"marchers" poems
complexity bias
how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex
poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews
Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%
perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -
give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences
I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces, you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied
25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born
there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future
this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden
my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder
my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under
so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority
you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions
resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length
compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
The marchers make their way today
through town to Cardiff Bay
with whistles, shouts and banners up
for sweet old Mary Jane
they're marching for her freedom
all ages, colours, creeds
have come in joyful spirits
to help us free the ****
The rich, the poor, the movers and shakers
the blowback kings and part-time partakers
the rollers, the tokers, the bongers and such
the teenage goth stoners who've had way too much
skin up as they march while making their point
and meet up with new friends while sharing a joint.
Then down at the bay side
when the bands start to play
they'll **** in the sunshine
till the end of the day.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
i’ve long dreamt
of black flags in the streets
tonight i marched beneath
the shadow of their wings
shoulder-to-shoulder
in hope and solidarity
an anarchist professor
with a climate change activist
an independent journalist
and one of my students
as mid-November winds tugged
at her pink-and-brunette hair
she lifted a hand-drawn sign
of a gigantic sneaker
smashing a ****
and i felt
for not the first time
an enormous sense of pride
how humbling to at once
inspire and be inspired by
an eighteen-year-old
punk and artist
who asked to borrow
The Moral Imperative of Revolt
two scant months ago
then took to the streets
to oppose and depose
a twisted fascist virtuoso
for two whole hours
we hundreds owned the streets
we marched down Rosalind
Central and Orange Avenue
as protest slogans rang angelic
we raised hell and found heaven
in liberty equality and solidarity
but then the pigs closed in
cordoned to Lake Eola
to scream acquiescent rhetoric
at the fish sleeping
blissful in their innocence
beneath the jet black surface
a half-dozen cops in riot gear
astride horses loomed
ominous before us
backlit by the headlights
of the aggravated motorists
our march had forestalled
as the people abandoned the streets
we’d won so easily
i felt my chest wilt beneath
the weight of forsaken opportunity
my eyes scanned the remaining crowd
four stood strong
rooted to the concrete
by the world's weight
anchored by conviction
an anarchist professor
an independent journalist
a climate change activist
and a freshman college student
i heard the professor whisper to his student
i heard him say she'd put herself in harm’s way
that they'd lost the day when the marchers
turned their backs and walked away
but she didn’t flinch or move an inch
she stood silent and vigilant
shoulder-to-shoulder
chin held almost as high
as her Nazi-smashing protest sign
and her matching middle finger
and in that moment
i could’ve died
smiling
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
Close-mouthed you sat five thousand years and never
let out a whisper.
Processions came by, marchers, asking questions you
answered with grey eyes never blinking, shut lips
never talking.
Not one croak of anything you know has come from your
cat crouch of ages.
I am one of those who know all you know and I keep my
questions: I know the answers you hold.
2.6k
Ebony.
Skin smooth as silk.
A yellow tint or cocoa hue.
You do not experience what we do.
Being viewed as the enemy is imminent.
And it's evident, that the color ebony's negative connotation is remnant.
Of a past connection to Nubian kings & queens--
Stripped of their crowns.
A piece seen, in my name.
No...it is not fabricated, but actually holds meaning.
It's the closest thing I got to my slave ancestors.
Stop trying to degrade me...
And chain me, with your everyday preconceptions.
The concept that I'm beneath you, when the foundation of this nation and slave bones lie beneath you.
Looking out your peripheral, unspoken prejudice fabricated.
Wondering how I'm dressed respectably, like "That's an expensive fabric, ain't it?"
Cause the last time it caught your eye, my ancestors were picking it.
When you see me hold my head high, you feel the right to question it.
But I already told you, it's a new day
Don't saturate this generation with racism
Like you did civil rights marchers with hoses.
We've come a long way, but I still have a question for you...
If God holds all humans in the same regard,
Then why is accepting the color ebony so hard?
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
The following is what you make of a stranger’s ramblings
Now the cop
who ignores the lights is out the next day giving tickets
the sky does not turn black with an honest **** in a hit and run
the sky starts to melt when you and I refuse to think cause survival!
We are so busy trying to survive that we let everyone else die!
Are we given enough problems to only be able to carry for so many of others?
The doctor earning boat loads of money needs to make sure
that he can survive on his retirement funds!
Why are our problems blown up so much,
I get it they are close so the look big but the sky is falling and we
are busy looking for the remote!
Was the world designed in a way where learning of others problems
is always the straw that snaps the camels back?
Where we always have enough problems to only be able to
carry so many of others?
I’m no Titan.
I have seen myself flattened against the sky and ground
hearing stories of cruel smiles and I have minimal problems
that I can honestly claim as my own or as problems.
The world is going to explode and we will be bickering about who
should have been guarding the gate as a trigger is pressed against our face!
It’s not too late or I would have killed myself or made love then killed myself.
Our problems are not even the center of an atom.
They are often the same one, so instead of looking at them individually why not
attack the chain?
It is hard to believe in non-violence.
Honestly is humanity slowly turning the earth from something
that could have been the back-drop of heaven into the welcome gate for hell?
Strangers are what you make them to be!
Stop hating each other! You don’t need like each other
just know that they are humans so they have encountered magic
a magic that would have lit up your world the way fireworks explode
against the city-scape.
Also know that you and I and the stranger down the street
have all embodied a devil at it’s worst and a saint all
without being fully aware.
An angel never knew it was an angel only others did
a devil can see themself.
This is a call to arms just not guns
this a call to boycott, to call others to march with you
a lone marcher is a crazy a thousand lone marchers together we are
something.
The time to hit the gas was years ago.
Your own problems might get worse but they die and defeating
others problems is immortal.
This was what you make a stranger’s ramblings.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
I witness
the marching armies,
some trudging through the sludge of slaughter,
some gliding as if on polished glass
others flying on sympathetic currents
few faithfully, but ALL fatefully, moving
onward, to the deep sleep
like a mute director in life’s one act play
I watch many in their final moments
some in stillness so sweet
my camera gently weeps ( though not I)
others I record being ripped apart
in metal madness, yet
I don’t blink an eye
even while wiping the
blood from my hands
you, Robert, music maker at heart,
meat cutter by trade, scored my lens
leaving it forever altered
I knew you, a year younger than I,
I saw you, beaten down
by the grave gravity
we cherish yet dread,
you, trudging through
the slaughter, one
of the harshly humbled,
you, found the right rope
and your wife found you
on a Sunday morning,
hanging
in the garage,
your letter to the world the clang
of the alarm that woke her
and hastened her slow march
to the church, where other directors
took over the filming, and
closed the curtain, after
the final choking act
I cannot miss you
I,
(who only wistfully recall
the millions of marchers near and far)
felt your Sunday sojourn
**** the air from my lungs
I can only be grateful
your living and dying
made me feel
the palled pain
and undying dread
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
You're daring enough to have ventured into the night,
he sounded delirious in the wispy light.
Half a mile across the lagoon
moondrunk Ridleys in ghostly shadows
would be digging holes in the sands
to lay their lives for posterity
away from the phosphoric melody
leaving the orphaned to find their way
once the shells cracked under silica.
They look like a procession of mourners,
the man whispered between strokes of oars
sloshing the rising tides of the channel
his deft hands rowing the fastest
cutting across the half mile to Cuthbert Bay.
The night ripened enough by that time
unfolded the crawling shadows from the sea
slowing time in frameshot motions
of rows of celebrating marchers.
Dead of night the stars were burning out
and I called out to the boatman.
To this day I don't believe what I heard.
None was ever ferried back by the boatman.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Last night I had a dream about a poem..
I woke up and forgot it...
But it was only meant to inspire me to write about it...
You know deep thoughts and dreams....
The ones we never share....
The world would be a better place if ya'll think like I do...
But it seems like ya'll don't even care....
Ya'll just want to complain about how this life isn't fair...
While all I want to do is write all my thoughts on a page and share...
Hoping I make you see what I see...
If life has a set path...
I'm just trying to figure out my destiny...
Trying to turn my pains into pleasure...
My tears into treasure...
So I dreamed about a poem...
I think that poem was about Peace...
Serenity...
& Tranquility...
But that dream was out of reach....
It's seems it was right up there with Luther's...
When they killed him the marchers became looters...
Which tells me it's dangerous to dream...
But if I didn't dream....
I'd be stuck in this world...
Where not God but the devil is king...
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
Dolefully trudge to my chamber this night.
Carrying burden of this inimical plight.
Scrawling as a means to drop this weight light.
But alas, who will read these words that I write?
....................................................................
Heaven in a dark place.
Jokers with no face.
Not a moment free yet not a thing to do.
The theif paints his cell wall.
With crushed plants and they fall.
Ivory clouds speckle the sky of blue.
Deep in the brain stem.
A bulb burning light dim.
Wallows the roots of everything once feared.
Blind marchers guiding.
Hunters found hiding.
Messy brigade leaves the ruins cleared.
Time will move on and on and on and on and on you too soon.
By the time eyes adjust to the sun you'll be seeing the moon.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
"Not my president!"
The protesters incant
As they take to the streets.
We hear them loudly chant,
"Not my president!"
In cities nationwide
Their voices all in unison
Become amplified.
"Not my president!"
The marchers hold in disdain
Recent election results.
The ongoing refrain
"Not my president!"
Echoes across the nation,
As demonstrators express
Their cries of protestation.
"Not my president!"
What makes democracy great
Is we have the right to vote
And the right to demonstrate.
(11-10-16)
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
*If an impeccable ally is false or the implacable ingrate
Resolved to ruin or rule our combined fate
Or to encompass us with the blood oath bonds they've taken
The pillars of our safety shall forever be shaken,
A jilted child removed from a foreigner awakened.
Then seized with fear, yet affecting fame,
Usurped by an intruder’s unatoned name.
So easy still it proves in falsely factious times
With public zeal to cancel their most private of crimes.
How safe is treason and how sacred it’s ill,
Where not even a child is safe to be free at will.
Where evil marchers are all hoodwinked and their offences not be known,
Since in each other’s guilt - they confuse and hide their own.
Yet their fame is undeserved, for I am their enemy with a giant grudge
Once a child that they abhorred, but praise be – I am now their judge.
In my court they sit for me to annihilate their scheme
With my discerning eyes, with these hands that are bloodlessly clean.
Unbribed, unsought, these wretches I redress -
Swift to dispatch them to ease the victim’s distress.
Oh, some call me a heartless hanging judge,
As I dispense my medicine on this vile blood thirsty sludge.
But had I the ownership of these evil souls freed
I’d hang these oppressors twice hoping to redeem their evil seed.
A hanging judge I’m truly not, I’m just a historian in love
Setting heaven straight for the one I serve, the true guardian above.*
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 2:07 PM UTC
In heaven’s swag, with blazing stars,
A land swept swell with human blood,
An Asian land bode stripes and bars,
With pledges so misunderstood.
Cast fare to those we honor most,
Sad travesty of total price,
Yet watch as politician’s boast
Of sanctity, and sacrifice.
Beyond a bank of river gray,
A whisper vessel makes its way
Down to a tributary slow,
To where the precious paddies grow.
So sweet the fragrance of the flowers,
And tempted just to pass the hours
To dream of days, with want to roam
Upon a landscape they called home.
So swiftly blast the cannon’s breath.
Our gallant sailors feared for naught,
Still, in a heartbeat, they found death,
Where freedom was but what they sought.
And scarcely had the loyal spent
The wisdom of their innocence,
Came protest marchers, so hell bent
To demonstrate their arrogance.
And yet a soldier’s wife looks on
To where her precious love has gone
To fight, where he may justly win,
But never see her face again.
I watch the demons’ wrath come spew
Upon the many, and the few,
Still, in the end, they’ll lose the fight,
God’s mighty hand preserves the right.
Let’s place their honor in our hearts,
Those gallant souls who lead the way,
That even cowards know to say,
They died so we may live to pray.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
The bullet grazed my leg
Just a flesh wound
Was it my fault
Did I instigate inflammatory vitriol
Should I apologize for my free associations
The way my pen glides across the page
To the core of dissension
Perhaps it was my skirt
Was it too tight, too short
Hugging the curves of my body
Making you hot and thirsty
The freedom of Alvin Alley dancers
With their legs spread
Opening the flow of free expression
Dancing to the voice of Maya Angelou
The seekers, the marchers, the painters,
The writers
All refugees like me
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
Alternative facts, fallacious assumptions,
And false equivalency are stunning
As Donald Trump, Kellyanne Conjob,
And Sean Spicer hit the ground running.
Regarding the Bowling Green Massacre, Conjob
Said she'd misspoken. Not a crime.
However, the last time she said it, she'd
Misspoken her "fact" for the third time.
What about Spicer's outlandish statement
That recent marchers were paid? What's FUNNY is
No one paid me a cent to march.
I want to know where my MONEY is.
Trump said the "dishonest" press
Once again has been refusing
To publish reports of recent attacks
By terrorists here. Very amusing!
Imagine our press NOT covering
Most attacks here and abroad!
Another of Trump's alternative facts
Like the one on voter fraud.
This disconnection from the truth--
This constant need to fictionalize--
Doesn't bode well for this country.
When are they going to dispense with these lies?
- by Bob B (2-7-17)
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
I don't know why headless gargoyles
suddenly came to my mind
they terrified me then and now
it made me ask myself, why...how,
some people see beauty in them
...when to me, they look utterly scary...
i wondered about Venus de Milo,
why show an almost **** gorgeous body, with
no arms....could there be beauty in cut arms?
why do i dwell on these things.......when
there's nothing heroic about these two?
i should be grateful, for yesterday's
family bonding with someone who retired
from the navy...for talks about experiences,
government, hiroshima, and nuclear bombs,
moments of reminiscing, strumming and
jamming...sharing good food and laughter.
i did thank God.....
today is labor day...and images of years back,
thoughts of fearful days come back.
i watched past violent rallies on tv...saw some
kinds of marchers, those with unfocused eyes
ready to die....those faithless ones, with their
own agenda, disregading innocent victims.
in every protest march...not all participants,
share the same cause...some are users,
some are blinded by their lost causes...not
all those honored did heroic acts, and deserve
sweet praises, folded flags and gun salutes...
not all heroes......are true heroes....
my heart goes out to those real heroes.
Sally
Copyright May 1, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 4:06 AM UTC
Can you have decent political opinions and still be a bad person?
I'm asking for a friend
How much theory does it take to build up the courage to stand in a protest?
Does a bandana covering your face make you a coward or does it make you careful?
See my friend knows which side he stands on
But when he looks in the mirror there seems to be a different person on each side
The most direct action he takes is sitting alone reading Marx
He's never left the sidelines long enough to understand the front lines
Dignity and freedom are nothing more than dictionary definitions
Liberation is too hard to grasp
He wants to know if it's ok to be timid when the marchers pass him by
If it's ok to doubt his own strength
My friend spends too much time driving around singing folk punk anarchist hymns
And not enough time living the lyrics
Deep down inside he is still afraid of what people will say about him
He hates that he can be so self centered
He usually doesn't wash his dishes
My friend talks about shedding chains when he never really had that many to start with
He asks if anarchists are allowed to watch shows about cops
He wants to know if anyone will ever truly see him as an ally
Every night I take a moment to tell him not to be so afraid of taking the stand
That what he thinks will only go so far as what he does
My friend wants everyone to live in a better world and he wants to be a better person
I tell him that no one will hear you until you yell loud enough
I tell him that the there's no better place to stand than where he is
He knows better than to give up
He knows he is enough
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
Blow backs left right,
flowing from the up-side
sphere of my down-facing
brain.
Cluttered pages of a book-mind,
the junk of thought-pages,
with doodles on the lined edges.
and the corners dog-eared.
Peering through the eyeglass
of the head, one finds a circus
of impulses, a parade of thought-beams
bouncing and pinging off the skull-wall.
Mindless and formless shapes,
of squares and circles, and
more strange formations begin
to come to a discombobulated life.
Shaped by stray desires,
and flaming envy-fires,
and raging dream-embers,
the circus is coming to town.
The clowns paint their faces,
the elephants don their dresses,
the trapezists prepare their rope,
the ringmasters ring their voice
the typewriters begin their dance.
The Parade of Impulses has commenced,
the ringing-pinging-tinging of the bells,
the clanging-banging-jangling of the drums,
the crashing-bashing-thrashing of the cymbals.
The Kingdom of Noise, of discordant sound,
and disjointed spasms proceeds, the
cats and rats and bats stepping out of tune,
the chairs, stairs, and the mares march
to the beat of a spastic, spastic thought-drum.
Gingerbread snaps skip the sweet fandango,
while tangerines and woodwinds play
their **** tunes and the dinosaurs of dixie
tap and sway from side to side.
Paperclips and staples sing Blue Velvet,
while the idol warbles with a Golden Flute,
and the bulldog grins widely and wildly,
playing his 8-bit accordion-tambourine.
Behold the procession of business-men
and cat-women as they are swept into
the noise-sounds, and the thought-images.
What draws them in? the feeling or the fire,
the lust or the raging desire?
The beat goes on, as does the noise,
the pitch rises on, as does the fervor,
soon the soundless static stacks,
buzzing-fuzzing-wuzzing slowly louder.
The marchers march, and the players play,
the steppers step, and the band bandies,
the parade parades, and the mind
snaps.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
....................................................................
Dolefully trudge to my chamber this night.
Carrying burden of this inimical plight.
Scrawling as a means to drop this weight light.
But alas, who will read these words that I write?
....................................................................
Heaven in a dark place.
Jokers with no face.
Not a moment free yet not a thing to do.
The theif paints his cell walls.
With crushed plants and it falls.
Ivory clouds speckle the sky of blue.
Deep in the brain stem.
A bulb burning light dim.
Wallows the roots of everything once feared.
Blind marchers guiding.
Hunters found hiding.
Messy brigade leaves the ruins cleared.
Time will move on and on and on and on and on you too soon.
By the time your eyes adjust to the sun you'll be seeing the moon.
....................................................................
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 5:39 PM UTC
Kindred transformation
correlates experience
to my canidae companion
life is a pit bull husky mix
loyal roamer fierce friend
running through thorn bushes
in the hushed hilly countryside
unaware of speeding cars
and demonic dog catchers
populating the arachnid cityscape.
I chase a rabbit to said city
keeping my dog head with me
so I can only see in black and white
a transformative color palette
allowing an allowance for my breed
to take the maximum instead of its needs.
A dastardly deal is done in daylight
for spiders to be dogs
and dogs, spiders
splitting spoils
of both species syndicating society
by painfully punishing unfamiliar families.
Four legged frenzy in my feet fortifies me
from eight legged monsters in the street
slinging webs of concrete—
a wanderer's kennel terrifying terrarium
trapping wasps and butterflies
masticating maliciously
reproducing rapidly
trap door spiders create black widows
and envelope stray dogs in white cloaks.
My vigilance guides serpentine movement
strafing from treacherous entanglement
of the tarantula treaty offering silk
cocoons claimed to be for safety
at the price of my mobility.
I must return to the warm
glow that helps me see
even if that means
crawling through the sewers
and eating from the trash
to emerge from the thorn bushes
that tear off my jackal costume
as the sun cleanses my wounds
uncovering cloud counting capability
accumulating cumulus compatriots
and oak marchers waving green flags
showing they can prosper with tranquility
but these flags draw insects that eat contentedly
until there's enough ingesting in sects to draw spiders.
