Long Rubbish Poems
Long Rubbish Poems. Below are the most popular long Rubbish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rubbish poems by poem length and keyword.
I stood before the barren ground.
Where thorns and thistles lay dead.
I asked the Earth what it needed
to make my garden follow its way.
First I watched where shadows fell.
Where rivulets of rainwater pooled.
Where heat had cracked the virgin clay.
where restless winds scoured the ground away.
I did not rush to dig up the soil,
nor hasten to sow my box of seeds.
I first studied its wounded state;
its hunger, scars, regrets, and its needs.
For many times before, I had failed.
Rushing headlong into the breach.
Only to run out of finger tips
to plug the dam wall’s spreading leak.
So too, I mapped my inner ground.
Where grief, failure and regret lay there.
Where anger burned, where fear had pooled.
Where drought had cracked my riven heart.
I drew up a Permaculture plan,
designed to integrate on many levels:
trees, shrubs, herbs and grasses;
water, soil, air, shelter and climate.
Then, I cleared the brittle stalks,
the debris, stones, and old rubbish;
covered the soil with fresh compost mulch,
made with kitchen scraps, I once called waste.
At first, everything was very small,
Tiny tube-stock trees and shrubs;
seeds planted in no-dig fiber tubs;
vine shoots trained to climb up my trellises.
The garden grew; I planted new habits,
rows blossomed with mindful daily care.
I climbed up trees and vine-clad fences,
Pausing to gather a meal and say grace.
The work became a softer thing,
not hard-driven to reach a goal.
The garden became self-sustaining.
Earth and gardener both made whole.
So, serenity lies in being self-sustaining.
Not by will forced nor imposed.
But, by living deep within multi-layers
with planning, care, and nurtured culture.
Advertised as an Estate Sale
Which I took to mean
Not just yard sale discards.
Here are some
Of the things you could obtain:
Aluminum baking pans
Plastic punch bowl
Four segments of track from a train set
Discolored tea-towels with embroidered edges
Christmas themed throw pillow
Velvet painting of sailing ships
Flimsy dollar-store wall mirror
Cheaply framed picture of Jesus
A used tire with "free" sign taped to it
Tupperware, a bit stained
Tiny shelf for back of toilet
Chipped bowls and plates
Mismatched spoons
Wobbly lawn chair
Book club mystery with coffee cup circle
Bread basket, slightly crushed
Half a box of staples
Cookie tin, rusty inside
Fragile teacup with handle glued back on
Melamine resin plates
VHS tapes in sun-faded boxes.
The leavings of a life
Can certainly be sad.
Why cannot we see
The sun will shine brighter when…
we appreciate shadows as a generous reflection of truth
embrace the dazzling display of rainbow’s complement
contest burning skins on the muck heap of humanity
The night will emerge peacefully when…
we reflect upon rays of hope as a loving absorption of verity
reach out to eminent exposition of darkness’ tutelage
caress ambiguous sheathing beyond the rubbish of greed
22 June 2018
Written for the collaboration 'Poem of poems' by Charles Messina
I would like my name included, if chosen as part of the joint venture.
IT WAS A GOOD MORNING UNTIL..
It was a good morning, till I sat down to write
A sparkling verse for that poetry site.
I sat at my desk and filled up my pen,
Wrote one line of total rubbish and then
My mind went blank, a terrible plight;
I had writer’s block, that poet’s blight.
That hadn’t happened since goodness knows when.
I tore up the page and started again
I was not going to give up without a fight.
If I tried hard enough, it would surely come right.
And eventually, on attempt number ten,
I finished it off with a rousing AMEN!
15th February 2021
It was a Good Morning Until.. contest
Sponsor - Tania Kitchin
O' Forgive me Lord; for I have so sinned
I put my rubbish; in my neighbours' bin
It wasn’t like there wasn’t, enough room
But did she have to hit me with a broom
With the neighbours gathered for a laugh
In fact; in the end there was quite a cast
After that whack I was amazed I survived
It was not long; before the police arrived
As police took statements, in their scores
Delving through the rubbish; is this yours
Holding high a plastic bag, knotted neatly
Yes, I am afraid it is, I replied; so sweetly
With evidence bagged, I then taken away
Charged; up in court that making my day
I was named and shamed with a £100 fine
Where community service, I was assigned
Alas, I'm picking rubbish, up off the street
And never again my sins will I ever repeat
So after that, I was clever, knew the score
With no one looking, shat outside her door
I heard her screams and smiled in content
Lessons learned, revenge was heaven sent
O Yeah, revenge was heaven sent . . .
