ever again I decry and bemoan
Five days of eating the turkey and ham
Curries for me and the bones for dog Sam
The tree in the corner all naked and bare
Pine needles cover the carpet and chair
The presents patiently wait to be cleared
Aftershave and face balm; I have a beard
My head in bits from abundance of drink
Can hardly talk never mind clearly think
Pants must have shrunk they are too tight
My wife has left after a big row last night
I may have said that her bum was quiet big
Her father a waster and her mother a pig
Of joy, carols and merry I’ve had my fill
I tell you now you can stick your goodwill
Sink stacked high with dishes and plates
The tables a mess and the floor in a state
Sports been cancelled because of snow
The car’s frozen in so I’ve nowhere to go
T.V. is repeating twenty year old shows
I think I’ll just settle to rest and repose
Even if Christmas I sometimes besmear
Peace to you all and I’ll see you next year
Categories:
waster, introspection
Form:
Couplet
Gone forever, the used ones
Never can it be set aside for future use
As food, fuel or money can be
Can it be stored like a pea?
Like a large swift river
Ever flowing forward
Neither can be stopped nor delayed
Nor can thou use every drop flowing over
Moving in its downward flight
Dying in a sleepless night
Time and tide waits for no man
So goes a well worn slogan
A representation of action succession
Kill it with procrastination
Has it any resurrection?
Fatigue, a coin robber
Much emphasis on pleasure,
Grand coin robber
Coin robbers cause extreme pressure
This ticking-tacking coin in life
Can it be spent on behalf?
I'd rather be a time keeper
Than be a time waster
Categories:
waster, mother son, time,
Form:
Rhyme
Knocking on the door, can your mate come out to play?,
or is she grounded for yet another sunny day?.
Meeting up with your mates, hanging around the park,
getting up to no good, until way after dark.
Listening to music, all night party's, having a dance,
Fitti over there giving me a glance.
he was 16, i weren't a teenager yet,
oh yes my dad would hate him, you can bet on that.
Then me mum mug's me off, 'Max get down the shop'
'all this mucking around girl, it's gonna blimmin' stop!'
Shut away in my room, put on me headphones,
bit of Shalamar? maybe some Stones?.
Sharing a bedroom with 3 boys was proper manic,
everything of mine broken, me mum in a panic.
Tower block by the Thames, 2 bedroom flat,
not enough room to swing a skinny cat.
Dad was a car crusher, worked every hour god sent,
put food on the table, no money was ever lent.
mum was too proud, to sign on the dole,
working class family, full of heart and plenty of soul.
School was fun, all me mates were there,
but instead of learning, I would just sit and stare.
Dolly daydreamer by name, scatty ann by nature,
destined to be nothing but a council girl waster.
Just a little look into my life as a child growing up on a council estate in South London x
Maxine xx
Categories:
waster, childhood, children, culture, growing
Form:
Light Verse
Why is it that people think that they are going to live forever?
When a child is born into this world,
It’s a precious moment,
We are filled with so much happiness and joy,
People say that when you have a child, that is when life begins,
How true this is,
We give up everything to nurture this new life,
In return we slowly give up our life,
You start to forget how to be the fun loving person you once were,
Your past life becomes a distant memory,
When you look at yourself you can’t seem to recognize who you are,
Your identity slowly slips away,
You spend endless hours and time trying your best to put a smile on their faces,
While your smile fades away,
Then one day when you open your eyes and look into the mirror,
You see a hard cold reality,
You see an old person looking back at you,
Your precious years has passed you by,
You feel like you have been robbed of your time,
So I say to you,
Stop!!!!!,
Balance your life,
Live Life to the fullest,
Don’t be a time waster,
Give your love and keep some love for yourself,
Don’t disappear,
Love your life,
Make each moment in life mean something to you,
Love, enjoy, find pleasure, and happiness in whatever you do,
For its all for a limited amount time.
Categories:
waster, feelings,
Form:
Free verse
The pen hits the paper
Like the needle hitting that groove
It just makes you, wanna move...
Get up, go, no one likes a waster
The pitch, how oh so sweet
I'm sold, let me dream
I'll rise to the top, be richer than cream
Lets hope this life won't be so fleet
That drive, how it runs so deep
Deep, deeper than skin, down to the soul
A fearless refusal to break or fall
Drive so deep its scared to sleep
Climbing, soaring, constant battling
Incessant persual of the finer things
Overcoming the hurtful stings
Barbed comments but never yelling
This is battle ground of the worker in a benfits class shroud.
Categories:
waster, career, culture, jobs, society,
Form:
Free verse
The couch potato sits as he did long ago
Since video killed the radio star and
Hands that do dishes
The box in the corner
An ever morphing capitalists dream
Long since and now
It peers at us with sights and sounds
The young queen, the old queen
We can relate
Now colored on flat screen
Then the grainy image of black and white
Omo, the flowerpot men and the like
In hefty style now memorialised
In places to reminisce
Baird's time waster
An invention of all time
The couch potato sits on
He has learned much
But not much else
Categories:
waster, memory, , memorial,
Form:
Light Verse
Never-ending aftershocks of yesterday’s tomorrow has settled in my mind’s eye…there’s so much out there to look forward to…I’d rather not die, but indeed, I must live to see the light of day take wing from on high! Cleanse me with your hope, oh Lord of Accord and you are so perfectly imperfect to me…and you shine bright like a diamond in the cave and you mirror my pain with healing, crystal-clear rain! I’m out of my mind in the past, present and future…what’s my fate? What is there in store for me? Why do I hestitate? I hesitate for the sake of Your honor-packed jubilance, not his blasphemed envy! Good news (It’s intriguing! Very!) – I’m suriving and still standing tall; bad news (nothing brand-new or exciting really): I failed the test with a F- for failure to the extreme…your sub-zero eyes see right through me and I can feel the coals heating up in my heart! I’m mad to begin with and I’m sick of breaking apart! Deplorable Reality’s strategic tragedy stings like billion’s of buzzin’ busy bees out of their honey dens or hives! Deal with the cards, roll the dice. Feel my words – you’re my livin’ sacrifice! We need a happily ever after after all! Deplorable Reality’s strategic tragedy stings like billion’s of buzzin’ busy bees out of their honey dens or hives! You kill’d me inside and out and I won’t pout like a child, running about! You killed me with your lonesome song and I have no slight doubt about that, if you know what I am speaking of no doubt! Are you damaged by your suicidal depression? Do you have any clue what I’ve been through? Deplorable Reality’s strategic tragedy stings like billion’s of buzzin’ busy bees out of their honey dens or hives! I am a money saver, but a worthless beggar or an ungrateful waster OR a real big spender ~ I don’t mean to offend a single soul or drive anyone insane in any way, shape or form…I am just telling you the truth straight out of my brain while I lay down and type this verse up in my solitary, yet unique, wild and stunning-blue dorm…avoiding a bee swarm like escaping a windstorm with stingers flying all around me every direction I turn! Every angle I watch, there is danger looking at me straight in the eyes…replicating the death stare of the Lord of the Flies…my hope and faith withers and dries like a weed, left in the sun…pulled up from the ground by the gardener himself…rotting away…today…
Categories:
waster, angst, beauty, betrayal, change,
Form:
Acrostic
So ya want ta sail, me hearty,
and ya set ta see the world.
Just sign away ya life, Jack,
and stow ya gear forward.
There's room enough in foksel
for the bloomin' likes of you,
we'll put ya right ta work, Jack ,
just as soon as ya met the crew.
Ya take ya orders from the Mate
and give him none ya jaw, Jack.
For if ya do, me bucko, ya'll
feel cat's claws upon ya back!
Ya'll climb the ratlines when he tells ya,
ya'll splice a piece of line,
ya'll swab the decks with effort
and tar the seams in time.
When ya trick is o'er and ya tired some,
we'll give ya grog and hardtack.
Take yaur lime but remember, Jack,
don't be waster in ya sack!
Copyright © Ramfire .
Categories:
waster, boat,
Form:
Oga at the top
Then you open your mouth
Like bullfrog in the muddy pool of your career
In the myopia of your great vision
You vomited manifesto which we in turn swallow
To provide jobs for those with suffocating degrees
Begging to clean, wash, mop, to pack your ****
Or even dig graves for themselves, to keep alive.
You were the one who use to sit
At the cross-road joint where you drown yourself
In country palaver with dregs of palm wine.
Or have you forgotten in God’s house
You often lead the prayers against unemployment,
Corruption, insecurity and government indifference.
Now you sit at the top
Nurtured by wayward currencies
That bastardized the poor country people.
And all you care and attend to is to build
Castles of straw in the blazing heat of starvation
And pile wealth for your waster, imbecile generation.
Categories:
waster, abuse, betrayal, corruption, hilarious,
Form:
Free verse
History is a loudmouth dunghill hen,
Who so hid hind it were left to cavil,
He who loves here and now’s a happy man.
Past, a flightless bird, primes its wings in vain,
A dodo buried under snowy chill,
History’s no more than a dunghill hen.
If what goes never may return again,
If fleeting moments can’t a vacuum fill,
Here and now’s a hinge for a happy man.
The story of this world since time began
Seems to end with mankind’s same old evil,
A tale glorified by a dunghill hen.
Not much has changed, not so dies more same than
Hist’ry, a time-waster of wanton will,
He who loves here and now’s a happy man.
Time scorches, to pallor turns ruddy tan,
And future gets frozen, good with evil,
History’s ho hum yells like dunghill hen,
He who loves here and now’s a happy man.
_____________________________________________
Villanelle | 07.03.2022 |
Poet’s notes: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. But we are here to create the history, not remember it, nor yet repeat it. And yet, history, written by the winners, is often not even truth. What this means is and as this poem says, history is a loudmouth dunghill hen. Further, talking about history, as someone said, some people feel the rain, and some get wet. As Churchill said, ‘history will be kind to me as I intend to write it. So, let us focus on creating history, and that process starts from here and now. Sure, he who loves here and now is a happy man
Categories:
waster, happiness, history,
Form:
Villanelle
Here once again he pesters me, steps into my world where I’m set
fair, imposed upon by his misfortune, extravagance forced to regret.
He always seems to be around, whichever street or square I walk
jabbering loudly in my ear, though I make clear don’t wish to talk.
Is his the filthy blanket hid amongst the bushes in the park ?,
those kids have used it for a toilet, soaked it in their nasty lark.
The little money that he gets who knows if it is wisely spent,
he may well blow it all on drugs, he’s on the streets for owing rent.
Most likely he's a total waster blaming some infirmity,
claimes his autism confuses, has since over fosterer's knee.
His bedding's now so badly soiled I wonder where he will sleep tonight,
not of course that it's my problem, sure someone else will see him right,
Much better purchase his “Big Issue”,then go home with conscience clean,
as statistics clearly show we’re wealthier than we’ve ever been !
Categories:
waster, abuse, drug, identity, irony,
Form:
Rhyme