social commentary
There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
Iron Lungs
I stutter and spit and pressure forms a pit in the center of my chest and this pit is gauged, punched, wrenched, gouged, torn away from my slowly pumping arteries, arteries that ooze and eek and reek of desperation as my lungs inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale and my breathing is too fast and my brain loses track of time and my diaphragm misses a step and the beat is a staccato now and the tango and tap are forgotten in the midst of this attack. The pit keeps growing, growing and consuming the muscles and bones and soon they are decalcified and brittle and the pressure erupts and my lungs wheeze and whisper and I slip and slip and slip into the abyss opening behind my eyes as my bones are ground into a powder that floats away with my breath.
By Melynda Kloc3 years ago in Poets
Steamed Linens
Sites and sounds are sight and noise but not dreams. Sights in my mind, visions of the past, passed the past that passed my past to me. Visions filed away in flat files, in file faxes, in manila cabinets and folders and notecard boxes and there’s an indexed guide but I can’t find what I’m trying to find so I’m searching my brain and my brain is eating away at the manila mortar in my heart and in my eyes and my eyes are filled with stones that crinkle and crack and the dusty shards rumble down my cheeks and the peaks of my brain are avalanched into mesas and they’re manila and they’re pressed and repressed and I can’t see visions anymore. My eyelids are pressed and flattened and moistened and shattered and manila mesas hold notecard boxes and manila folders and manila cabinets and file faxes and flat files and I don’t see visions anymore I’m just daydreaming and they’re steaming, steaming, steaming the words and files and the ink oozes away and everything is manila. Manila, manila, repression is an art.
By Melynda Kloc3 years ago in Poets
R[H]ope
My hands are tingling when I wake up. They’re throbbing and aching and twitching and vibrating and tingling and they won’t stop. I’m laying on my back with my arms stretched towards the ceiling and my right eye won’t stop twitching and I’m staring and staring and waiting and hoping and praying that you won’t lay down next to me. My mind is a sunburnt peach, soft and sweet and angry and red and sharp and sore at the touch and your touch is too rough. I purse and unpurse my lips, open and close my mouth, open and close my eyes, expand and contract my lungs, and expand and contract and expand and contract and expand and contract and think about hope and how it might be real but hope is not a white light and hope is not a light and the end of a tunnel and hope is not alive and hope is not dead but hope is a rope and the rope is tied to the distant buildings and the distant shores and it feels more like yarn in my palms as I try to grasp firm grips, as I try to find the guide before I slip. Hope is a rope and the rope is tied to the distant buildings and the distant shores and I place my hands one over the other, right left, right, left, right and I can’t see more than my hands as the grasp and grip and slip and twist on this lead guiding me to the sea.
By Melynda Kloc3 years ago in Poets
