Containers Poems | Examples

Pondering a Hoarders Ways

why do hoarders keep their garbage?
Their empty containers? Dirty diapers? Used dog pads?
If you hate cleaning like I do, turn on the TV show, Hoarders.
It is the best cure to my housework apathy.

There are small paths in the houses they feature
Hoarders don’t sleep in beds
Beds are covered with stuff
Hoarders live on piles of debris

Their bathrooms are full of used pieces of toilet paper
and in one episode, the skeleton of a cat who died there
Food containers are never washed or thrown away
Their sinks are full of dead mice floating in cups of water

The workers have to wear masks
The smell is no doubt unbearable
I still have to ask
Why do hoarders keep their garbage?

By the Side of the Road

Drive down a highway and look left or right
And I can, for sure, guarantee
By the side of the road, resting there in plain sight
Will be plenty of garbage to see.

Plastic bags strewn around or entangled in trees,
Cans and bottles and wrappers and such,
Plus so many containers and papers – oh jeez!
It is more than a little too much. 

Though it’s rare to see somebody tossing it out
It quite naturally had to be pitched,
So the question is really, what kind of a lout
Can’t just wait for his trash to be ditched?

Kandahar

All terrain passing over sand stones from a distance catering to the hillside the mountain sent down a calming coolness while the barrels of oil leaked my minds eye focused on the stone slabs beneath the mountaintop grinding as the convoy entered the hidden nooks conveyed by night hiding under day teal lavender fabric covered my being hints of dates aroused my senses while meaningful gestures crowded my space chatter invaded this telepathically disdained balance covenant by old disagreements that poured out into the caves my knees trembled as I'm being quite pampered by kings giant screems facing every direction nations gathering for a group meet up my hands are kissed peppermint teas are chills served in brass tea containers looking over the world exploding I am comforted i am safe I am kandahar

Trash

TRASH

You treat me like a trashcan with a touch-top lid
Giving me your unwanted garbage
Used carcass of hurtful words
Empty containers of your so called opinions
Balled up paper of your dirty attitudes
Smelly tin cans of your hate
Your unwanted leftovers of vengeance

But I am strong, I can be washed, 
I have a strong purpose
I am doing my part to make things better
But I can’t say the same about you

Where Oh! Where

Here I stare in despair.
  Searching for lid for my Tupperware.

  Containers of all shapes and sizes.
  But not one lid arises.

  OH! You might discover a hidden lid or two.
  But cannot find one that will fit for you.

  Someone help me! I beg to know!
  So please tell me, Just where did they go?

  If you believe life just isn't fair.
  Remember we all must share the same despair.

Art As Activism I

One of the great things about being an artist is that even if I can’t change the world I still have an unfettered opportunity to express my opinions. To keep from exploding, I made these pieces instead—Alice Deasley

Art As Activism I

It begins at home or should I say at the grocery store,
anywhere food is sold
Changes in ways to shelve groceries 
should again be addressed, it’s still an issue
Packaging goes straight into the sea—the true trash can
Alternatives are store chains that use barrels for sweets, nuts,
dried fruit and edible seeds 
More deli section, less packaged meats and cheese
Bakery containers, less packaged muffins
Plastic pollution solutions everywhere
Beach cleanups, volunteer to pick up litter
Our actions impact the ocean 
even far away from the coast
land and water are connected
Buy plastic free, figure it out!
Less bagged chips, more glass bottled water and jars
Youth with passion will themselves create new ideas, 
for they are the inheritors.

RAINING IN SUMMER

RAINING IN SUMMER

There are some for whom rain is a blessing
After weeks of drought and dry riverbeds
Those precious droplets of cool clear water
Yet hardly enough to restore cracked earth
But welcome, as many rush to fill containers
Kids looking upward to wash their hot faces
Perhaps buried seeds think it may be a trick
But do begin to germinate and grow anyway
Small puddles form on concrete pathways
Soon to evaporate in the returning sunshine
A small, needed reminder of natural forces
That after such a little while, set our futures
It’s a thoughtful moment, before moving on

The Lonely Maestro

They say Maestro,
but standing ovations leave me cold
like leftover spaghetti too long in the fridge
then thrown out with the trash,
where all useless things end up
leaving only empty containers.

The music no longer inspires
to heights unattainable;
the magic of spotlights 
no longer warms my lonely nights,
as you did once long ago
before I let ovations and spotlights
replace the essence of you.

Epitome Of Existence

With empty capacious containers 
the living entities 
arrive arrogant 
and depart desolate,
in between turn into 
greed slaves to snatch
the unearned fortune,
getting sucked spellbound 
within abyss of temptation.

In the inferno of 
corporeal passion temporal,  
the frenetic flare 
laced by luring lust
debases the fervent feeling 
of platonic pining,
but in blooming love 
it can sparkle sublime
with the patina of penchant.

The chase of mirage 
in the deceptive ego desert 
etches the fragile footprints 
of delusive dominance
with sandstorm trajectory,
but the squall of strife 
over the dune of dwindled life
subsides in the inner space 
of latent love configured
in the conceded cauldron 
of self-less surrender.

In the blazing realm 
of connived conflict 
sane senses of sobriety 
turn into cinder,
flaming the fiber of prudence,
but the shower of sagacity,
spurting from love fountain 
with divine flamboyance
douses the fire of disdain
and
with the allayed ashes 
fabricates the framework 
of cordially congruent 
epitome of existence.

This Day

This day,

I feel the metal rails shiver,
hear a distant loco coming,
bound upon its fixed route.

I move on,
enter the scattered brush,
no need to turn around
to look at those many
freight containers rumbling by.

This day

I'm on a pathless journey,
my boxcar is empty, my cargo light.
The world crosses over me,
moves on.

Planting Texas Star Hibiscus Seed

Lightly scuff the seeds with sandpaper or a file 
and soak overnight. Then plant in the ground 
or in containers or both.  If in the ground,
mark the spot so you remember where you 
planted as some may wait until Spring to 
germinate. Good luck.

Exile

Exiled from my distant homeland,
Where the days seemed bright,
Nights seemed peaceful and nice,
Where I longed for freedom and dignified life.

With dictators and militia in charge,
Where corruption and killings were at large,
Any opposition voice was crushed, 
Freedom, Oh freedom, was only a dream.

With imminent arrest and execution, 
Fleeing the beloved country was only option,
Somehow escaped incognito thru night wilderness,
Hitched many rides, got transported in boxes and tank containers,
Took wretched overloaded ferries, till I reached a free land.

Now I was a refugee seeking asylum,
Spent time in camps with miserable living conditions,
Finally, after three years, I was granted asylum,
I was free in an unknown world.

Still, I am actively seeking freedom for my homeland folks,
Freedom of speech, and democracy is a precious thing,
We will arouse sentiments of local folks to get their rights,
Do not cry my homeland, one day you will be free.


4/29/23
contest Writing Challenge-Words with "X"
sponsor Constance La France
"EXILE"

Four Cafes

Four Cafés
------------

Four cafés were at the extreme left of what I could see from my apartment window.  There they were, sparkling in the cold night, trying to stand in for stars in the cloudy sky.  I had visited these café-bars one by one as they were opened within the space of a year, all offering similar food: runny egg, soggy chips and pale baked beans.  They had a touch of European chic in the quaint condiment containers, otherwise I could have been anywhere.

I looked for some time at them on that January night, their being the only buildings of interest in my vista.  Word had it they were all owned by the same man, which may or not explain why there were no closures.  As I stared from my high up space, a solitary man entered the third café, otherwise I saw no one.  I expected he was the owner.  There he would be then, in the café called "Bar Three", reading the evening paper.  That evening the paper was full of a murder story.  Perhaps, but no... He was a genteel type, wasn't he? But there again, one can never be too sure...  I decided to look for a new apartment the next day.


THE END


2/16/2023

My Greatest Pain

Making ends meet, dad was always boxing mum
For all i can trace and gun
Mighty hand when will mum and dad stop punching in this ring of ours?
Mum has been the dad amidst manly chores
the tide of tussle toil round our hut

As i grade the route of crowning mama proud
She given the greatest shock from his fist
And right at the burning flood of her blood 
She gave up to life 
And i was trading the route of watery grief

'Mother, from those frosty punch of daily troubles
The wonky meal you tried to erase 
Now pound on your ward 
As i grease under left overs
From the brim of begging and wealthy containers'

Dripped from the walls of a loving relative
My shadows are function to weary songs
For this has been my greatest reverie 
Oh! My candles are now as a fading moon
For mother beckons from beyond
Mother, this is where it hurts.

Where My Memories Go

forever memories of the house where I was born
     and the window in my room where the sun
                      came creeping in each morn
I can see mother's garden of flowers heavenly spun
      all the spring violets, tulips, lily-of-the-valley and roses
                 the robin nests in the lilac trees
 and on our porch were containers of purple primroses
         and I can still hear the sound of buzzing bees 
I remember the tree swing where I would fly
                  where I suddenly had heavenly wings
    going higher, higher, higher, high
                         oh, I recall so many things
so many things that brought me innocent joy
    hang on my memory wall
            my teddy bear, dolls, and each toy
  and times when I would run and fall . . . 

"and mother would come running . . .  when I was crying"

____________________
September 03, 2022


Poetry/Rhyme/where my memories go
Copyright Protected, ID 09-485-177-03
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France

Written for the Premiere contest, A Brian Strand Premier Choice
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 09/04/2022

Fifth Place

• Short Containers Poems
• Famous Containers Poems
• Best Containers Poems
• Read Containers Poems
• Long Containers Poems
• Containers Quotes