"bullhorn" poems
i chew my cheeks when
i'm nervous and lately
they've been raw
i feel like a train wreck
in progress and everybody's
just stopped for the show
the help i need is so close and
if i had a voice i'd use it but
**** it, it gets so hard to
talk through the voices
of the people in front
of me and the ones
between my ears
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
a fire truck blasts its bullhorn on the highway
an ambulance siren follows right behind him
I think about the dragster I heard five minutes ago
I take a drink
look out the window
and think it’s such a beautiful day
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 5:55 AM UTC
Once said
A wee whisper
A mere seedling
Broadcast into
A harvest of hate
A bullhorn of bull
Once weeded out
But did not eradicate
Muffled
But not silenced
The harvest is back
Verdant fields of lie’s
Grow wild among us
Words of hate printed out
Pressing on the impressionable
Tearing down tolerance
Breaking down brotherhood
Building up walls of isolation
Closing doors to sanctuary
We MUST head off hate
Tear down those walls
of ignorance
Blow open the doors to wisdom
Smear the words of war
And SCREAM...
NEVER EVER AGAIN!!!
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 11:44 PM UTC
She held a bullhorn
To his ear
And being deaf
He could not hear.
And she decried
All of his wrongs
which to his ears
were lovers songs.
She cursed him
For his tardiness
To him, his head
she seemed to bless.
She cried he was a
lazy dog.
To him, she prayed
as though to God.
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 9:03 AM UTC
Benevolence becomes the fanciful
fawned goodwill without price
a myth pursued but never found
pain mistook for sunshine
these lies projected to collect
power gained by those who lie
told by those who were not there
lobbyists with a bullhorn
propagandists of selfishness
invoicing charity to imbue
bank accounts outside of cheer
only cynics would rejoice
the calming smile hides the knife
held out of sight just in case
the doom is spotted by the dolts
look to the leer of friendship
favor given for all to view
while suffering pays the bills
self-sacrifice is assumed
anticipated from the rich
forget this fib if you’re sane
generosity is still there
taxing blood from the stones
this is the truth when fiction fails.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180914.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small he has to ***** them on—
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.
In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.
Galway Kinnell, “After Making Love We Hear Footsteps” from Three Books. Copyright © 2002 by Galway Kinnell.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
What's your headline for the week?
What's your game-plan this time?
What cause are you fighting for?
Grab your bullhorn and get in line.
What bandwagon are you riding on?
What views are you speaking now?
What protest will you picket?
What new beliefs have you found?
Tell me why you fully commit
to things that normally wouldn't mean ****
Speaking about this, that, and those
Issues-of-the-month is the life you've chose.
You can't seem to embrace your past
So now you're a bandwagon type-cast
What's your overall goal here?
What's in this for you?
What possibly would make you change?
Which life are you going to choose?
Why are you lying to yourself?
Why do you keep up this rouse?
Why am I even caring?
It's been 8 years since I loved you.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
I say things above my son when he is underwater. I say things in a rage. I pretend I am nearby the brother I am closest to. he would forgive me. my body has always been outdated. my son’s body is plinked. not unlike a piano beside which siblings hug. there is a sorrow I’ve forgotten. not unlike the recording equipment one leaves in a dream. it is a stretch, the tornado siren momentarily belonging to a church bell. more of one that my son is a cracked bullhorn. ghost town debris.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
a first
family has
never ending
wilt this
statistician's score
and old
yeller on
top of
the scene
there with
his bullhorn
only there
to shout
as his
tweets mount
across the
inteenet dial
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
it's rained every day
since i got here
the soothing
sound of rain
showering a forest's leaves
accompanies
the thought of you
and so i ache
in the face
of such peace and familiarity
i wonder what
the thought of me
feels like
to you
half a world away
accompanied
by a sunny breeze off the bosporus
by your native tongue
by your mother's gaze
if i was there
with you
i'd whisper softly
that the river of my love will never run dry
i'd whisper that you are heaven
but since i'm not
i hope the thought of me claws
into your skull
i hope that it gives a bullhorn to the voice
of your guilt
so that the next time you see me
you'll know
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC
I fell asleep in the branches of a cypress tree,
while I heard the barks of the hounds that are after me.
In my dreams I flew away on golden wings,
but a bullhorn brought me back to reality.
"We know that you're up there.
We know that you're hurt.
Why don't you climb down and let us treat your wounds."
"I'm comfortable here,
and halfway to the moon.
Why don't you **** off?
I won't be down anytime soon."
"We're here because your family is worried about you.
They don't know where you are.
We're here to help you!"
"Nothing you say can help me now!
I'm here to stay; I'm not coming down!"
I hope skunk ape comes to tear you apart.
Serves you right for trespassing in his swamp.
Leave me alone,
my problems are my own.
I hope the ghost of Osceola comes to haunt your home.
"We're not going to leave.
Climb down while you can.
Don't make us come up there.
We can force this to end."
He climbed down all ****** with holes in his pants.
They arrested him on charges of public disturbance.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Dog Whistle Don
Who was privileged born
Would that he be gone
Than we be left to morn
Another senseless death
Or comfort the bereft
Because a shooting fest
Created the distress
Dog Whistle Don
Pretends to be forlorn
When innocents are gone
And their lives are torn
From mayhem or ******
But nothing’s more absurder
Than his false sympathy
Cuz as everyone can see
He lacks true empathy
Dog whistle Don
Spouts his rhetoric
Like words tend not to stick
Or attract the sick
That no good such and such
Uses rallies as a crutch
And as long as he’s untouched
He don’t care that much
Dog Whistle Don
Was worthy of our scorn
From the day he was born
His mouth’s been a bullhorn
Inciting crowds to violence
And that the press be silenced
Because of his reliance
On mass compliance
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 5:35 AM UTC
Apathy is dead.
Gone are the days of no longer giving a ****
Caring is what's in now.
Down is the new up.
*To be recited while standing atop a table
in the middle of the room
during a party.*
Clocks are spinning backwards.
The midnight hour never struck.
Turning pages left to wright.
Down is the New up.
*To be yelled out in a library
from the top of a bookshelf
in the History section.*
The broken down and beaten;
the wounded, burned, and cut.
We are not defeated.
Down is the New Up.
*To be blared over the PA system
in the Emergency Room of a hospital
after a massacre.*
A conjoining of festered faiths.
A mutant monster made from a million parts.
A rolling tide that turns tsunami in a sea of tortured hearts.
One colossal cosmic shift.
A sun born from the dark.
Falling up from the bottom and rising down from the top.
A monumental force that cannot be stopped.
*To be shouted through a bullhorn
in the center of the city
during a riot.*
Down Is The New Up!
DOWN IS THE NEW UP!!
DOWN IS THE NEW UP!!!
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC