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Age Political Poems | Age Poems About Political

These Age Political poems are examples of Age poems about Political. These are the best examples of Age Political poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Ballade | |

1984 has gone

1984 Has Gone.

Nineteen eighty four has gone
But still it's not too late.
George Orwell got the date all wrong
But he recognized our fate.
His words are being acted out
You can see it everywhere.
George Orwell was a prophet man
His truth's at you they stare.

And so we sit, the TV on
As we stare into it's rays.
And the adverts roar so loud and clear
and with our minds they play.
"You must have this, you can't do that
They tell you how to live
And all they think you need to know
Though they haven't much to give.

And everyone be taught to think
Just like the one, the other.
As little bricks they each be formed
But the truth's kept undercover.
And not too many want the truth
Or even think at all.
So me, I turn that TV off
It drives me up the wall.

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Quatrain | |

Average Age 19

Once again, the powers that must
In rise again in what we trust
An overseas conflict, another war
Just what in the hell are we fighting for

Families are asking, Korea has just passed
Generations again reft, how long will it last
A country in need, to rebuild again
Flags at half mast, in wind and rain strain

Once again into war, sent by the Washington Post
To send back reports to hit home the most
Military observers were the first to be sent in
Another chapter of man entering existing sin

I'm witnessing our ariel power, Lam Son 719
US planners determine their incursion, saying all will be fine
Along the Mekong River, we'll carpet bomb their supply trail
Tons of munitions and napalm, this spread surely cannot fail

Many sorties are being flown, for the wounded and the dead
Whilst Nixon and his cronies, aren't thinking with their heads
The news of losses has reached me, nineteen have been killed
Eleven missing, fifty nine wounded, more American blood spilled

Seven fixed wing aircraft, more sons in action loss
Whilst back at home more protests, fading the dyeing's gloss
To to this job that I do, I was never prepared for this
To witness such bloody scenes, and ignore that life is bliss

How can I write about a soldier, whose name I'll never know
Killed at nineteen years old, his family he'll never see grow
Or even explain to his parents, when carried from the AH-1
His body bullet riddled and limp, when lifted it bloodily run

I never went back to the theatre, called the Vietnam War
Having witnessed the wanton killing, what were we fighting for
This colonial conflict that started, us on the side of France
So many came back as strangers, many to live in trance

James Fraser's entry into the contest " WORLD OF WAR: VIETNAM "

Copyright © James Fraser

Details | Free verse | |

Aquarian Age

Did our Age of Aquarius evaporate,
fail to regenerate,
to resonate,
fall too far short of what our parents
knew we should anticipate?
Free love could not sustain
weak non-violent resolutions against
whatever they were for.

Yet, if love is synergy,
mutual gravity,
and creation is this co-passion's regenerate transgeneration,
how could love cost more than free?
How could co-redemption not invest everything
in learning how to cooperatively Be,
free of enslaving supremacist becoming,
free to come together as ecological We?

Those who stop to count these costs of love,
look for ways to divest of co-opportunity,
ignoring Earth's mentoring economy
of light's photosynthetic comprehensive consciousness,
of neutral's dark unconsciousness,
a fog bank evaporating as double-binding time and rhythm
pattern and color RNA's free-fractal love connection.

If Time's eternal unfolding presence is 0-dimensional,
and Nature's bicameral perception is 2-dimensional prime,
bicameral form with function,
ego emerging from eco,
yang incarnating double-yin,
reiterative communicative processors
borrow RNA's decomposing 3-space with 1-time prime bilateral dimensions,
equivalent seasons;

Shy winterish Uracil of Universal freely decomposing love
greets Cytosine's full summer-formed regeneration,
as objectives greet their past and future subjects;
while Adenine painlessly springs
for Guanine's lavishly com-posted integrative harvest,
as verbs form fractal-recycling nouns,
verbal con-science revolutions,
relearning Earth's organic language,
by echoing universal polypathic syntax.

Universal monocultural power of governance
becomes a Left-brained dominant and reductive tyrant,
an Emperor reified of clothes
to cool His naked Ego-thirst.
when power remains integral within co-passionate,
gravitational integrity,
synergetic uniting cooperatism,
then naked power conjoins dark yin-time-ations,
shy bigendering romantic camouflage,
re-birthing this post-millennial 
Age of Aquarius.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck

Details | Free verse | |

The Color Missing

The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes.  Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.

‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt

Details | Concrete | |

The 13th amendment

Footsteps heard from afar 
Caught in the glimpse of 
Strange shadows on walls,
the unknowable visor of 	
approaching men in uniform, 
wedged in the unbroken frames 
of those shadows;
Carrying their guns and arms,
They throw a basket of broken
Legs lost in the war, a dump yard
Of human remains

And there through the window
Struck by the very first sight
Are those pair of peeping eyes
That seek answers for all that is
Left and is yet to come,
They speak of all the pain
Felt in the anguish of the bygones,
A struggle to fight for
All that is fair and just, 
To level the men of his ‘breed’
One amongst many born unequal
They see affected patterns of color,
The raunchy division of scattered

In moments of solitariness, they
Look ahead into the future with a
Vision so pure; 
a utopian ideal it seems
To many of his kind, unachievable yet
Worth fighting for, for years
Of unsolicited beatings, they
Only wish to see a world of 
Equals, the world as a homogeneity of
Dark and blank pieces, 
Men of ‘his breed’ 
Stand up to wrong all the
Blank pieces covered in shadows
By the ‘darkness’ of their own
So a world without
Fear would be created for once,
The end of a gruesome chapter
And the beginning of a liberal one

Copyright © Ankita Dhawan

Details | Concrete | |


A poem wrote by me, based on Person who is a deserving icon but still struggling hard with his career life and addressed as disturbed creature.

DISTURBED CREATURE--> Am I ??       BY Mrs.Madhavi Suyog Pagare

Am I so insane, Am I so mad,
Dramatic mood of mine is so die hard.
Destroyed my peace, Shattering my dreams,
People call me as disturbed creature.
As like mounting the pain, attenuating the drain!!

Digesting my feelings lying inside me,
Strangely nobody cared, call me sick.
Teasing me lavishly and my heart is pricked,
Hurted me like hell when addressed me as stupid.
As like showering rain, missing on the lane!!

Time lapse in journey of life,
Can hamper anybody on its path.
When I see innate reflex of mine,
I always use to brightly shine.
Though possessing every job attributes of mine,
I never thought the authorities will ditch and hamper my career line.
Falsely acting bloody swine, making my image as fade as wine.
As like affecting harmonious divine, my soul was, as is transparently pristine!!

Destroying me and testing my patience, Never wanna give up.
Transformed deviations, wanna rightly screw up.
I wanna raise up, I wanna shake up.
I wanna wake up, Tranquilize my mind.
Unzip the professional life compressed by the culprits.
Wanna explore myself, driving the motivated heights of journey.
Lastly waiting for the optimistic opportunity.
Cuffing the suspect ,I wanna rejoice by my pattern of life!! 

with Suyog Pagare

Copyright © Madhavi Sarjare pagare

Details | Rhyme | |

Is It God We Trust Or Leave In the Dust

Is It God We Trust? Or Leave In the Dust? As our courts remove God from this great nation. We are left with a confused and lost generation! As God is taken away from our public schools. A huge tide of immorality is what “rules.” The Bible is often mocked and discarded. It was on it’s principles this country was started! Just about anything of God seems to get scorned. So many “rush” to worship many ungodly forms. As God’s name is often tossed and thrown out. We tend to forget what HE is all about! Too often, his plans for living are tossed and abused. No wonder, there’s many who are lost and confused! As people forget God and worship the fallen creature. They look to themselves and “glorify” their features. Many ignore God, and get involved in deep addictions. And with this, come disease, heartache and afflictions! As God looks and sees this nation “bleeding.” It’s his righteousness, that we need to be seeking! If we would humble ourselves, he would hear our prayer! He loves all of us! And he really does care! Won’t you come to HIM, And invite him in? Won’t you allow him to be your master and friend? He brings strength and nourishment to the soul! It’s only in him that we can be made whole! By Jim Pemberton

Copyright © Jim Pemberton

Details | Burlesque | |

Over The Age of Fifty This One is for You

Those damn old people with their applesauce, and need for retirement
I giggle at the sizes adult diapers come in,
They haven't worked hard enough for me yet,
We need more cotton picked more tobacco chopped
And more polyester pants
AARP sounds like a senior citizens sorority to me
Oh! how I chide in laughter,
Nothing like a hip replacement with no coverage really tickles the funny bone
I was talking to my grandma and she believes the government does her wrong
But how is that; when you can't even remember what happened yesterday
For all you know they have given you lower prescription payments
I'm snortling to the point I have urinated in my pants
Just remind myself to pick up grandpa's extra big boy bladder briefs
They shouldn't be able to live off of years and years of labor by social security
Besides if they can remember back in their day, they can remember to go get...
A JOB! and while they're talking 'bout the olden days, would you like fries with that?

Copyright © shane solomon

Details | Free verse | |

building of a empire you

the side hunt of another being distracts from the main goal the bigger picture new blood in the tribe all ways brings new thunder in the lighting storm of a cloud to rest tribesmen warriors questioned on there Integrity coucils held in different ways non
traditoal ways many societys in the past life many crumbles many edgeings craved in stone from past generations in the over all lifeform many civalazations  crumbled before the one being build before the eyes of the laborers the laborers of the temple the foundation of the 
lifeform The structue of which u create for ur self the old carpenters saying mesaure twice 
cut once comes to mind we all might not come out square every mock up but the 
ability to adjust and measure up time and time again to become the master piece 
we all want to become is the test of the builder within

Copyright © Joseph gaydon

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bardstown Road at a Glance

The old, the new barely meet on the street of Bardstown road, yet diversity so unique, from Cherokee to the rarity, stepping forth in time with the antique structures surrounding you, from magnetic tape recordings to punk truly a highland of culture. The Victorian and the shotguns the two guns blazing an electric mix of the streetcars undesired prelude to hate Ashbury a lower height, thinking how Hunter S. Thompson may have mumbled a few gonzo words, on the way to decadent and depraved Kentucky Derby but where was I. The greasy spoons all in a row, out wrestle the dining rooms but the salons collage with saloons, somehow the college student gets passed the culture shock. A young man sits at the bus stop his guitar propped on the glass, maybe he is writing a hit single or maybe just hung over, as a young girl in a miniskirt with a quick flip of long hair and a glance over her shoulder hurries somewhere. My friends just want to look at girls and crack a joke or vice versa.
 On a white board scribbled meet the author of Cornbread Mafia sometime in November. There is just a strange feeling about this road, as the politically correct are begging to slay the political satirist, like a living far side cartoon, making  a statement, about which is more corrupt.They say, it takes one to know one but even more to know what you are not . Will corporate media continue to slowly suffocate journalism, with wet rice paper slowly, layer upon layer until journalism is dead? Then they will come for individual’s rights of free speech like a snail over a razor blade until the sword rusts with mucus. This began about Bardstown Road but ends as a Bard, a Town and a Road.

Copyright © John Beam

Details | Light Poetry | |

Out of Line

Regarding the alleged naughtiness of Lord Sewel, former Deputy Speaker of the House of Lords and Chair of the Privileges and Conduct Committee...

“Order, order!” he shouted “We’re all out of line”
“I’ll see to that” quoth the whore
“And if you’re a good boy we’ll do three in a bed,
You can snort off my ti**ies and more”
Oh silly old Sewel you poor addled old fool
So clearly misguided and randy
That the question of cash and the secretive flash
Were obscured in a cloud of nose candy

Copyright © Gail Foster

Details | Couplet | |

Who Is Your Neighbour

Who Is Your Neighbour?

When I was young and lonely,
Sometimes it was me.

But as I got older and became more conversational,
It was whoever I stopped to talk to on my weekly constitutional. 

And at college it was most anybody on my block;
When relating to them, I hardly ever watched the clock.

But really its anybody and even more so, the nobodies,
No matter what difference or diversity, they're somebodies.

And until governments get their political systems right,
It's the Syrian refugees who only find cold in the night.

Rhoda Monihan 

Written 9/13/2015, posted 9/13/2015

For the Trashed #2 contest, sponsor Broken Wings
Entered for the Who Is Your Neighbour contest sponsored by Mystic Rose judged on 9/14/2015

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan

Details | I do not know? | |

New Age Slave

Society still sets the stage,
So anxiety will feed our rage,
With something we cannot digest,
That makes us feel like second best...
The prize we win in this charade,
Is summized by who is less than paid,
Divide that by your social class,
And  become a product of the past...
Buffeted by all the poor,
That stand before a half closed door,
Not concerned by what they see,
Since we're the ones who want the key...
Not the one thats made of lead,
But the one that's gold instead,
Elitist think we'll steal their wealth,
To have a chance to free ourself....
But it seems our debt is never paid,
Until we're dead and left to lay,
So they can make another million,
Backs forfeit another trillion...

Copyright © Terry Ledwell

Details | Heroic Couplets | |

Life According to Rhoda

Social issues elevate politics into the ring,  
Whilst a loving family frees your interest thing, 
But all people need the state and NHS, 
Which step in to assist when life is less.

But everything deepends much upon legislation, 
The law, its acts and clauses are foundation, 
Its wordings either narrow you into a lark, 
Or respect your essence and dignity in hark. 

If you are the storyteller expected to win, 
The ear of the great who accounts for your sin, 
Your module is no problem to your friends, 
Or to your colleague who her hand to you extends.


Copyright © Rhoda Monihan

Details | Free verse | |

Silence in the Age of Omerta

I know what you know,
What he knows,
Whom he who killed,
But kept silent and blind,
I know what you know,
Who he muddled, 
Who he murdered, 
And dirtied the field,
I know what you know,
Who you slaughtered the soul,
Neither me, nor thee
Nay the remaining foul.
No hear, no see,
The law of Omerta is surely risky,
And dangerous,
He who does not now know,
But knows better than himself and you,
Who slaughtered the lad, bribed and fed,
Threatened and said,
No hear, no see,
Then smashed the calves in a bloody pool,
This evil monster, a son of a ghoul!
I have seen nothing, nor heard a thing,
Omerta is the rule and motto to survive now.

Copyright © Abder Derradji

Details | Free verse | |

Random Frames

Random frames
my brain
in polypathic goo
refusing to decompositionally chew
enough to defog mystery
of randomness
co-arising evolution
of a fuller consciousness revolution.

Prickly head
with gooey heart
suboptimizing when they are apart
and are not speaking
to where they might find
a more accurate midway mine.

When I want to optimize
my wealth
of mental health,
I decompose nondual co-arising
toward regenerative comprehension,
to decompose
to break apart
in my image-nation
what time's nature must always regener-ation.

Strictly Prickly Heads,
last of a Left-brain dominant strain.
Gushing GooGlobbed Hearts,
last of a RightWinged
monocultural spring.

If mass is to time
as commodity is to energy,
then commodifiant forms
have two bilateral functions,
buying and selling Time's value.

We have commodified ourselves
too high
for the energy we have invested
to co-arise Beloved Commons.

Each buy and sell form
of Time's transaction
follows our Tree of Good and Evil
rather than consuming and producing
Time's primal choice
of Tree for Life and Death's
double-bound transparent value.

Commodity incarnates
a market of value,
distilled fuel for even more ego-ownership.

Informational interest
fuels commodification of value
for stripmining Earth
as we stripmine the value of human Time;
while more cooperative interest
energizes optimizing value
for polyculturing Earth
as we polypath our value of eco-logical Time.

If Earth is RNA's ProGenitor,
our ultimately commodifying "Owner"
and CoRedeemer,
then is ownership of Earth
commodification as
of madness,
polypathology of valuing Good
as loveless usery,
universalism without unitarianism?

Neither cultural hype
nor hippie consciousness
bring immunity to greed
or consistent investment in confluent integrity.
Whereas polypathic genius
does seem to bring some intuitive affinity
to simplicity of life's value
for Time's hope and faith and love,
beauty and wisdom;
a more singularly focused consciousness
on how we are created
just how our bones are polymorphically universal
fossils of unitarian revolutions.

I think that I shall never see
an old man buy his first property
going up his rickety stair
to take his blood pressure meds unaware
he will wear the stair with excessive need to pee;
you see,
due to his blood pressure mediludicrosity,
up up the stairs he went
to visit the only bathroom's cabinets.

We can use actuarial tables
to decompose the value of Time's investment
in any co-arising system,
whether informational-digital
or analogical-organic,
thereby calculating appropriate life credit and debit
available to this globally networked cooperative community
each hour
or day
or transaction
or week
or month
or year
or time's ultimately prime relationship
to timeless.

Don't sell the Commons,
because we have already commodified 
even the goods and evils of a life,
whether human,
or a tree,
perhaps we might cooperatively rent goods
and barter services
in exchange for the value of Time's investment
by the day
or week
or month
or year
or lifetime,
depending on who we be 

Yellow wool blanket
with matching satin sashing
just on one end
caressing my neck and chin
reminding of how long and dashing
we have been

Hold me against the chill of parting night.
Hold me with abandon to your fright
to love me
whom you never had enough
of hold me
for the warmth of gathering days.

Random frames
rounding claims,
icons of RNA's encryption.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck