Long Dumpster Poems
Long Dumpster Poems. Below are the most popular long Dumpster by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dumpster poems by poem length and keyword.
I know most of the places my pens have hidden
There's one at the bottom of the trash
But he'll be gone soon
If I don't need his services before I take it down
To the dumpster
Behind the bookcase most likely lurks a favorite or two
But really quite a bit of labor to free them
The pens in bed are easy to recover
Their pin-prick in the middle of the night
Reveals their hiding place
I know there are numerous pens in my picnic basket
Never can remember for sure
Impossible to discover
So in goes another
I did try to look
When I could finally open my eyes
You were there
I knew you would be
06/10/12
9:49am
© All Rights Reserved
I am stifled, stagnant, stressed and seriously strung
from streetlight to streetlight
There is nothing left, my energy is kaput, gone.
My creativity is something I barely remember.
Until I get home to my refuge in the country,
my trees, my lilacs, my lilies, my tulips, my earth.
I shed the cloak of heaviness, at my front door,
running toward my lightest coolest dress.
In seconds I am outside walking from one corner of my yard
to another, taking photos.
Talking to my trees, hugging them even,
replenishing the bird feeders, while cardinals soar in.
Butterflies light on my shoulders, dragonflies dive-bomb me,
I am Snow White here.
I do not whistle but I chant as I walk around my yard loving my flowers,
pulling up weeds.
All of the weeds have a place somewhere. I place them where nothing grows,
Knowing next year they will fill up this bare spot.
The only plants I do not replant are thistles.
Thistles hurt so much when I step on them barefoot,
and barefoot I am in my faerie yard.
So I pull up the thistles and I put them into my dumpster
knowing they will thrive at the dump.
I have a wild rose bush I had to dig up from another place
way deep in the forest.
It took me six hours. I thought it would be worth it.
It took four years to bloom.
That fourth year I said to it
“If you do not have one bloom tomorrow, I am throwing you away.”
The next day I woke up to that rose bush with forty beautiful hot pink flowers.
I kid you not.
When I am gone for a few days my yard comes alive upon my return.
The trees begin waving frantically even when there is no wind.
My husband always comments on it. Archangel Jophiel and I laugh about it.
She comes to me at night, and we discuss the beautiful things we have seen.
We discuss the grasshoppers, bees, wasps and yellow jackets too.
My yard is alive, five flower gardens in all. With unexpected visitors.
I sometimes see a gorgeous snake or a handsomely painted turtle.
There is a reverence and awe about it
I cannot fully explain, but it amazes me always.
“...The leftists that you voted for
jacked up the minimum wage,
so new workers like me cannot
get hired, much less get paid.
“And those very same people
ignore foreigners who work cheap,
they can work, and break the law,
But the same can’t be done by me!
“And then the proposed solution
to this raging dumpster fire
is to throw others' money at me
until the day that I expire?
“They create all these problems,
then watch as the city rots,
and fools like you vote for ruin
out of fear that the checks might stop!”
His mother with quite the shocked look,
Said,”Don’t talk like no honkey here!”
Then raved about slaves and Jim Crow,
the same old litanies of fear.
Clive said,”Mom, save the conspiracy,
that garbarge is hard to endure.
And stop using your skin pigment
to explain away your failures!
“John bought into all this crap,
thought his thugging was justified.
All it did was leave him lying
with a bullet between his eyes.
“I’ll not end up some dead banger,
or give up what makes a man a man,
even if I have to go out
and vote for a Republican!”
He turned to leave despite her cries,
and her endless protestations,
he had to go down to City Hall
to change his affiliations.
Piles and Piles of trash thrown into,
which takes various kinds of garbage .
Some fresh ,some spoiled
and some rotten .
sometimes so strange that
the worst trash is rolled in
a good shiny cover.
people throw,some even puke
their venom into it.
Silently it just takes in the
trash without ever complaining.
its stupid that it lets itself
overflow without realising
its capacity to hold
From time to time it needs
cleaning too.
its just a dumpster,but
maybe if we litter and trash less
everything will be clean around
which is next to godliness.
PS:Kindly post your first reaction /thought after reading this poem.
This is a metamorphic poem about people who are just shoulder to cry on for others
but never cared by those same people.I hope this poem carried out that message .I really welcome your suggestions .
Maximilien was bored with being a match.
His mirror twin was deemed an adorable catch.
We all want a leftie, the prissy slippers said.
He figured that already, they were not right in the head.
His mate McMiggle was the handsome one.
He had not had oil poured on his toe for “fun”.
His leather was shiny, his laces were tight.
Sexy black stilettos asked for McMiggle every night.
Do you ever go separate directions? A sultry voice asked.
He saw a delicate ballerina slipper, who was Covid-19 masked.
She had the most adorable laces, and she was pretty and pink.
He pushed his twin in the lake that night, and away they did slink.
Where is your mate? Her owner asked the slipper with disgust.
He saw the oil-stained man boot and put his nose up at the dust.
The slipper and the boot ended up in the trash together.
They keep warm cuddled up in a dumpster during all kinds of weather.
Whether the weather
necessitates to anchor
myself as a tether
when the frankenstorm
socks the east coast
shredding terrestrial
zone like soft leather
i may end up attired
in esprit de corpse
being tossed hither and yon
to and fro like a feather.
If...the forecast imbues
meteorologists flooded with folly
making a mockery
of humanity run amuck
in panic mode - by golly
this mortal male will don himself as
"the chief garbage" taster
with a garland of holly
shuffling along the
boulevard of broken
tin cans and rubbish
feigning to be melancholy.
This getup a throw
back to a costume
adorned this papa when
he attended grade school
eons ago, where corporal punishment
prevailed in case
student disavowed any rule
such as smoking in the boys' room
cigarette such
manufactured by Kent or kool
or lambasting any unlikable teacher,
(whose bookish face) at
receiving end of
pranks rather cruel.
So...presume that Halloween
will take place without any axe
of nature to grind monster
brewing at sea
and picture this poet decked
out dumpster diving
for the most fetid trash
and materiel with cracks
to be affixed upon
a heavy duty sack
with goop from
sullied foodstuffs -
a cause for glee
rotten meat infested
with maggots, shards of glass,
crushed metal cans,
et cetera to the max
will be haphazardly splayed
(Jackson Pollack like)
on this sturdy cloth
that will drape me
spurring a conga like of hungry beasts
ready go pounce – menacing
ferocious wolf packs
adding to the welter per helter skelter
of decayed detritus distributed
from head to knee
and a set of punishing
pronged antlers spiking out
in all directions upon
ma noggin-hence to tax
utmost fear in passersby, and quite
an abominable sight to see.
What I’m saying.
What is decaying.
I have enough at home.
Feeling sad as that dome.
The office building over there.
Is as strange as hair.
There could be enough.
But treasure chests are tough.
Mind powers.
They told us it would only take hours.
Take as much paper as you want to.
It’s true.
I had mind powers on my mind.
They told me there’s something stagnant to find.
Like a moldy monster.
Or a dumpster.
It’s true.
The office building is blue.
Coffee, dust, and doom.
There’s such thing as a living room.
Metallic abilities which connect them around.
Living things, ants, and a dumping ground.
Mind powers are the structures which give them time.
There’s isn’t much more slime.
That’s what I’m saying.
That’s what’s decaying.
It’s true, sometimes.
All my mental finds.
I found you in a dumpster,
a trembling scrap of midnight,
all teeth, fear, and olive eyes that still feared shining.
The world had abandoned us both.
I was breaking,
certain there was nothing left worth staying for.
then you looked at me,
and two forgotten souls recognized each other.
you wore anger like armor,
a feral king crowned in sharpness.
yet with me, you softened,
curling into the hollow places of my heart.
your quiet purr became the first hymn
that convinced me to keep living.
I did not rescue you;
I simply found myself in you.
you loved me while I unraveled,
and I loved you while you learned to trust.
feline, my midnight guardian
proof that broken things can save each other.
"Soullessness"
In this time…In this life…in this place…we have no showed
Under a blanket of blankness without thanks…we have no souls
Living’s a mere image cuz what we’ve witnessed is not real
Aborted the birth of a world… for a world we keep but can’t feel
There’s a place for us…we’ve paved the way…it’s in hell and it’s happening
Don’t cry when you get there…cuz on the way you were laughing
Enjoyed the rotten fruits flesh and knawed on bones of fallen rightousness
Forgot just to forget cuz that’s the path to your enlightenment
Hear but don’t care …follow the leaders of your death squad
Fear cuz your there…without a memory of what life was
We eat from a dumpster and piss ina bowl
Then run for the cover thinking it’s all under control
Smile when lieing…and…make money to feel free
Giggle under ya breath people…but it ain’t funny to me
In this time…in this life…in this place we have no showed
Under a blanket of blankness…without thanks we have no souls
Form:
There's a calmness to the air of the trailer park
As the dumpster in the back slides to the right
Underneath is where our Super Hero has his lair
And where adventure starts out every night
For years now it's been the same old routine
Belches as he wobbles to his feet
Throws the remote down on the beer stained couch
Scratches his rear at the same time picking his teeth
Yes, the night belongs to Beer Belly Batman
Who spends his time fighting petty crime
From spitting on the sidewalkers to mouth full of food talkers
Putting them back in their place and back in line
Sure he used to be a top notch crime fighter
Evil forces he always did foil
But after years and years of beating crime up
The beating on him has taken its toll
If the neighbors music is to loud feel free to call him
Nothing he likes better than knocking heads of unruly kids
Hey Punk!Pull Your Pants Up! Is his favorite motto...
Giving Super Hero Wedges like nobody's biz
I don't know about you but this much is true
I always feel a little more safe and sound
And sleep that much better at night
Knowing there's a White Trash Super Hero around