Dustbins Poems

Mars Has No Wars

It's not red, like they said.
It's white, green, pink, blue
And all other fascinating hues.
Not the grays I am used to.

I was told there is no air here, 
Yet every breath is crisp and sheer
No masks, no tubes, no weight to bear.
Most importantly, nothing to fear.

I didn't need a suit or a flight, 
Just a smile and a grip held tight.

On Mars,

Food overflows, in plates, pots and dustbins
Buildings rise, neither burned nor crumbling.
No kids with wounds from bullet strikes.
All body parts intact, not lost to any pikes.
The sky glitters even without missiles,
The dead are buried, not left in piles.
Huge cranes lift steel to kiss the sky,
Unlike ours, which lifted cries up high.
Here parents and friends grow old.
No blood-stained tents left to fold.


They said Mars holds no life.
What's this then? Afterlife?
I had heard so much about Mars
Today I learnt Mars has no Wars.

A Gift of Life and Love

Some say poetry is a dying art
Headed toward the dustbins of the latter,
Whereas I see it as an arrow flying 
Towards ideas and thoughts that matter. 

As photographs and videos 
At the speed of light these days
Have become our culture’s medium
In how we think and what we say.

Our attention spans have disappeared 
With our faces in our phones
Connecting us with the world at large 
While leaving us more alone.  

Except for we who love poetry:
Making sense of who we are. 
For poetry gives symmetry
And points us to the stars.  

Internally and externally 
Both spiritually and above,
For reading and writing poetry 
Is a gift of life and love.

The Days Fly By

   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

Night People

Neon fingers
banish the remnants of the day
Dustbins loiter ominously
blurry eyed
The Night people slide in between
Sailor doom bewitched by sorceresses
as heckled men face electric spears

Stet the occasion
A drawbridge opens
staining the gangster day
Outstretched palms
preclude the day

Jewelled ghost trains
ordinately take you
further away

Velvet dolls with a brainy side
watch stale commissioners slide
Star  clad ingénues infuriated evermore

How Much Food Would Satiate Me

The city, part awake, part asleep,
part dark, part lit,
strangers all around, repulse me.
I trudge tormented,
hungry and forlorn,
down an unlit cul-de-sac.
Black cats mew, 
Unseen dogs bark, 
my stomach growls.
Empty dustbins abound,
No smells of food.
Is that a gargoyle in flight?
I duck in fright?
I curse as a piece of paper
flutters to the ground.
The sky too dark, 
the angry wind howls,
my soul in agony,
my body weak,
from lack of sustenance.
I lurch into an old abandoned house,
climb up rickety stairs,
hope all would fall upon me,
end my earthly stay.
I see her in a corner
huddled up.
I sit near her,
foul smells mingling.
She stirs,
hands me a piece of stale bread.
Thank God for little things.

Wonder, How This Happens

I oft wonder how this happens,
Flowers whilst sink stones swim at once.

The poor beg for a piece of loaf,
Piles reach dustbins, breads along buns. 

Cows starve for a mere blade of grass,
Big bulls whilst clean up crops in tonnes. 

Poor die parched, not a drop of oil,
On dead, many a ghee lamp burns.

Poor toil, life getting harsh on earth,
Rich pay dear to reach for heavens.
___________________________________ 
Ghazal |14.11.2021| world
Poet’s note: Weird are the ways of this world.

Street Battles

Street Battles
by Bob Moore © 2019

I remember when I was a kid
dustbins were tin, and they had a tin lid
it made a great shield, when we went off to war
to fight the gangs, in the suburbs next door

We had wooden sticks, and we called them a sword
we threw rocks and stones, and our battle cry roared
but hardly a bone, ever got broke
and at the end of the day, it was all a big joke

We’ll be back tommora’ we’d yell as we went
they yelled, “we’ll be waiting”, and a rock our way sent
Nobody won our battles and fights
But we had to get home, ‘fore they turned on the lights.

