social commentary
There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
'Tis the Season
'Tis the season, 'tis the season for a rhyme of little reason - so, without a long delay let us go and let us play. Dear Santa, we've been better both in spirit and in letter, something must be in the air here and there and everywhere. First, let's talk about inflation - all across our tired nation we've been watching prices rise with our shut wide open eyes. Politics... don't get me started, it's an armpit that has farted and has cursed itself a jinx - in a word, it simply stinks. Charles the Third is being crowned, and, because the world is round, Cromwells all across the world talk about the days of old. What is going on with Putin - he is now worse than gluten, sugar, alcohol and fat, how has he managed that? Football (also known as soccer) was the wildest game of poker, but at least the final game tried to reignite the flame. And as Covid sits in waiting for encore we are debating masks and shots and all that stuff - have we not been sick enough? Biden, Trump and Musk and twitter - dear Santa, drop the glitter, bring us coal to beat the cold. Warmly (coldly?) signed: the world.
By Vadim Kagan3 years ago in Poets
up with yourself.
lilith and chiron fused by gemini, yelling from the eleventh house down, squared off with the id and the ego, and staring down desire for revolution of any scale as long as it's eternal; on my own, hansel and grettleing endless breadcrumbs and splenda in the ethers and dreamscapes until i still; realize something about this trail isnât right. third-eye sightseeing; my soul isnât lost just because my body hasnât been home in a while. too otherwise occupied, busy discovering mysteries looking in the darkest of places, wide and far, low and high in the great in-between. damn near the stars- outer space and back to ground, the abyss of bottomless, defiant emotions defined- time after time after this time will be different, i can feel it. because i go wilder for how low this hopeless cause can sink. it really turns me on when you donât spare the abuse, when you talk to me with such bitter disgust of your tongue. just like i'm trash because i'll gladly be some other manâs treasure- in alternative terms, i love me. i know when to at the very least; i'm golden. you can have my tears, but my heart just wants to be broken into even more pieces so thereâs more to go around. no secrets about it so donât tell me you think you know how i should feel. your point of view of who i am isnât me so who you think i should be is just a fantasy, and thatâs that- nothing is stopping you; yet you can't seem to take that as your own nor up with yourself. as long as you can't, your truth and the realities left behind will stay irreconciled; i am a man who can be made more whole by leaving little bits of who he isn't but wants to be in the past for who he will be to be grateful for who he was.
By â¸jason alanâ˝3 years ago in Poets
The Waiting Game
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. She was not allowed to not look outside the window, she must never know the full truth. The world beneath was forbidden, poisoned, tainted and cruel, for a world so big so vast, for a delicate woman so small. A fair-faced child born out of the darkness, living a life of lies. How long will she wait for change? Until the day she dies?
By Rosie J. Sargent3 years ago in Poets