He undresses rumor to reveal lies
this is how the desperate man cries,
Extra Extra he tries to sadden ya,
a bundle of rancor rambles from the shambles of his shame
finding form on a page of purely personal pathos
what he can't have he taunts,
flaunts falsehood as fact in commiserating style,
vulgar and vile such as pornographic propaganda
designed to compell despair with poisened air,
what does he care, loyalty he knows not how to share,
decorum just a ditch in the swamp of his heart,
hurt hurt hurt is the mantra of his yellow emotion
a mud temple is his refuge,
burn love, ravage respect, ruin reputation
is the curve in his grimace, the grime in his game,
even the news stands have rejected his rank rubbish,
a character assassinator eliminated by the Poet's assembly,
take your delusional drama to the closet playa
hang it on a hanger of humbled heresy,
your rusty razor shall not go "haymaker" anymore
remain in your "hayfever" brought on by Truth's retribution,
a wedge maker is your legacy, a virtuous man your fallacy -
J.A.B.
Silence loud enough
To burst my ear drums
With a soprano voice
That clears my senses
Of all its rubbish
~
All I can truly think of
Is the people who once
Sat around my living room
Talking, chattering, on and on
About nothing important
~
Laughter seems so long ago
That it awakens my memories
To the hilarity of it all
The humor that imposes on my
Heart’s attention to happiness
~
Wherever I go, whichever room
In the house where I live
There are hues of deep moments
Spent sharing my life with them
My family, long gone now
~
I stare at the pages of a book
And welcome the midnight hour
When I leave the living room
To enter the bedroom, lie down
And wonder where the time has gone
~
Night sounds whisper to me
Owls ho-ho-ho across the yard
A cat’s screech in the barn
Howls from the hills at a moon
Not so alone – after all, it has the stars
People tell me that I’m now a poet
I've still got a lot to learn and don’t I know it
I like to write with humour and wit
You may like my writes or think they are rubbish
(couldn’t think of suitable rhyming word here)
Some days my ideas just flow and flow
Other days my muse has a long way to go
I hate the days my brain is constipated
When I can’t find the words I get so frustrated
I need a dose of Movicol to get my movement going
Blockage will be cleared and my poems will be flowing
Other times my words gush like verbal diarrhoea
Inspiration flows like a river and I whoop and cheer
Thought I’d share this with you and keep you in the loop
You can read my outpourings here on Poetry Soup
Jan Allison
1st October 2014
I stepped on someone's gum
Now I'm part of a nation
I slipped on a paving slab
Now I'm part of another nation
Not that it’s up to my liking
To change nations every day
But I can't argue if there are
So many nations that I don't have time to learn
Which one I'm a part of
At every moment of the day
Whose territories I appear on
And disappear without a care
I don't mean to disturb all that
Importance of power, those dour faces
That we are doomed to notice everyday
I don't mind if anyone is converted
To their familiar religions with those
Cruel gods created by state-minded prophets
In my view all this tormenting world
Was invented on purpose to spoil life
To intimidate us for no other reason
Than power of the immortal troublemakers
Evolution is impossible
Consolations are rubbish
This species is hopeless
Not the first, not the last to become extinct
I’m already gone fishing forever
Once I saw my eternal love’s face in the sky
I wish to become a weed
Growing on by a waterlogged stream.
The door felt it was better to stay open
And let as much air as possible come in
Along with the air the handsome grin
Of the fragrance we left in childhood
We have to pass down-to-earth day
Job and home and job and job again
Silky birds do come and call all in vain
Woods and hillocks are quite far away
The other day the yellow taxi called me
But I lacked in responding adequately
The bird felt wounded and flew away
The nest wept alone the whole day
Nowadays the doors are insisting
To be left open to receive letters
Mails and calls that keep ringing
Getting rid of rubbish fetters
The doors are restless to let the air in
And take a deep breath in lifting the chin
____________________________________