#antitrump
ice is outside.
3 days to Christmas.
I never thought my home would be infected,
by the soul ******* racists.
(It shouldn’t be luck,
To be born white.)
They are down the street.
The Tim Hortons we visit every weekend.
They’re at the chipotle we almost went to.
They’re in front of my dad’s restaurant.
Dec 21, 2025
Dec 21, 2025 at 10:35 AM UTC
An open-form poem
We stand up and speak out, in voices scratchy and riddled with slang-we cry
“consent, consent and equal pay.”
Those older than us, scoff and pull our knees off the ground, they tear our signs and say,
“don’t you have another boy to throw away?”
“You don’t know your rights, who do you think you are? You work as a waitress and have acne, you must be mad to think your voice counts.”
But don’t forget to vote on Election Day.
“When I was your age I was steady- with a good job, a steady girl, and those loans paid off.”
“You are not steady, it’s because you are lazy. Too much sleep and rap music is what is making you unsteady.”
Pastors and preachers and priests, say this generation is violent and lazy
and video game sales have risen.
These kids have no sense of reality, they are emotional and gay and trans and lesbian
We cannot block their cries out any longer
Because they are us.
They are black and white and brown and feeling.
And they are us.
Our sisters, our brothers, our friends, our lovers,
our people are dying.
In shootings, hate crimes and in standing up.
“all these young people are killing the brick and mortar stores”
you are killing my people.
We have tasted reality and we will not hold back.
And we will stand. We will rise.
Our feet will be unsteady,
but we push
and pull
and advance.
No more we will be silent.
I have a dream.
If no man walked the streets, I’d wear a pretty dress at dusk and stargaze in the park.
But my fear of jeers and violence holds me back-
the dreaded “hey baby,” pounds in my head.
Let me wear a dress and let me not be catcalled.
“You cut your hair.”
“It’s just a phase to cut your hair.”
“What if your future husband likes long hair?”
“Are you trying to say something with that hair?”
“Boys don’t like girls with short hair.”
As sad as it is, my story is not unique, all my friends have a story like mine. We sit at tables and drink our nonalcoholic drinks, carefully watching for the man who saw us come in.
We share tips on how to fit our keys between our knuckles, on how the elbow will hurt the most, in
the face, stomach and groin.
We share our shame the ***** feeling after a man purposely touches your arm as you brush past him,
the shame you feel after you decline him, and he mocks you with words like
“you were ugly anyway.”
The shame you feel when he respects your instance that you have a boyfriend, more than he respects your right to say no.
The shame is better than the potential risk of him finding out you are single; a solo woman is easier than one who has a man.
“c’mon baby, I know you want it.”
A stubborn “no” makes him declare over you;
“prude, no man would love you anyway.”
The boys loved me until I learned to love myself.
And then I was labeled,
bossy.
stuck up.
prissy.
Then they grew up and found it enchanting.
A strong woman was desirable.
Attractive.
**** Alluring,
A challenge.
They loved it until they realized it wasn’t a front, that I wasn’t secretly insecure, they wanted me until they realized I didn’t need them.
I was raised in privilege. No gangs to fight, no mouths to feed, my rent was paid, and clothes bought new.
Am I untouched?
Has my white-fair skin erased for me, the everyday danger my brothers and sisters of color face?
bulimia,
anorexia
and blades
they will not touch me on this pedestal of privilege.
Isn’t that what they say?
You have good grades and both parents, depression and anxiety don’t hang out in the Hamptons
Our boys are starving- abs are easier obtained with lack of food, then with diet.
Let them be beautiful.
Let them be soft.
Let them be boys.
Shame on us for telling soft boys to “man up” when they cry and then raging when our husbands and boyfriends won’t show emotion.
We are a generation saying
No more.
This must stop.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
This is not how we will be.
We’re self-named, untamed, untouched, unridden.
Scandal. Closed doors and stilettos. Parking under street lamps and groups because there is safety in numbers.
Hiding their tears and fighting to prove they are men, toxic masculinity is all over them.
This generation of children is saying no more. We are labeled feminist, weak and selfish.
We are told
“don’t be so mean,”
“keep your pretty mouth shut,”
“you run like a girl,”
Weak, powerless.
Lazy, insecure.
Rebellious, fickle.
Ungrateful, unpatriotic.
These labels surround us.
But they are not us.
And we will stand. We will rise.
Our feet will be unsteady,
but we push
and pull
and advance.
No more we will be silent.
Paragraph of Explanation:
This poem is an open form poem in the style of Allen Ginsberg. I participate in a movement of using poetry as a voice for activism, hence this very political poem. To quote myself (is that even a thing) from my comments on the “what movement would you start/participate in” assignment; “Teenagers should be able to talk about social issues within the medium of literature without it being labeled as “angsty” or “moody.” This is a poetic rant against all the people who think that teenager’s opinions are not realistic or “real” opinions, on: toxic masculinity, school shootings, racism, bigotry, violence and sexism against women.
I used italics to showcase the lines that were supposed to be significant. I used alliteration, assonance, rhyme, allusion, slant rhyme and repetition. I quoted Martin Luther King's “I Have a Dream,” “and it occurs to that I am America” from Allen Ginsberg’s “America.” The “Knees off the ground” alluded to the peaceful protest of the NFL, “We’re self-named, untamed, untouched, unridden.” is from Moonlily by Marilyn Nelson. The scandal line is a nod to the recent rise in women speaking up concerning the harassment in Hollywood. Stilettos is for the issue of workplace harassment. And I have made my open form in the style of Allen Ginsberg and from a few modern poets who have written things concerning current politics.
It’s a call to raise our voices, that we will not be silenced, it’s a call to understand that we can change the world with our words and the fact that we will.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
Trump's covfefe
caused a kerfuffle.
The people's voice
cannot be muffled.
A real brouhaha...
The Emperor's absurd
and yet we hang
on every word
and he has every right
to coin a new word
to have his fits of logorrhea
to incinerate North Korea
to mock the handicapped, women, and blacks
to free the super-wealthy from tax
to trash the planet
rob the poor
make the rich richer
and do much more....
"President Trump"
is an oxymoron.
Donald the Chump
is a *****
Ooops, Pussy-Grabber's term has expired.
It's time to tell Trump:
"You're fired."
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
He's a bully. He's a goon.
He can't be gone too soon.
A sadistic megalomaniac
he would crush Forrest Gump
like a rotten tree stump
"because Forrest Gump is a loser, a sad pathetic little man
and I am a winner, the people love me, we have
an amazing relationship, just amazing."
If you swallowed all his lies
you will need a stomach pump.
If you believe his nationalist nonsense
you're a chump.
He surrounds himself with nepotistic relations
and wealthy cronies
and listens to them only.
Despite his empty promises
the Rust Belt is not going to
wake up from its slump any time soon.
Military spending (but not your real wages)
will take a huge jump.
The sooner he's dumped
the better off for all
though a right-wing Christian fundamentalist
is waiting in the wings
ready to take his place
and help the One Percent control the human race.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 2:44 PM UTC
The circus is here
For all of America and the world to experience.
Hats off to you, Mr. Clown
Seated in the Oval Office,
Juggling our country
As if it is a toy for your own amusement
Dropping ***** everywhere.
You sit there with arms crossed,
Your pockets full
Your heart depleted.
Rich in dollars
Poor in spirit.
You are the fool
Ready to jump from cliff to cliff
Taking our country with you,
Never looking back
To see the sewage you leave
In your muddy tracks.
You are the itching powder
That gives our country a scaly rash.
You are orange dye
In a well-preserved tube of poison
Ingested by fools
Rejected by those with common sense.
You pretend to love women
Secretly fearing them
Knowing that if it weren’t for a woman
You would not be here.
You, the all-powerful king would not exist
If it weren’t for a woman.
So, you must show them who is boss
Because you are so **** afraid of them,
Of your own loss of control.
You fill up your angry gut
With know-it-all tactics
And then you crap all over the sick
With your insurance plan for the rich.
You knock down people with preexisting conditions,
People that can’t afford a bottle of Insulin,
Heart surgery,
Cancer medication.
You knock down babies and children
Diagnosed with lifelong illnesses
They fall prey to your ugly world of disillusionment.
You help the insurance companies
Handing them a free pass,
a pass that lets people die
If their wallet isn’t deep enough.
You just nod in approval
As the large companies thrive
Murdering the sick with their indifference.
You know nothing about people
The people who make up this world
The people who count
And you blame everybody but yourself.
You bathe daily in your power
Yet you leave such a stench
An odor of greed,
Obnoxiousness,
Racism
and Homophobia.
You drip profusely with your own self-importance
As you clumsily trip over your giant orange ego
As it follows you everywhere
From tweet to tweet
From fiasco to fiasco.
You leave the public With jaws wide open
The White House becomes an unprofessional screening
For your larger-than-life Reality TV show
As you continually play games with our country and world.
We chuckle at the daily puppet show
At your do-gooders and cabinet members,
As they are dragged across the floor
Right into your madness
Hanging on for dear life
To your fickle coattails.
We watch daily
As you slowly implode from the inside out
Your ice-cold exterior doing little to reassure us
That you are not simply insane.
2017 Stacey Handler
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:22 AM UTC
♀ ♀ ♀
Hey you! In the vagina-hat,
frumpy feminist dressed in pink;
we men (what do you make of that)
would love to know just what you think.
We've heard of "ass-hats", anyway.
But we can see the other side:
it's orificial bombs away
as bridegrooms now behold the bride.
Gynecology on parade:
how weird. You think it makes your point?
It's more a vaginal charade,
and promises to disappoint.
You say your cap evokes your *****
feline foolishness, I say.
It's cat in bag when fems get fussy
showing patriarchs the way.
Show us yours and we'll show our own.
Well actually, it's kind of cold
to whip it out right here downtown...
We'll grant you this: you chicks are bold.
Your choice-aborted progeny,
disposed of in the clinic's trash,
might blame you for misogyny—
though spared the curse of diaper rash.
We'll keep abreast of all you do,
chanting, marching, fists in air...
yet still, you seem a silly crew
aflush with zeal (and ***** hair).
But must it always come to this:
biology devoid of God ?
Exteriorizing, hit and miss,
the secrets of your aging ***
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:42 AM UTC
#*Dedicated to the agitators of Oregon.
(We all want you to secede, baby !*)
Let it BURN while you feel the TRUMP.
I hope Soros pays you well for your efforts.
Here's my one-man backlash
to the whacked-out blacklight
of the whitelash blackout.
So don't try to whitewash the knockout,
blockheads.
¡ JUST SAY NO to one-world GLOBALISM !
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC