Violence School Poems | Violence Poems About School
These Violence School poems are examples of Violence poems about School. These are the best examples of Violence School poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
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Put down the guns, lay down the knives
We are losing too many of our young lives,
The violence that you’re watching on TV
That is what’s happening, it’s our reality.
The death count’s rising, what are we going to do?
The Police need your help if they are to help you;
Are we going to wait until it comes to our door?
Or are we going to stand up and say “no more!”
We’re living like prisoners locked behind bars
A false sense of security as we run to our cars,
This is not the way for our people to live
Something must be done, something’s got to give.
All day long a mother sits and moans
Another senseless killing hits too close to home,
Johnny’s in school you’d think he would be safe
But this too has become just another violent place.
Our justice system has failed us once again
A murderer is on the street, a family’s in pain,
Another clever lawyer has earned his pay day
The children are now afraid to go out and play.
We run the risk of losing an entire generation
While damning the future of this great nation,
We must all be ready to stand up and fight
Because what is happening is just not right.
© 2016 Donovan T. Turnquest
Copyright © Donovan Turnquest | Year Posted 2016
What sort of a mother am I
Who cannot even count
the innumerable bullet wounds
spread all over the delicate body
of her beloved child
However, day and night
I keep counting
the myriad of marks
left by the terrorists' bullets
on his school bag;
I will also keep counting
the innumerable shot wounds
that spread all over
his blood-stained books and uniform as well
provided I have the luck
to live until then.
(translation by mazHur Butt)
STA PA BADAN K DA GOLO NAKHO TA,
CHA HADO PRE NAKHODAM
CHE MA SHMARALLY KHO WAY
STA PA BASTA K DA GOLO NAKHY HUM KHEY DERY WAY
ZEH TOLA WRAZ YE SHMARAM
STA KITABUNO AU KAPO K NAKHY
HAGHA BA HUM SHMARAMA
KHO K JWANDAI PATY SHOM
( Pa 16,December da yo shaheed bachi da Mor sanda)
16 December ko shahadat pany waly aik Bachy ki Maan ka Nooha..
Mein kesi maa'n hoo'n
goliyoan ke nishaan
jism nazuk per tere
ay meri aankh ke taaray
gin-nay ka izn
mila hee nahi
haan magar shumaar karti hoon
subh o roz
tere bastay pe lage
golion ke ghaO beshumaar
tere kaproan aur kitaboan per bhi jo hein
zaalimoan kee golion ke beshumaar nishaan
tere pak khoon se labraiz
mein unhein bhi gin-na chahti hoon
aur gin hee loon gee unhein
agar zindagi ne wafa kee.
Mein Ik maa'n hoon,
(translation by mazhar butt)
Copyright © mazhar butt | Year Posted 2015
With beads of sweat on my forehead,
And my arms and legs cramped.
I concealed in a little locker
Away from the horrid mayhem.
Damp and worn; fear and torn
I seldom gasped for breath,
And even tried reciting
Othello, Macbeth and Hamlet.
Alas, all in vain!
Aware with each passing minute,
That I would face the same brutal end
As my tutors and friends.
I heard them moving closer,
I say a silent prayer.
With final memories of my beloved -
I await those crazy monsters.
"Bang, Bang!" I hear them shoot.
But it now sounds so afar.
I drift into a deep slumber,
When the door goes ajar.
Copyright © Radhika Bhangolai | Year Posted 2015
An IED finds it way
Into the mind of a savage sect
And made good use of the emptiness.
Some school girls are bundled up
From their school compound;
Taken for a noisy ride into Sambisa;
From where they will forget
Their mothers’ voices.
On the tube,
There is a very loud lady
Anathematising the “sharing” of blood
When she is done,
The media is awash with the sound of
‘Na only you waka come?’
As if it is a joke
To snatch young Nigerian girls
From the four walls of their classroom
Into the coldness of the wilderness
To dwell amongst wild beasts.
To learn new lessons;
In bed at night,
My wife talks of
Internally displaced persons;
Slaughtering of citizens
And the role of government in all of these
And the security of our country
And I pulled at the hairs
From around her second mouth
To make her change the topic
And she falls for it and changes the topic.
The white bearded Mallam
On the rickety bus to Yola
Fixes his eyes on me
Like some foreigner
And I feel the fire
All through the trip
And I burn and burn and burn
Like the victims of Nyanya motor park blast
It feels good though to know
What it takes to
Be burned into countless degrees.
But after three weeks
I am back to normal again
I can feel again
My senses are back again
And I can hear again
As the presidential pit-bull
And the black parrot
The one that used to be
In the fourth estate of the realm
Begin to met and dole out
Slippery speeches, speeches you can’t hold
That comes upon our ears
To push out every substance
From our heads
Everything except this load of hopelessness
This bitter bite in our mouth
This unwanted fetus
That no one would claim
And then the hash tags;
The media craze;
The count down
The women in red
And the men that joined
The bring back our girls
The Michelle Obama
The celebrities from across
The noise, the sweat, the blood
The bloody thighs of those girls
Their torn underwear
Their wails, their sobs, their pains
To say the least
The echo, the deafening echo
And how we wave them all aside
And look the other way.
Like it did not happen at all
Like it was just a movie
Directed by a director
That must be a sadist
We sweep it under the carpet
Like our other numerous
But I won’t write another story on betrayal
I won’t write another poem
On how a nation
Could forsake her innocent children
Instead I would write of a country
Stealing, stealing, growing
Growing resilient to emotion;
Becoming many times dead
To any feeling
Tearing its tissues to pieces
And building new ones
That will be senseless
And the noise
And the noise
And the noise.
Copyright © Divine Friday Idiong | Year Posted 2016