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 11:23 PM UTC
Wednesday, 14th of February 2018, 7.00pm,
" breaking news, a mass-shooting happened today in Florida, American authorities are calling this the worst school shooting in U.S.A's history "
6 minutes and 20 seconds,
That's all it took,
17 confirmed dead,
15 injured,
Countless more lives ruined,
All in under 10 minutes,
No parent should ever have to hug their child,
So tight,
Just because it might be the last time they'll ever say goodbye,
No kid should ever have to be afraid of their school hallway,
Or be afraid of who's standing in the classroom doorway,
No kid should ever wonder if this day will be their last,
And no parent should ever have to bury their kid,
Six feet out of their reach,
So this is for Scott,
And for Alyssa,
For Martin,
And for Nicholas,
Not forgetting Aaron,
This goes to Chris,
And Luke,
For Cara,
And for Gina,
Joaquin and Alaina,
Meadow, Helena, and Alex,
Carmen and Peter,
You are all in our hearts,
Let's face it,
The Floridian community of Douglas,
Will never go back to " normal "
So, Washington? Trump?
Riddle us this?
When is this going to be added to your list of " proud American traditions "?
There are too many heavy hearts,
Too many dark days,
Too much chaos and confusion,
For this to be swept under the carpet again,
Just like the last time,
We aren't even a quarter of the way into 2018,
Yet there has been over 30 mass-shootings since the beginning of January,
So here's to the people who aren't accepting the truth,
Who are too " confused " to realize what's going on,
For the people who haven't woken up to the fact,
That there were unidentified bodies,
Sitting cold in that school for over 24-hours,
And do not tell me I am too young to know what I'm talking to you about,
I stand alongside Emma Gonzalez, and the hundreds of young people across the globe,
This isn't just for our lives,
This is for everyone's lives,
Since when did " don't shoot nice people " become such a controversial statement?
Since when did school safety become a debatable, two-sided matter?
So I will join my fellow marchers,
And yell loudly and unapologetically,
Until they hear our voices,
In the words of Emma Gonzalez,
Adults like it when we have strong test scores,
But not when we have strong opinions,
We are Marching For Our Lives,
And this is our legacy.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
They marched together; they marched strong,
With flags, signs, and banners waving.
They marched in sun, snow, and rain
To speak out for rights and causes worth saving.
The Women's March on Washington
Became a world phenomenon
Occurring in seven continents.
May the powerful memory live on!
Women, men, and children with
Determination undeterred
Peacefully rallied together,
Letting their mighty voices be heard.
Echoing through the cities' canyons
And filling city parks and squares,
Their voices loudly demanded that leaders
Listen to democracy's heirs.
When people's rights are under attack,
When greed-driven politicians
Bow to Wall Street and corporations,
Ignoring the struggling people's petitions,
The people then must raise their voices
And hope that their peaceful protest starts
A major shift in understanding--
A positive change in lawmakers' hearts.
The protesters clearly spoke:
We must protect democracy
From the threatening ravages
Of plutoc-, corpoc-, or kakistocracy.
Onward, marchers. Don't give up.
You have a voice; let it ring
From east to west, from north to south.
Sing out, people! Sing! Sing!
- by Bob B (1-22-17)
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
They marched together; they marched strong,
With flags, signs, and banners waving.
They marched in sun, snow, and rain
To speak out for rights and causes worth saving.
The Women's March on Washington
Became a world phenomenon
Occurring on seven continents.
May the powerful memory live on!
Women, men, and children with
Determination undeterred
Peacefully rallied together,
Letting their mighty voices be heard.
Echoing through the cities' canyons
And filling city parks and squares,
Their voices loudly demanded that leaders
Listen to democracy's heirs.
When people's rights are under attack,
When greed-driven politicians
Bow to Wall Street and corporations,
Ignoring the struggling people's petitions,
The people then must raise their voices
And hope that their peaceful protest starts
A major shift in understanding--
A positive change in lawmakers' hearts.
The protesters clearly spoke:
We must protect democracy
From the threatening ravages
Of plutoc-, corpoc-, or kakistocracy.
They'll march again in 2018.
They'll march to show that it has never
Been more urgent, for now there are
More reasons to march than ever.
Onward, marchers. Don't give up.
You have a voice; let it ring
From east to west, from north to south.
Sing out, people! Sing! Sing!
(1-22-17, 1-13-18) By Bob B
*This is an update and reposting of my Jan 2017 poem
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC