"protester" poems
NIETZCHE YOU ****
YOU'VE RUINED MY LIFE
I was once so innocent Without You.
Now I can hardly contemplate the light of day
from staring into the abyss for so long.
How can I ever forgive you?
Cynic-master, who taught me how to think for myself
who taught me how to speak with such lucid contempt
Now I can never trust the government
Now I can never have faith in anyone's heavanly aspirations,
The sun having long set on any protests of idealism.
And yet I still find you remarkable Nietzsche
You never fail to make me laugh
at the times when I need it the most.
You're the rebel friend who I can
never introduce to my parents.
Yours is the poster which should adorn every angry teenagers' wall
With quotes highlighting The Will to Power and violent determination.
A hopeful voice in a godless world.
I'm reminded of you in the girl that speaks
or stealing every crucifix in her former convent school
after her friend was expelled.
I'm reminded of you with every protester
who throws a Molotov cocktail at armed police
I'm reminded of you
in eery artist who does'nt follow formality
in every caged bird who continues to sing.
For all your anger
I must thank you Nietzsche
Even if I can never be as happily ignorant as I once was
For wasn't the very crux of modern life challenged by you?
All of Humanity
All the cruelty
All the spit Fullness
All the Hatred
when you threw yourself in front of that horse
being beaten in Turin
and for losing your mind
Just to prove a point.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 5:51 AM UTC
It is the Soldier, not the minister
Who has given us freedom of religion.
It is the Soldier, not the reporter
Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the Soldier, not the poet
Who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer
Who has given us freedom to protest.
It is the Soldier, not the lawyer
Who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the Soldier, not the politician
Who has given us the right to vote.
It is the Soldier who salutes the flag,
Who serves beneath the flag,
And whose coffin is draped by the flag,
Who allows the protester to burn the flag.
Charles Michael Province, U.S. Army, wrote the poem
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 2:08 AM UTC
Insomnia and delirium, awake at 4 AM
The bed doesn't feel warm and cozy, like it doesn't belong to me
Everything that I desire goes against all I require to keep going
But I know I'm not the only one out here, there's more of them
I'm sure I''m not the only one who believes in love
Not the kind in saturated love songs
Or in nonsensical fabricated romantic comedies
But in the kind where the hearts beat out of time together and the sensation is expressible but the two involved can understand the ecstatic passion in their minds and bodies
I hope I am not the singled out protester
Against the back handed complements put upon those looking for a admiring passer by
The lone stargazer with a faithful notion that more is out there and we are so small in the scheme of things but just as necessary as the rest of the universe
The last of the proprietors of peace, I pray I am one of many
Raise your hand if you've felt one of the following and while your at it shed a tear for the fellow phalanges in the sky
-Enraged
-Frightened
-Skeptical
-Disappointed
-Ashamed
-Dismayed
-Abandoned
-Forgotten
-Unimportant
-Betrayed
-Hurt
-Humiliated
Both of my hands are right along side yours and they may be ***** have scars and bruises
But you know what?
They still work and they're still strong and will grapple the next hardship I face
And your hand will endure to, with your heart and the sense of what you need and what you want
At the next show of hand lets raise them to see whose felt enlightened, loved, courageous, inspired and proud
That way maybe none of us ever have to feel alone
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
Allen Ginsberg, a raving madman, a man beyond the borders of normal
once said, “Poets are ****** but see with the eyes of angels.”
His ranting howls, mere paradoxical clamorings (LOUDER).
His bootless, penniless, homeless cries, slight nonsensical musings.
His power subdued, his passion put-out, his well of enumerations run
dry…
Can you hear him?
(LOUDER!!!)
Are you even listening?
What do holy angel-headed hipsters like he see?
A myriad of star-crossed artists, poets, gurus, and monks?
A tired and beat batch of street corner hustlers, homeless and hungry?
A drunk in the back-room bar?
A stumbling, shadowy silhouette in the by-street (an enigma...)?
An old man, philosophizing to everyone and no one but himself?
A juke box stuck on repeat?
A young couple, making love with their feet under the table?
A trio of jazz musicians out back for a smoke?
A bar maid making minimum wage, or nothing?
A priest who's losing his conviction?
A down-n-out loner, dreamy, dazed, dashed,
staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass
(who will buy the next round)?
A nosey cop?
A rosey fop?
A belligerent racist?
A beat runaway?
A child begging? (there are so many...)
A fed-up fanatic? (too loud, too loud…)
A would-be protester-rioter-anarchist, giving up and going home?
A giggling girl, flirting, with her skirt hiked high?
A show-off with an inferiority complex?
A shy recluse, too afraid to walk through the door?
A power-hungry politician, his propaganda blasting through the static of
a detuned radio advertisement, paid for by (who are these people?)?
A struggle, never-ending, ever-renewed, always there, always alive,
but only seen through crazy, mad, angelic eyes.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
I am a creator,
a builder
a maker.
Bringing substance to the void,
brings me the greatest sense of joy.
A blank page.
A clean slate.
I draw out form,
and bring forth shape.
And I am a musician,
a lyrical magician.
The man.
The myth.
The mission.
My own unique rendition,
In every composition.
BUT
Can you identify my theory?
I'll be shocked if you're correct.
If this is sonic engineering,
then I'm a sonic architect.
And I am an inventor
A leader,
A dissenter,
A believer,
A protester,
A deceiver,
And a mentor,
A compatriot,
An apprentice,
A confederate,
An accomplice.
And I am a teller of stories,
of horrors, and of glories.
And I am a writer of tales,
of triumphs, and travails.
And I am a creator.
A builder.
A maker.
A musician and a writer.
Not a lover, nor a fighter,
Not a fixer,
Nor a breaker.
Not a giver,
Nor a taker.
No.
I am a creator
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
let me remind you:
know that i am the scream
i am the protest
i am the revolution
i am the awakening
of every black leader
every protester
every revolutionist
every poet
every writer
that has breathed and lived and paved paths
and immortalized and cut scathing with their art
that has cut swaths through rivers
that have tunneled through caves
that have smeared wet earth on their faces
that have picked through the foliage on mountains
know that i am every woman who has bled for her child
know that i am every foreign tongue that has unbound us
know that i am every unshackled and raised fist
know that i am a woman
know that i am a black woman
i am every black queen
i am not a display
i am not an object
i am not something to be coveted
you have no right to salivate over me
you have no right to stitch lust into my skin
you have no right
let me remind you:
i am a black woman
soft, wild, and free
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
It is in the blood of the soldier
In the words of the peaceful protester
In the ever flowing wounds of the martyr
In the actions of one standing against tyranny
In the hope of one facing down the majority
In the one who fights for the right of diversity
It is the one who heals when everyone is wounding
The one who stands when everyone is breaking
The one who accepted steel in his flesh
for the soul of his beloved
The one who carried the weight
Of our deaths on his back
The one who loved us till he breathed his last.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
We sat in the back of the room.
English 201.
There were five of us,
but a max of four at a time.
They spoke a lot.
Raising their hands,
or speaking out of turn
to protest the ignorant proclamation of classmates.
We sat in the back.
Feet propped up, books closed.
Backing each other up on our rants.
I never spoke.
I'll never know how they knew
I was one of them.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
He ferociously chained himself to the wrong fence
Protesting a battle that never happened on a ground that never wept.
The fence was glad for company she kept the battle raging
The blind protester yelled and screamed and chained himself more tightly.
And the ground stained with blood of soldiers
Fruitless, scarred and dead
Watched the blind protester weep and watched the land smile at her instead.
The ******* limps towards the sea to drown before she dies.
As the land the protester missed did flee
From all the fences lies.
And weep she did the land did weep and lament the passing friend.
As the protester blindly yelled in pain until the very end.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
I'm going to lose my mind, otherwise it's going to be made to seem as though it's true.
There are people manipulating your every day though you still may think this doesn't mean **** to you. We "misunderstood" are always gonna be considered crazy,
standing up to the powers, even maybe those that pay me.
Lazy is the mindset we're supposed to persist with
and knock off the protester sayin' "oh they're just throwing a ***** fit".
Wake up, we're all stuck.
We can join the powers that be and revel,
so long as you sign the dotted line and sell your soul to the devil.
Questioning observations can lead to revelations.
The fear that is sewn into us makes us turn away, with constant hesitations.
Our society is delicately controlled and to it, we are constricted.
Even sharing these thoughts with you, I am conflicted,
for most don't wanna see what's behind the advertisement.
Some people go along with anything as if they're mindbent.
Hello?
There's lots of RED(onthestreets), and WHITE(behindthescenes), so why can't you see?
Someday maybe MORAL (more'll) realize that we really aren't free.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 8:45 PM UTC
The protester , the president and his secret agents
The fourth estate , the staged presser
The water boarder dysfunctional
The rationalization of nationalism
The symbolic elephant , the star turned ********
The hated black man and his maniacal incumbent
*The thought of an African-American in office sent
you over the top
You cursed his high office , strapped on firearms ,
mobilized the churches and forever changed your
country ...
Welcome to the dangerous present
..
A hateful precedent* ...
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
Let me be free
Free from this sin,
Free to know where the road starts
No criticism,
No false friends!!!
Let Me breathe
Oh deadly world I live in,
These walls are as boundaries
Made as silicone made tint!
The wind blows to a strong
Like a protester in song
Or mother with a lost son or cause!!!
What causeth humanity to fail?
Thou hast seen as I seen
What ive seen,
Saw what I saw
After all,
Blood and flesh are one!!!
Not skin thou war Nazi's of flaw,
Not religion of worldliness
Politics of Masonry's call!!!!
Shame leadeth to guilt!
Guilt to fear!!
And only from bleeding to death
What is left?
Chains of redemption pulling at their best!!!
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
Bodies pile up in the streets brigading a cardboard hysteria.
As voices compete from concrete witness stands-
their testimonies have nothing to win.
Closets have been sighing for decades as hangers lose access to safe spaces,
and personal choices are inked in the wrong color of skin.
People are crying for Justice but she bears no sympathy
and no tears trace down her hardened cheeks.
Lady Justice had her eyes carved out long before we were tracing the streets with a new generations woe.
And Justice was supposed to be wiped clean of ugly Bronze Age philosophy.
But the dirt of old testaments will be forever embedded in her nails.
As she claws her way through people she is left not caring for the chalk outlines at her feet,
the ones that litter the street like hopscotch that children will never skip.
Picketers are screaming but she will never hear their cause.
Her eardrums were shattered in the last centuries cries of ruin.
She will only hear when the ballots speak.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
He stood in protest against the war
‘What the hell do we have children for?’
We love them, teach them of free will
Not bringing them up to maim and ****
But politicians make their spin
And send our children off to win
Against an enemy of their creation
They put at risk our very nation.
He stood and argued long and hard
As they pushed him back yard by yard
Until one day the poor man died
And at his death a nation cried.
Yes, I remember Brian Haw
His ten year protest against all war
The shameful way they moved him on
It’s four silent years since he’s been gone.
©Joe Wilson – A tribute to Brian Haw – peace protester…2015
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Some of the best words
Will never be said
Stopping just shy of escaping
My lips, sealed by anxiety
A much needed comment
Or a philosophical thought
A dying need to express
Confined in a hesitant glance
Restricted by half smiles and frowns
The pinch between my eyes
Conveys the questioning side
Torn up lips define only
A brave protester self silenced
The dusting of a blush asks
Only what it could be
Shinning eyes glimpse only
Shy of everything that is meaningful
Chipped and uneven nails
Speak to every single secret
And stripped scars
Tell everything and nothing
About that body
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
what’s one more rose
in a field of flowers?
what’s one more book
in a library of literature?
what’s one more tear
in a flood of water?
what’s one more voice
in a choir of song?
what’s one more feeling
in an ocean of emotion?
what’s one more protester
in a crowd of anger?
what’s one more cut
in a collection of wounds?
what’s one more body
in a graveyard of people?
what’s one more loss
in a world of death?
what’s the point
of one more anything?
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 7:27 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Another protester
Is on deck
As the speaker
Sprouts familiar rhetoric
He’s not appealing to
The crowd’s intellect
He’s provoking them
I would suspect
And he’s selling them
His impossible dream
And the more he promises
The more it seems
They become undone
At the seams
As he wraps up
His time-worn themes
He’s gonna make America
Great again
Hear his dog whistle
Calling all white men
Who’d like to relive
The past again
And if they can’t relive it
They’d just as soon pretend
Now he doesn’t mind
Who he alienates
He plays the dozens
And he hates
Insults opponents
At debates
And when he’s trapped
He puts on skates
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
the curtain. this metaphorical object,
drawn over the eyes of those who protest against
their sight, this curtain of dark unwanted thoughts,
reins freely behind these hanging cloths, the protester
seems to speak of the light, yet is stuck behind the
curtain. this metaphorical object.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 9:29 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Let’s not call ‘em protesters
If they’re burning and
They’re looting
Let’s not call them protester
If they’re breaking glass windows
And shooting
Let’s call them what they are
Just blatant opportunists
Let’s not call them protesters
Which is not to suggest
That it wouldn’t be proper to
Call them insurrectionists
Let’s not get confused
As to what it is we’re seeing
When we observe them
Throwing objects while they’re fleeing
Let’s not call them protesters
Even when the cause is just
Because those hooligans
Don’t represent any of us
Let’s not call ‘em protester
When they’re stoking public fears
Let’s call them what they are
Simply put provocateurs
Let’s not call ‘em protesters
When they disregard the law
Let’s not call them protesters
Who are openly declaring war
Against the established order
Just to even a score
Let’s not call ‘em protesters
We never did before
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2020. All rights reserved.
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 10:40 AM UTC
Sonnet.
Ô Rhin, sais-tu pourquoi les amants insensés,
Abandonnant leur âme aux tendres rêveries,
Par tes bois verdoyants, par tes larges prairies
S'en vont par leur folie incessamment poussés ?
Sais-tu pourquoi jamais les tristes railleries,
Les exemples d'hier, ni ceux des temps passés,
De tes monts adorés, de tes rives chéries,
Ne les ont fait descendre et ne les ont chassés ?
C'est que, dans tous les temps, ceux que l'homme sépare
Et que Dieu réunit iront chercher les bois,
Et des vastes torrents écouteront les voix.
L'homme libre viendra, **** d'un monde barbare,
Sur les rocs et les monts, comme au pied d'un autel,
Protester contre l'homme en regardant le ciel.
277
next to cars and trucks
the silent protester rides
legs turning the wheel
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC