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Zywa Apr 15
The news, every day:

fires are burning in the streets --

right out of the hearts.
For Valentina 'Madam' Bruno
Frank Zappa Tribute band "2000 Motels"

Song "Trouble Every Day" (1965, The Mothers of Invention; album "Freak Out!", 1966)

Collection "Low gear"
kevin wright Dec 2021
Fell through the alligator’s snout
Picked his teeth clean out
Landed on a duelling banjo's tail

Herein a Minneapolis trail

Piously thumbed a black crested wave
Buffeted by the pick up from the bridge
Seized by turbulent string vibrations

Singing to survive; drowning in awkward silence

Cajoled and plucked on a tight-rope score
Pounding pain within lifes neck
Mics backfiring: boardwalkers selfless feedback

Toe tapping, heel thumping discontent

Fighting for humanity
Evil running through crashing cymbals
Miasmic lyrics pushing to survive

Trade winds heading south

Thrown ashore in the gutter
Soaked from harmonica to soul
A sliding quiver shackles societies skiffle

Now climb your fretboard to heavenly freedom

            Those who cannot breathe
                   Legislate in due measures: equal rights and respect
            Civilisations blues are out of tune

Levitate the knee of wilful contempt
its taken over a year to write this poem. I could not connect poetically with the terrible event with george floyd and the inequalities until i recently attended a blues festival.
John Gallant Nov 2021
Knotted work-boot laces diverted past
loop-holes clogged by Armani and Italian leather.
Minivans in traffic jams
on the limousine packed beltway...
workers scrounging for coins taking it's toll
as lawmakers are escorted 'round the booth.

Polishing marble floors scuffed by
lobbyists dragging heels in the capitol halls.
Unpaid lunch break doctor's visit...
out-of-pocket treatment leaving little dough
for evening bread, while freeloaders
eat cooked alive crustaceans and sip fizzy wine
after a toast to cutting the safety net.
Carlo C Gomez Sep 2021
She reads the flaxen paper on her wall,
sees its patterns,
touches them.

They project her confusion in cold chamber light.

Stained hands,
convoluted heartbeat,
she creeps into the wall's design.

"Hysteria every time she opens her mouth," said the doctor.
"Rest will cure her."

She is nostrum,
and not permitted
to participate in her own diagnosis.

A man decides how she is allowed to perceive
and speak about the world around her.

Next time you're alone, look quickly at the wallpaper.

Look for the patterns and lines and faces on the wall.

Look, if you can, for her, visible only
out of the corner of your eye...

The Young Poet Jun 2020
She stares into the mirror
A mirror so plain
Sits and ponders who to blame
Her father who fell in love with a black
Or her mother who fell in love with a white

She sits and stares analysing her face
Wishing she was from a different race
Although she was beautiful she hid from the world
Scared to show the real her

Only once the mirror shatters
Then people will see what truly matters
Philip Lawrence Apr 2021
In a stairwell, steps below the sidewalk, he huddled over a small flame that licked from a coffee can. He positioned himself to block the light to the street, and every so often he held a hand above the flame and quickly opened and closed his fingers. He stamped his feet in the snow, each time sending out a muffled whoosh when a shoe hit powder. He wiggled his fingers over the heat, and his mittens crackled when brought too close to the fire.
Across the street, a limestone building, a hotel, small, elegant, rose several stories high. Inside, on the ground floor, behind the belted velvet drapes, a cocktail lounge gleamed. A glistening mahogany bar ran the length of the room where guests disappeared into overstuffed chairs that were neatly placed in pairs and set against the arched, crystalline windows.

Inside the coolly lighted room, he watched a young woman with silky hair and sleepy eyes as she ran a finger around the rim of her drink. The woman glanced once at the silent snow falling in the dark. In the stairwell, he listened to the whisper of the fire and the beat of ice crystals as they fell against the steps.
Her genitalthe big "WHY"
Oh! She's born of a ******.
Her *******
a call to say"HI"
Her voicea well to exploit from.
And her physique
just to have fun.

Her gender role, no one questions
Even the feminists call for attention.
She keeps these, term uncultured.
She unseals these,  term a ****.

Obviously,  kissing is amazing.
Foreplay, Hnnnnn! So appealing.
Undoubtedly, *** is fascinating.
With pain,  how often she tries to fake the  moan.
She enjoys it much,  now a curse.

He walks up to her and says "I love you."
She believes him, he sounds so true.
He lores her to bed_ already in her loo.
When the stomach starts to push through,
He says to hell with you.

Fifteen minutes of pleasure.
Nine solid months in seizure.
Some days in the hospital.
A child without a paternal name. Isn't that fatal?
Such of a child a *******.
And the mother, a *****, who deserves not a ballad.
This poem simply depicts the vulnerability of the female gender and often they earn the blame game at every end of ****** displeasure to them
they're living in flowers
up high and across the sea

while we avoid potholes
and bugs just to scrape by
Penny Z Mar 2021
You tear our kind away,
those pesky weeds        
                                    that stunt
your plump full seeds  -
that steal and cause decay.
You landed by fortune,
fortune of the windy chance -
you earned it. What is different is dangerous
less valued - not worth a glance.

Warm soil in-between your fingers,
You have power here in the garden,
Pulling and wrenching the stems from
We’re unwanted, not needed
Not useful, not beautiful,
Not enough,
                      but too much.

Strong weathered fingers grip our necks,
Trampled under steel studded boots,
We seep into the soil disappearing,
Just like you wanted us to.
Suffocating ignored as grassroots,
condemned to be always taboo.

Weeding is good, you say.
Weeding is important.
It keeps the garden healthy, comely,
We’re the intruders, thieves!
in search for better light.
Worn down we grieve.
why do you see not our might?

A garden improved

Standing up I arch my back,
rusty and cramped.
Tiresome work removing the
My hands scratched and torn,
the limp bodies neatly packed,
the garden is reborn.

The flora look uniform now
no insulting dark stems,
only the long strong boughs
of rightful King Oak,

and no more of them.

But a king without his subjects is a peasant.
With our loss fades your treasured soil,
your sterling root networks anchoring your  
flowerbeds of wealth.
We are the pests,
we stole your soil,
so why does it grow grey?
You wanted growth
I heard you say.
You can’t have both.

What a nuisance.
Us or the decay?

So I am a pest, you say?
Well, to that I say, we pests always grow.
Your tulips and rose corrode,
but you reap what you sow.
No matter the hate that spits our existence,
the sharp teeth of the chainsaw or
poisonous pesticide bidding good riddance,
we are green, and life sustaining, and we are resistant.

The aim is not good riddance,
but co-existence.
An allegorical poem on the importance of assimilation of differences rather than separation
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