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Best Society Poems

Below are the all-time best Society poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of society poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Society Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Society poems are below this new poems list.

Society as it is by Gangabissoon, Anoucheka
This is our Society by Bloom, Amber
Beehive of Society by Richards, Carrie
What Is Society by Loo, Laura
Splendorous Society by Garcia, Phillip
Society is Scarcity by Chung, Brian
SOCIETY - me arse by lawless, John
Dear Society by Pedersen, Sofia
Dictionary Entry Society by Neumann, Kai Michael

View all new Society Poems

The Best Society Poems

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Playing Human

Introducing: Nate & Linda

The smile on my lips
is forced and coerced
I pretend to pay attention
give the best possible advice
everyone praises me
I'm so kind, polite and nice
It's all just automation
I rarely actually listen
certainly don't care
all I'm doing
is playing human
blending in
fitting in
I'm so perfectly hidden
you'll never even
see a curtain, 
   from where I stand
   Majoring in social events
   Put on a pedestal
   for computing with you
   I'm so perfectly hidden 
   smiling from time to time
   Labeling those 
   with all sincerity
   open soldiery  
   Passing along an appeal
   continuing to fit in
   blend in
   force program 
   Is it just me or
   am I the perfect human?

~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015

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New World Order

While Bureaucrats grow rich and fat
              in six-star luncheonettes, 
and Bankers beam Their self-esteem
              (bailed out of broker's debts),
the deep, devout and down and out
              sink, sallow silhouettes.

Tycoons hold reins (arrayed as chains)
              where words have mesmerized.
So, mild and meek, we turn our cheek
              to worlds They’ve polarized,
and march to war, through Satan's door,
              watch cities vaporized.

The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,
              of victories far away,
where eyes stare stark within the dark 
              and death is painted gray
on faces cold, some young, some old,
              all lined with jaded clay.

We're taught at school the Golden Rule
              for all to live in bliss.
But in the wars on foreign shores
              the only rule is this:
'Yo! You and I must fight and die
              inside the black abyss!'

But well alive, the Merchants thrive
             on sales of armaments
that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)
             to quell the dissidents,
while Artisans are posing plans
              to conquer continents.

But back at home, the rumors roam
              'Good times are soon to come,
despite the breeze on frozen seas
              in weathers wet and numb.'
They fantasize with fleeting lies
              and pray we'll all succumb.

A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams
              to keep our minds at sea 
and TV skews the evening news,
              ensures we all agree:
'With dynamite we fight for right
              and not for tyranny.'

The brain aborts when drugged with sports
                and fashions of the day,
and sevenfold, men think as told
               and so are led astray;
and like some sheep (unless asleep)
              they baa when they obey.  

In search of sense in sounds intense
              of droning drum tattoos,
souls, thin and worn, file by forlorn,
              in tame and tattered shoes -
their tears of pain, like streaks of rain,
              have strewn the avenues.
Along the roads, the future bodes
              in legends made of dust,
and ashes gray the alleyway
              'neath lampposts scaled with rust.
While Divas dine with cakes and wine
              pale orphans share a crust.

Dead colonies of bumble bees,
              a ravaged hornet's hive,
rain forests, dales or minke whales
              soon nothing left alive…        
a world laid waste is to Their taste,
              as long as They survive. 

The Moguls wield a silver shield,
              wear golden coronets
while warders guard the prison yard,
              boast brazen bayonets;
and unicorns sport ivory horns,
              defend the Martinets.

Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies
             who watch you day and night
to track your trails and read you mails
              and say They have the right
to know your thoughts and thwart your plots
              to cease Their oversight.

Behind the scenes, behind the screens,
              the rules are fixed, arranged
(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -
              Their goals have never changed).
When upside-down, a grin is frown
              and common sense deranged.

As sunlight wanes in winter rains 
              and sullen shadows crawl,
the evening ebbs, and spiders' webs
              seem tattooed on the wall.
And in the night the Masters write
              The Final Protocol.

Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2015

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The Verdict

Well, GI Jack is welcome back, he left his legs in 'Nam.
He wakes at night in sweat and fright, then drinks another dram.
He doesn't know quite where to go, so seeks his uncle, Sam.

One can't ignore - his ma was poor, and life was sometimes cruel,
yet Jack was brave and well behaved and surely no one's fool	
so joined the ranks that man the tanks, as soon as he left school

He learned to kill our foes at will (ordained a sacred rite),
and packed his bag and wrapped his flag and went away to fight.
And yes, the tide was on our side (for, clearly, might makes right)

Through tangled days in jungles' maze, he sought the enemy
behind the trees where, ill at ease, he fought the Yellow sea -
upon the waves of sunken graves he sailed a killing Spree

The napalm dropped and cooked the crops, burnt huts along the way
and tanks, with ease, mowed down the trees and villages of clay.
Yes, turret guns were loads of fun with roaring roundelays

While on the hunt with other grunts, he burned some babes alive
and wondered why frail things must die, while evil's phantoms thrive -
When folly ends, he'll make amends if only he'll survive
With booby traps (sticks dipped in crap)... yes, Charlie fought unfair.
He hid in holes like snakes and voles and snuck up everywhere
and like a mite beneath the night, caught Jackie unaware

At battle's end, Jack sought his friends - their souls were washed away
and only he and destiny were left in disarray -
with bed and pan, just half a man, the man of yesterday

When Jackie woke, beyond the smoke, his frame no longer whole,
he found instead a medalled thread, some wraps to hide the hole,	
and realized another prize: a chair on wheels to roll

Across his chest (you've surely guessed) his medals shone, arrayed.
His head felt light, as well it might, at Victory Day Parade
for when he rolled, while others strolled, his boots no longer weighed

Well, Jack stayed home (no roads to Rome)  to start his life anew
receiving dole (that took its toll) which fell in Sam's purview,
but soon enough, when times got tough, his uncle, Sam, withdrew

To walk the streets with fine elites (or someone else who begs)
or find a job (or even rob) requires both your legs,
and those that don't and those that won't are those we call the dregs
For getting by he tried to ply and mine his medals' worth -
a tinny cup, a hungry pup near loamy pits of earth,
and best of all, per protocol, beneath a bridge, a berth

He clutched a sign 'A dime to dine?', if anybody cared,
but soon he found, as time unwound, that victors seldom shared.
And Jackie's pride was slowly fried by vacant eyes that stared

He took to drink to break the link with thoughts of what he'd done,
though threads of doubt began to flout the yarns Big Brother spun
of freedom's ring and other things like what it was we'd won

He told the breeze his vague unease; his words infused the air
and like the fogs above the bogs, soon floated through the square
where people sat at tea to chat, and thought 'How could he dare?'

But freedom's price is never nice: like storms before the flood
the Daily Rag was on a jag, was looking out for blood,
deemed Jackie's thoughts untamed and fraught, then dragged him through the mud

By snooping clues, they plucked his views like grapes upon the vine.
Big Brother came, blamed Jackie's name for thinking out of line,
shut Jack away from light of day while letting freedom shine

The Junto Brass, with eyes of glass, were robed in fine array
to hear the words (though slightly slurred) the witness gasped to say,
while Justice snored (the water board awash with Perrier)

Well, Jack was charged with laws enlarged in secret dossiers
within the guise of spreading lies and leading thoughts astray -
The Jury's out... the rabble shout 'well someone's gotta pay'

The Judge (who fears the mind’s frontiers), he turned his head to yawn
while making haste through courtroom waste, though slightly pale and wan -
The voodoo Lune withdrew as soon as Night condemned the Dawn

While in his cell, the verdict fell - the sighs of Silence, rife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the Reaper played a fife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the price was Jackie's life

While censor’s cooks are roasting books (and truth) on stakes ablaze,
well, Jackie's head (though chopped and shed) still thinks about the praise
for deeds once done in victories won when cruising in a craze,
and then again about the sin of thinking, nowadays,
where, absently, humanity is served in urns on trays -
and, reconciled, it simply smiles at fortune's funny ways

A  mind was caught while thinking thoughts neath Sammy’s prying gaze
and forced to stop by concept cops, else join the castaways.
For now it's law to hold in awe the brave new world's malaise
and dance like mimes to rigid rhymes (which no one disobeys)
and celebrate with white-washed pate, adorned with dead bouquets -
with freedom’s death, time holds its breath, and waits for better days...


