Sewerage Poems | Examples

Slab City

    Unincorporated The Slab City
    Off-the-grid different community.
    Slab City is a place of real danger,
   whether be a resident or stranger.
    
     Lawless free city, yet hundred fifty 
     families live without facilities 
     of electricity or sewerage,
     running water : Yourself to arrange.

     In Slab City retirees or visitors 
     known as snow birds coming to spend winter.
     No need to buy any land, it is free.
     Build your house with own effort in spree.

     Local police may have jurisdiction :
     No use in critical situation.
     Get absolute freedom to commit crime.
     Have perfect scope to turn into victim.
  
    If daredevil or crazy to visit :
    None gives objection or none will assist.
    Rough rigorous life as if life sentence
    A vagabond may gain experience.

The Mark

Yes there will be filth,
there will be muck in your mouth,
some of it your own.
Cities will drown in their own sewerage,
and all will be but a metaphor
and all will come true.
Jesus loves you,
keep fooling the fools,
for they hate you
far less than themselves.
On that last step
on the banks of the Ganges river
be assured,
that your bare muddy footprint
will be the very mark
of God.

The Dunny Brush

THE DUNNY BRUSH
It has been here since modern sewerage was begun
and each water closet usually has at least one.
But to get a participant to use it, can really be a chore.
Most folk will use the paper but sadly for some, the Dunny brush ignore.
We have warned, scolded and abused them about their stain,
To grab the handle and scrub up and down again and again and again.
Many just don`t get it . They will not own their own poo,
so they leave it in the bowl. It is not their responsibility to clean the flamin loo.
So we have had workshops for the solution,
To brainstorm and solve the concern for this ablution.
Some have installed water jets to clean the soiled parts,
While others have janitors who make regular inspections while pushing their cleaning carts.
Alas, around here these luxuries we haven`t got,
 so we ask you the Guest, to give it your best shot.
To learn the art of the toilet brush is easy, so don`t do your thing and run.
Grab it by the handle between forefingers and the thumb.
Now scrub it hard and sure till all traces are unstuck.
If it has caused you to sweat a bit, just remember,
It isn`t ours or theirs, its your smelly muck.

Nature's Tears

Look at how progress has scarred the planet Earth,
its lush mountains stripped of centuries-old trees;
oblivious to value, just their cash worth.

We're not racked with guilt or feelings of unease,
ecology is the last thing on Man's mind;
we claim the right to do whatever we please.

Mining minerals, we left open soars behind;
gaping gashes cut without a thought or care;
then abandoned; once, we gleaned all we could find.

We've scraped the Ocean bottom, trawling for fish,
and dumped sewerage into the sea for years;
unconcerned for the Earth, we do what we wish.

We need to respond to Mother Nature's tears;
for it will be too late once Man disappears.

No Fancy Notions

He's just a sewerage worker, he has no fancy notions

He doesn't like his job... he just goes through the motions.






Entry for
Pithy Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Maureen McGreavy
3/11/2019. Placed 2nd.

Man the Scientific Tool Box

eyes the bi-camera
nose the bi-air detector
tongue the reporting journalist
legs the walk man’s prop roots
hands the defense acrobat
ears the spying  radar instrument
hair the cushion cover
stomach the chemical industrial plant
heart the pumping station
skin the warmth generator
liver the sewerage filter
kidney the water collection dam
breast calabash of white juice
arteries and veins the drainage channels
rids the spring board cabins
vocal cord the musical instrument
mouth the palace gate keeper
teeth the kitchen  cutlery
womb the tray of eggs
uterus the incubator
arm the movable crane
brain the systems decoder
back the inclined plane
human body the scientific tool box

Come To Me All You Rats In My Granary

come to me all rats in my granary
I have a feast for you
husks and shells of groundnuts
but after though beating

you live in shelter without renting
eat fresh food without permission
sewerage system you use freely
lay down your belly for caning

Come you rats in my granary
line up and make your statement
Tell me why you deserve no beating

you eat food for my children
then thank me by mixing it with refuse!

Plants and Animals

plants and animals
thrive so well there
placed  in dung heap

the wealth of sewerage
and the stench of the filth
give nutrients they enjoy

Between Tatty Covers

Prejudice is voiced in words which seep out
Like sewerage on the sidewalk
Soiled and spoiled in the cesspool
Of polluted perspectives
They are cruel and cause the created
To cower and cringe
Their dreams die
And fill graveyards with potential

Scuffed and tatty covers commonly conceal
The wonder of what is written in between
For God’s sake
Why not read the lines?
Remove those smudged spectacles
And marvel once again
At the treasure within

Bugger the boundaries of unbelief
And let each soul find
A freedom song to sing

Beneath the Lies

The Shanty town had running raw sewerage
covering the lanes, people with horrific sores.
Leaking tin roofs gave little shelter but
baked in the hot African sun by midday.

The Politian's will tell you food and supplies
are getting through but they need more.
The shanty people will tell you no, never
have they received food or vital medicines.

Fat diploma tics getting richer as people
die like flies left with little or no hope.
Tempted in by promises of well paid work
to find there is none just squalid conditions.

Deprived of all comforts and nothing to do
some turn to drink then most to crime.
The dullness of their eyes show defeat
their spirits are broken for profit.

written 02/19/2017
for contest what lies beneath the lies
Some return to their villages in the bush
here a person can live like a human.
For the souls that remain no future beckons
just another day of misery until the end.

Slum Dweller

His life echoes in misery in his tin house,
as the arms of the law crackdown on rioters,
who get their money from politicians.

Selling second-hand clothes is his main job,
but the council officers extort money from him,
leaving him dry, frustrated and teary. His face shows
he's seen a lot in his lifetime, with scars from a failed
leadership system.

His neighbors steal his hard earned cash,
when they have a deathly debt on their necks,
or they have lost all their money on a soccer bet.

The problems in his neighborhood repel back to him,
for he is part of the neighborhood,
no matter how innocent he is. The flying toilets,
garbage, broken sewerage, and broken promises by leaders
are all part of anyone living in the slums.

Some years back a stray bullet pierced through his tin house,
hitting his wife's chest; she now rests with angels in heaven.
His children wander in the streets, looking for money;
by the end of the day, they come, their esteem deflated
with abuses, kicks and broken dreams.

He looks up at the blue sky,
and wonders whether one day the rains will finally
come with his blessings....

Where Houses Sing and Dance

Where houses sing and dance 

Come to my city and see
Houses sing and dance in festivals
Buildings dance Ndobolo*, twisty 
Bumping in style and singing reggae
Clapping hands in joyful rhythm
And whistling with the winds
All day and all night
In every hill and valley

Come to my city and see
Houses waking up every morning
Without washing faces and legs
Without brushing their teeth
But enjoying the kiss of pure sewerage
Whenever tears roll from above
And crazily snake to destiny
Yes, here houses wave good bye to the world
As they gallop to work-places
 
Come to my city and see
Swarms of beetles, tortoises, buffaloes
In a cold war, crawling side by side
Spying suspiciously on one another
For espionage and sabotage
As they trap and get trapped
All day and all night 
In this city of many questions

Hearts whisper messages of wonder
The rain that falls sweeps aside hope 
Whirlwinds that blow confirms the chaos
Every sunrise the story is the same
Here in this city of many hills
Where houses sing, whistle
And dance Ndobolo

*Ndobolo is a famous Congolese dance

The Wise Twins

The wise Twins

Behind you is a pair of twins, wise and humble
They conflict and quarrel with each other-no complain
With big stomach, big head you sit on them- no complain
Without wages they toil moon in moon out- no complain

Left behind in every journey made- no complain
Pierced with syringes to treat other members- no complain
Exiting sewerage created by the others- no complain
Washed last or not in the bathrooms- no complain

Fleeing from danger and left behind- no complain
Caned for foolishness of the carrier- no complain
Made to eat dust where seats do not exist- no complain
A seat of wisdom and humility indeed are the twins

The pair has never tried to be first in society
They lament silently, tears rolling inwards
Yet wherever they sing hymns to amuse the great
The powerful flee with bitterness, insults and regret

The Swaying Rice Stalks

The sequestered plots of green
the rice shoots sway in the wind
overcast sky remains strangely still
ominous signs of a heavy downpour
that may flood the crop field
washing away the green shoots
watery grave stretching to the horizon.

The rain falling off and on
bringing relief to the dry season
filling the rivers, ponds and lakes
the woolen winter, spring and summer
coming back again to soothe
the fray tempers and parched lands.

A flooded street keeps you indoors
chocking sewerage pipes and gutters
drinking water sources are full of germs
floating carcasses everywhere
rooftops waiting to go under
multi-storied buddings holding out 
a little more till they fall sideways
or front faced one on top of another.

Rains can raise the food stocks
the unceasing downpours trail 
flooding the countryside and littoral cities
synchronizing with hotter summers 
rising sea levels and melting iceberg

Noting new in this but there is no action.

Sky

SKY

It slides down silently
From the naked branches of tree
Hanging bats of shadow
And creeps incessantly 
In the barren alleys
When the hearsay of the sun crosses
The western sky
From the womb of the horizon
From bamboo grooves
From the meeting halls of villages
From running sewerage 
From balconies
From bungalows
From palaces
From castles
There sprout numerous streamlets
Of stinking vices
And immense wings of darkness
Interweaving itself
Make a hefty nest
On the blunt conscience of population
Where numerous tongues of desire
Getting algebraically multiplied
Every day in comparison to the last
Put a garland of upheaval
In the neck of silence
And there accumulate
Thousands years of old benevolence
Heritage of customs
And worn out dreams
Sparkles attached with gut
And taking fire in its gall
Slowly and steadily
Sky begins to shut in hut

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