The Sack

Now, listen, 2020, you're looking rather tired,
you seem well past your sell-by date,so
sorry, mate- you're fired.
It seems nobody's liked you
since January first,
you gave them all a headache then,
and frankly, you've got worse.
You've not delivered happiness,
no, nowhere near enough,
your driving skills have lapsed a lot,
our journey's been quite rough.
I'll give you two month's notice,
then after that, you're gone,
we've lined up a new replacement, 
he's called twenty twenty-one.
He's promised us some vaccines,
and holidays galore,
and dustbins full of PPE, 
not littering the floor.
I'm sorry that I've bought you in
to give your wrists a slap,
you've had all year to get things right
but, really-
you've been crap.

Backstreets

BACKSTREETS

In the back streets of my mind,
I play again the games of my childhood.
Vehicles few and far between, to interrupt our play;
Our soccer ball, leather scuffed by tarmac,
Thuds against the goal, chalked on the wall
Of Mr. Thompson’s house.
Until, his patience at an end,
He comes out, roaring, red-faced,
To chase us away, fist shaking.
“I know who you are, I’ll tell your parents”.
Further down the street, we start again;
Our goal two dustbins in the middle of the road,
Moved only when the milkman,
In his horse-drawn cart, approaches
When he has passed, before the game resumes,
I race home to collect a shovel and a pail,
To scoop up the horse’s parting gift
For Dad’s prize roses.
Then, all too soon, it’s time for tea
Of bread and jam and lemonade.
So long ago, the world so simple then.
But still those backstreets linger in my mind

25th September 2019
In the Backstreets of My Mind contest
Sponsor - Silent One

Words, Like Wind

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.

Courage To Consign Poverty To History Dustbins

Courage to promote humility
Courage to admit your mistakes
Courage to embrace malleability
Courage for noble stakes 

To die
To tackle hurdles and obstacles that seem insuperable
To fly high
The flag of integrity for the vulnerable

Whose predicament makes you sick
Although your means seem puny
Dare to kick
Open the door of fortune to the many

Who can’t afford a meal
On their haunted faces no smile to file
Cos to them no big deal
Whether you flaunt designer lifestyle

When their dreams grow leaner
Insufficient sleep on bare floors squeezed in tiny spaces
Like sardines when June weather stings meaner
To rip traces of laughter from faces

Weather beaten,  hunger stricken
By force of circumstance
Poverty sunken
In long distances they shamble for every conceivable circumstance

Courage they demand
From you, Mr Big Stuff
Morsels of dry fish from resources you command
Seizing poverty by its neck scruff

Courage to consign poverty to history dustbins
Where you can lock it up
To assuage your conscience and atone for sins
That fill up your steaming coffee cup.

When Tuesday Falls

I think we've all had that feeling of feeling
nothing.

Emptied
like the dustbins used to be
and
yet full of foreboding
as if someone is loading
a twelve bore with a cartridge
and your name
is on it.

And feeling that way which is one way
to feel
do you feel like kneeling and saying a prayer?
can you get in the midst of the others who are 
there?
does that mean you are no longer alone?

This feeling cannot be right,
that not feeling is
just like the night without stars
dark,
forbidding and back to
foreboding.

Trying to keep it in real time
when all they do
is steal time,
the only thing left of mine 
is
this feeling of not feeling
and I'm hanging on to it.

The Forgotten Spaceman

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.

Mentor To Many, But

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.

Lent Times In Africa

Ashes in the faces of Africans
some blowing from hands
Lent is here with us as sure deal

Food is playing hide and seek
water lives underground
dustbins are empty 
nocturnal animals share the fast

This is Lent without priests
no holy mass to be celebrated
no church-goers  to be active
but all are in Lent times

Keep your fingers crossed
someone is to die on Holy Friday
he may not be Son of God
Messiah he may not be
A Jew he is not to be
but a  man born among us
not the prince of peace
anointed by popular acclamation
blessed by the underworld
rejected by the skies

He will die on Cross of Gold
and will not rise on the third day
So the waiting continues
in Africa

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