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Creative Writing, Politics

Writers Resist: Protest Poetry the Week of the Inauguration

What is art worth if it is not for slicing open the fattened bellies of the power that attempts to hold it hostage? 

Since it is the week of Donald Trump’s inauguration and Martin Luther King Jr’s 88th birthday, I’d like to fill this space with protest literature of my own creation and from generations of American activists, poets, and artists. I’d also love to promote any of your protest poetry, art and essays this week. You can contact me on Facebook or here in the comments for me to display and present your work in this space. Share it widely on your social media’s feed and demonstrate how we are all committed to defending and promoting our country’s ideals for a free, just, and compassionate democracy*. We will not stand idly by.

*http://www.writersresist.org/

trust

never trust anyone who gazes at the stars and passing clouds
and blames them for our wars
they neither toil nor spin drones and war heads
or rain down missiles as raindrops over
quivering leaves
they don’t choose to contaminate its falling water with
lead and cover it up in dust and blood
only drops of clear water with no political bent

in houses twisted with rusted pipes and asbestos
where children chew on banisters and window sills
slowly poisoned by time’s misunderstanding
the poison wrapped houses didn’t decide to take
our most innocent
hiding its deepest secrets under coats of paint
and repeal their healthcare on the way
out the door to save itself in taxes

the oak and the pine don’t call out from the wood
asking to be cut down for a stretching wall
as a pillar in a dividing altar
splitting families into pieces of burnt offerings
sacrificed for slashed prices on winter greens
and fruit
twisting strawberry vines don’t count votes
or signatures on bills

neither do they slap hands away from parted
pussy lips singing music in a lover’s ear
and ask for an apology or a signed petition
while marching on the lawn
that grows without question every year
where are your tired and poor, your huddled masses
where were you
when the wretched refuse from our teeming shores
came down out of his golden door and stamped
out our lamplight and raped our poor
who didn’t ask you for your distrust.

 

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