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013

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The Lady Of The House

It’s siesta, yet one can hear from the second floor of the house the animated sharing of juicy news some visitors have brought to the gracious host, the lovely widow of a wealthy sugar planter.  The sound of laughter is carried over the charming veranda bordered by lacy cast-iron grillwork, with its delicate oak leaf and acorn design and colorful, overhanging ornamental plants and flowers.  

Three Creole society matrons in their typical 1840s long dress fashion despite the sultry heat are being served their tea and fanned by the owner’s black slaves. They are talking about the strange happenings at what used to be Dr. Louis and Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie’s grand house at 1140 Royal Street, a few houses away from the where they are having an afternoon gossip. Apparently, the last tenant abandoned the Lalaurie house not only because of some ghost sightings and agonized sounds that were heard from within.  His furniture business inventory was also being mysteriously destroyed at night. 

The lady of the house remembers how Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie used to be a respected member of New Orleans society.  After the fire in 1834 and the subsequent discovery by firemen of seven emaciated slaves at the attic with obvious traces of abuse and torture, the couple and their four grown-up children had to flee in the middle of the night, or be lynched by the angry townsfolk.  

Were all the stories true?  Six years later, no human bones were discovered at the backyard, nor actual records or reports thereof, negating further accusations of slave murders, including that of a young girl who allegedly fell from the rooftop trying to escape her lady’s wrath.  If Mdme. Lalaurie was the inhuman monster the press accused her of that time, then all of her contemporaries were also guilty, including all plantation owners, for the practice of slavery was fundamentally immoral and depraved.  The lady of the house tells herself it is best to keep silent and let one person take all the condemnation.  This removes the attention of the press and the restless community away from her social circle and her own guilt. 

privileged mindset 
and undue exploitation -
cancer cell takes root

Inspired by A House in New Orleans Contest 
27 January 2016

Note:  The Lady of the House is a fictitious character, but relies heavily on historical background from:

1.	Mad Madam Lalaurie: New Orlean’s Famous Murderess Revealed  by Victoria Costner Love and Lorelei Shannon
2.	Old New Orleans, a History of Vieux Carre, Its Ancient and Historical Buildings by Stanley Clisby Arthur
3.	Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie, Wikipedia

Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016

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It's so simple,
So basic,
Yet we lack it.
Interaction is nothing without it.
Unable to make a bond because the fact is,
We've missed the point.
The point that connects you and me,
And not just on a family tree;
That connects us all from A to Z,
And not just on eHarmony.


Where did it go?
Or did we even have it years ago?
Afraid to go on the right track,
Because we might get stabbed in the back.
Locking our doors and checking it twice,
Like we're Santa Clause on a Christmas blight.
Putting a lock on our phone for protection,
Because your friends may use it as a weapon.
Hiding what belongs to us,
Because we lost our trust in all our lust.
But trusting each other is a must,
Because you cant spell trust without us.


A firm belief in the reliability,
Or strength in someone.
Can you think of anyone?
I am sure you can,
Maybe the one that holds your hand.
But for how long?
I'm sorry but it's true,
People can back-stab you.
But this can change starting with you,
Because if you trust people,
They'll trust you.
You may get hurt but at least you'll live,
With your heart on your sleeve and something to give.

So let's break this cycle of deceit and start this world anew.
It doesn't start with them,
It starts with you.
Trust someone and you will see,
How great this world could be,
For you and me.
It's not that hard so don't make it be,
It's only the fear of the possibility,
Of losing everything.
Don't fear,

Copyright © David Neuman | Year Posted 2014

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as the PROPHETS of profits, WE lead and WE’re fair
while WE’re living the life of the poor BILLIONAIRE
– silver yachts, pearly castles, cash (plenty to spare) –
with the world on OUR backs... ah! the burdens WE bear!

being HAVES (not the have-nots) as nature decrees
means WE’re certainly the better (they’re vermin on sleaze).
if they pray for a lift in their dark fantasies,
WE just kick ’em downstairs, get ’em off of their knees.

yes, WE offer great jobs (much too busy OURSELVES!)
for maintaining the toilets, restacking the shelves,
and WE teach ’em to fear god and play with the elves,
thus dispelling ideas where the dark demon delves.

though they build mighty bridges, twin towers and more,
peddle pizzas and popcorn, sell guns door-to-door,
still they gotta have BOSSES to tell ’em the score
else WE’d never be needed, WE’d thrive nevermore.

when OUR profits are plunging, they do their part too
for they dine on the dole! yes, no hullabaloo!
soon OUR fortunes  redouble, rebound and accrue –
since WE fare well without ’em, WE bid ’em adieu.

’stead of wishing for welfare and standing in queues
or parading with pickets (look! holes in their shoes!),
they’d be better off scabbing to save union dues
... while WE whistle and warble, they’re singing the blues.

whether heros or hoboes, like spiders and lice
they just crawl all around us in life’s paradise,
but WE’re patient, big hearted and oft sacrifice,
spewing charity, kindness (though each has its price).

if they’re beaten or punctured or suffer assault,
are unhealthy or crippled or walk with a halt,
or retarded or helpless, it’s all their own fault – 
just like US they should worship the DOLLAR exalt!

protesters and loud mouths, you’ll find ’em aplenty
some older, some younger, the worst not yet twenty.
they’re shameless and brazen (unwashed, soiled and scenty)
impugning the prestige of brave COGNOSCENTI.

if they’ve got clashing colors  (or shades in between)
or opposing beliefs in the hidden unseen, 
well, WE’ll always exploit it, deflecting their spleen,
for with god on each side, would WE dare intervene?

WE promote many methods to keep ’em in chains –
daily rags and the tube spin OUR circus campaigns
“to pretend you’ve a voice”, an announcement explains,
“you can vote and decide on which ONE of US reigns”.

OUR policemen protect US, they stay on the ball
(they arrest ’em, no questions per law’s protocol,
and then jam ’em in jail with their backs to the wall) –
if you’ve lucre for lawyers there’s justice for all.

down the ROYAL road of justice WE march all alone 
– WE condemn their defiance, set ways to atone –
since WE’re sinless, unsullied, WE cast the first stone
(while WE cloak REGAL fetor with eau de cologne).

politicians, bald bankers, grand idols galore,
attend meetings, fete banquets in which they explore
how to rid US of rodents (the weak and the poor) –
well, just round up the riff-raff, dispatch ’em to war!

ah! OUR wars are.... well, just...... just a thing of the past
........... and the present............... and future... WE sure make them last!
if they frown as they gaze (armageddon!) aghast,
then WE smile back with pleasure, OUR treasures amassed.

useless ranting and raving (in rags, when they’re clad),
leads to losing their teeth (my! their gums are... egad!).
WE’re unselfish, indulgent, WE’d never be mad
if they drowned in the sounds of themselves feeling sad.

as the paupers are princes in midnight’s domain,
they have pipe dreams to lose, certainly nothing to gain
if they’re hoping OUR fortunes will wither and wane –
for “WE’re here by god’s will” as WE often explain.

yes, they wish to be US, with OUR wisdom and grace,
keeping up with ol’ CROESUS, maintaining the pace.   
but perverseness or rancor? they’ll see not a trace –
for WE hold ’em at bay with a fist in the face.

WE’re la CRÈME de la CRÈME, yes! the proud UPPER CRUST,
and OUR clothes are the finest, OUR hair never mussed –
WE imbue ’em with piety, duty and trust 
and they’re fed bread and water (if feed ’em WE must).

but they’re thieving, aggrieved, want a piece of OUR PIE
and request WE endure ’em, see EYE to black eye.
since they live in OUR land where OUR strict rules apply,
they must feast on the crumbs that may fall from the sky.

though OUR largesse and bounty WE don’t mean to flaunt,
yet the pittance WE pay ’em they surely can vaunt –
salty peanuts and pretzels (what more could they want?)
thereby keeping their kiddies so healthily gaunt.

yes, there’s room for the rabble (the back of the bus)
’cause WE treat ’em like equals, so what’s all the fuss?
all can rise to the top (yes! it’s always been thus),
to the suites in OUR penthouse (to sweep up and dust).

while OUR CHILDREN have tutors, the finest of schools
(being bred for the forefront, THEY’re nobody’s fools),
the ol’ school of hard knocks teaches: “follow the rules”,
building brawn ’stead of brains and broad backs strong as mules’.

and to keep ’em in line (to ensure WE prevail)
WE now monitor phone calls and read all their mail
(civil rights? what a notion! at best a detail!)
and if worse comes to worst...... well...... guantanamo jail!

WE’ve OUR quandaries and questions and headaches full blown
(like deciding design and decor of OUR thrones...
whether diamonds or rubies... to ivory WE’re prone) –
when WE deign to appease ’em, WE chuck ’em some bones.

now you know all OUR problems, OUR pains and travails,
– like preparing foreclosures, evictions  and sales –
but WE’ve no need for worries or gnawed fingernails,
’cause WE’re sailing OUR yachts through tempestuous gales
(with them bailing OUR banks when OUR stock market fails)
sipping daiquiri sours, champagne, ginger ales...

Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013

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On the outside, looking in

"When humanity becomes louder than love, stay out of its way. At times, it's better to be the lion in the distance, rather than the sheep losing their way...again."

This was the 1st time
I felt out of place.

Its impact mimicked abused parallelograms
Unto emptiness’ solution

I witness sliced wrists shedding bohemian smiles.

Testament verses
Latching onto anchors of invalid mo(u)rning

There was no sunrise to be found,
Because humanity kept making love to silhouetted blinders

I was surrounded by shovels
For the sake of digging louder messages’ trench

While I
Caress incipient wings
And half-full Windex bottles
Just to keep perception from clouding my lyrics

Because nobody wants to see eye to eye…


…cataract-laced speeches permeate tainted whispers
Of an innocent breath 
For B-rated serendipity

Oh, this was the 1st time
I felt out of place.

Turning away from windowed afflictions
To step towards gratitude’s breath

No longer looking in

How good it feels.

Yet, I still miss my friends.

©Drake J. Eszes 

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2014

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A Woman From God

A Woman from God

I do not cover my eyes because God gave me sight; just as he did man
I do not cover my face because God made the sun to shine on it; just as it does man
I do not hold my voice because God made it beautiful; just as he did man
I do not hold my thoughts because God gave me sense; just as he did some men
He gave me a mind that I may know one day I will see a better place than this
…that I might hold on to the hope of living where life is no longer ruled by the arrogance of man

He told me I was a complement; that I balance the one for whom I was made.
….because I too was made in His image.

                                                             ~FJ Thomas

Copyright © FJ Thomas | Year Posted 2015

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The Party

The Party

Everyone is festive
All the ladies in pretty dresses

Champagne in flutes
Flirts in Armani suits

Waiters and penguins
Serving wine and cheeses

Musicians playing tango delights
Diplomats avoiding land mines and devastated sites

I toast them, one and all
Vodka and Russians can not dance

I can drink you all, under and over
Tossing empty bottles over me shoulder

Pretty ladies and purple purses
Drunken observations as the poet muses

Who would bed me now?
So drunk and wise with broken fuses

No one, can see the poetic disguise
Of the lonely man seeking only lies

The tenderness of the Spanish kiss
Hold me, dear dream, caress me inside

The floor is full of empty plates
The party is over, so it seems is my fate

I fall asleep under a street lit lamp
The richest of bums in an old cul du sac

If only before that fateful day
I could suckle upon the breast once more

We are all infants no matter the shore
Love should never have parted out that door

Sanity was broken and tossed away like lore
I mumbled the petty desires of the broken man

I tore out my heart, bloody and beating in my hands
Laid it bare upon the sands

Coupled with crabs
The universe re-created

Eaten raw, love was consumed
New beasts shall roam

Sunken eyes and empty chest
I, am the one who is no more

Tall tails and party hats
The forgotten are never fancy cats

Until one day you meet the maker
Of your story, cooked by the baker

Ovens shall burn and choirs sing
The devil you see, had the last ring

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

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A twisted tale -Jane's Jewel-

Mardi Gras "The Medieval Story"  

On a hot, heavy night in Orleans,
Joan and Jane were seen rubbing chest on chest
An inviting, intimate moment, to undress
Two pretty trimmed tops, eating like dames
They touched in ways, that drove those who make war insane
The secret spilled before the sun sprawled across the floor

Medieval England, banging on iron set doors,
All around men and women, wanting to witness the whiplash 
Beads and beads of love, thrown at their feet
Joan' and Jane', having fun in front of, yesterdays courtyard
Sweet acts of flagellation were performed to stimulate the crowd
Screaming, and receiving, intense, brutal lacerations 
In the eyes of endless nudity, everything wet in between 
Left to right, a secluded society, dance in masquerade 
Two men rise and ravage Jane, from hip to hip
Join-in, was a Jouster, and Lord Johnsburg, 
They came in a little closer to claim, Joan
Closing, and inflicting as much damage as possible

Crestfallen forces of the unknown, -the audience grows
Remain firm and indulge this wet period of the Middle Ages,

The first crusade held stones in each hand, 
Applauding to neck the beauty of friends
A noose hanging high held no head on this day
Yelling to feel the pain perils of anguish, 
This was in reality the vassal of Jane
The King, ask to see them on their knees
Before he seeded, sending the Spanish tickler, 
Fetching for the finest skin
At her end, Joan, watched Jane, spread like never before
Perfumed skin, rising up in smoke, -Joan's final stroke
Left burning at the Stake, In a Medieval World, from hell
The Siege of Joan and Jane did not end well
A lonely Bard, now sits and sings a sadistic tale,
A tale, of dirty deeds, -a dancing bloody masquerade 
Joan and Jane, compensating for the Mardi Gras Parade


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014

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Call Me Insensitive

You call me insensitive,
But I don't believe that's true;
Because, you see,
It's all about me.
It's not about you.

You say your opinion doesn’t matter,
That I’ve no respect for your point of view;
But I do if we agree,
Because it’s all about me.
It’s not about you.

You say I’ve no compassion,
No feelings for your troubles or your blues;
But none of us is issue free,
And mine are all about me;
But…not about you.

A time old adage, 
“To thine own self be true.”,
Is all about choices you see.
My choices are all about me,
And, certainly, not about you.

So, when free or forced to make your choices
You’ll understand and know it’s true 
To decide what will or will not be,
Won’t be at all about me;
It will be all about you

But special moments confront each of us,
When what matters isn’t “Me”.
And while these moments are few,
They’re not about me, not about you.
For a time, it’s all about “We.”

Yes, “…no man is an island.”
Is a valid point of view;
But if it’s not about “We”, 
Then it’s all about me.
Sorry.  It’s not about you.

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

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Out of the Sun

             in the sun 
              to long
 The skin became the bark of a tree
 the soul turning to brittle scars
 for uncaring worlds to see.
             my face
            is a pile of 
           old owl bones
sewn into banks of midnight creeks...
even the plump, over ripened ones 
no longer look at me...
but if their car was desert flat,
their oil grim reaper black
they'd paint a wormy, water colored  smile...
slide it through my barbed wired heart
so long as I could spin the jack...
so I spin it until their potholes turn to satin-
              in the sun
               to long
the mind has smoothed over 
like pebbles in Saturn rings..
a forgotten spice in the conversation of life
an hour later the word snuggles up to me

Tomorrow or forever( which ever comes first),
I'll stay wrapped inside
till my skin turns back to ivory
to an easter egg yesterday 
to a time of bouncing ball and spinning jack,
when the mind was a great silky nest...
the face a flowered meadow place 
where watercolors swirled all day, 
the heart worms kept at bay.

I'll stay hidden within the weeds, 
till the jewels of memories soothe 
every scar - every stripe,
the molten knots of cruelty,
till the sweetened fruit reclaims the tree.
until then only my curtains breathe...
       ...stayed in the sun 
              to long

Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2013

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Lotsa Limericks - It Couldn't be Verse

		1. Big Brother
Big Brother's protecting his mice
with a secret eavesdropping device.
          If you hang up the phone
          he'll just send in a drone
when a warrant won't really suffice.

		2. Neutrality
The internet's meant to be free,
yes for all, such as you, such as me.
          But now there's some doubt -
          will it lose all its clout
with the death of neutrality's spree?

		3. Privacy
'twas surely our forefather's dread
all our emails would someday be read.
	Now that push comes to shove
	by the powers above,
private thoughts must now stay in our head.

		4. Guantanamo 
Guantanamo bay's a resort
where the fishing's a fabulous sport -
	with your back on a board
	tepid water is poured
spawning tales for a kangaroo court.

		5. Banks
To bountiful bailouts give thanks
for there's nothing much richer than banks -
	making money galore
	taking homes from the poor
while they're managing mortgaging pranks.

		6. Health
If you live in the States don't get sick
(lest a cut of the upper class clique).
	Whether injured or ill
	all they'll give you's a pill -
if you're lucky you'll surely die quick.

		7. Economy
Our economy's doing just fine
lying dead with a slug in the spine.
	So come follow the call
	where there's money for all
and pure profit's the bottom-most line.

		8. Safety
Vigilantes and cops are wide spread -  
as for justice… not even a shred.
	The avengers of right
	score when stalking the night 
so beware of a cap in the head.

Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2014

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Dust Bunnies

Some places exist which folks need to clean,
like deep in a closet or under a bed.
Such spots get ignored because they’re unseen.
Those in plain view get attention instead!

Some children exist we choose to ignore,
for they are not ours. They live out of sight.
Unwanted, unloved, and rarely cared for;
some rich, others poor - they share the same plight.

Their life is a darkness where they’ve been thrown.
They are gathering dust; no voice have they.
Their sorrows are only to God fully known -
these dust bunnies, growing more filthy each day.

They are the future, and in a short time
they will have become society’s grime.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

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A Pregnant Lass

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her - 
Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread:  “her age? a sweet 16,
With child, unwed, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.”
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
In limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
And all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
Which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
Neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
But Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire - 
Beyond the nave, a gravelled grave, the final Rectifier”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012

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Childhood Dreams

Naiveté wraps the child
until the chills slowly
begin to snuggle in,
smothering the illusions leaving
the residuals of sickness
and disappointment
that is man.


Contest: Fallen
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Entrant: Rob Carmack
Written: 11.29.15
Word Count: 25

My person was the entire human race.  As a child, I viewed adults as ethically advanced and emotionally stable.  Thought of world as an Utopia – the best trip I ever had.  From this disappointment, I was given the contrast to appreciate forgiveness and those I found that are advanced.  

Copyright © rob carmack | Year Posted 2015

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My City

Of the Gods own country of this paradise where green and blue merge as one in the north is a city that encompass the beauty where the dream lands meet lined by kaasaraka trees where seven tongues are spoken and a unique lingo was woken lined by shores and calm beaches which meets with forts of ancient elegance who can pass by with no notice the mountains high and hillocks of beauty forests green and tranquil rivers places of worship, unique structures renowned for coir and handloom and for its customs varied The people here, with a smile of warmth welcoming with open arms known for their variety dishes which does prick ones tastebuds of the sense of fashion who can beat their passion and their thirst for knowledge is to be acknowledged fame it has know from times of yore of the arts and culture it beholds this is the city of budding talents feel the vibe and do relent © Nadiya(14 May '15)
*Chosen poem of the day on 16 May 2015

Copyright © poesy relish | Year Posted 2015

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my ticket

this is not just a poem
this is my ticket out of here
these are not just words
there steps taking me somewhere
this isn't just a page in a book
it's a society taking a second look
and taking me up another level
rescuing me from a devil
that held me down for so so long

this is not just a poem
this is someones dream
a picture of heaven
a wonderous scene
this is a heart filled with love
words that tell the meaning of
to a society taking a second look
this is not just a page in a book
it's something to ponder
bidding take a deeper look

this is not just a poem
this is a call to arms
on the lips of our heroes
in the hearts of our sons
join in the battle for freedom
join in the battle of love
join in the name of the Father
and the Son
this is not just a verse in a song
it's a universal call to make right
what is wrong

this is not just a poem
this is a child to a barren man
a tombstone a monument
i inscribe with my own hand
my institution my revolution
my way to move on
my dedication for your education
and encouragement to be strong
these are my words
that i hope i used well
in hope that this poem
is my ticket out of hell

Copyright © The Situation | Year Posted 2012

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What the Lord gave

The sun rests in its golden orb, shining bright dazzling the eyes
Meadows green with dew drops fresh, the cattle lazing away cries
The farmhands nap beneath the trees, the breeze caress and dies
As the curfew knells folks head home and pray
Thanking the Lord for the rewarding day
Face brimming with sheer bliss and mirth
Content they praise and sing from birth
What true happiness can be witnessed herein
For the Lord blesseth those who seek of him.

Those greedy and selfish , pine more riches 
Idle days wasted, in slumber and glitches
While holding contempt for those plebeians
And are never content,  contrasting agrarians
No time for Lord, who observe cadence
No more thanks for the blessings immense 

Heaven doth beckon those who believe
And the rest he reckon, to try and grieve

This is the day that God gave to play and he purvey
This is the day that God gave to toil and stop foil
This is the world that God gave, for men to live and pray
This is the world that God gave to care, share and stay.

What a wonderful world!!!

© Nadiya (28 Jan '15)

*Won 3rd place on 30 Jan 2015 in the contest 'This is the day that Lord gave' by Verlena S. Walker

Copyright © poesy relish | Year Posted 2015

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The Old man of Merces1

The Old man of Merces  

His wrinkled face bearing slaps of time
His eyes barren like a desert starved of rain
Glittering they must be during his prime
Crumbling body holding spirit in chain

His trembling hands resting on knees
Sinking and floating in thoughts deep 
Oblivious of dry leaves falling of trees
Looking exhausted from lack of sleep

Unloved by loved ones abandoned by friends
His profile silhouetted like a ship aground
Tired of beleaguered life’s twists and bends
Wishing his soul ascended the chariot Heaven-bound

A loveless life senseless for him
Agony and heartache ceaseless for him
The society appears as heartless for him
A longer living meaningless for him

My heart urged to stop by and greet
His souring thoughts from confines of chest release
The man with love and compassion treat
But alas my tongue isn’t Portuguese

Each day in the morning cold
The snow-haired I found, resting on a boulder
Wearing a coat lusterless and old
With the muffler around neck hanging over shoulder

After absence of few months as I return
I find him no more on the boulder dozed
Like boiling waters in vapor turn
Seeing everything with eyes closed

With spirit in bondage and soul in chain
The picture of despair in a society blind
The symbol of affliction, anguish and pain
The venerable old man I failed to find
 1 A small town in Sintra District in Portugal


Copyright © Mohammad Yamin | Year Posted 2010

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*(For Me, the soup tastes good, For others...not so much.)

INDEED, there may be something wrong with the Soup
if spices don't get right many people will be leaving the table soon.

Good people have pointed out problems with taste and temperature to MGMT
only to fall on deaf ears.
Apparently the problems have been stewing for years.

There are hard working mothers, fathers, sons, daughters and grandparents
fighting for a cause in which they firmly believe.
They pay fees each year to a leader who they don't know and cannot see.

They taste and they eat and they share with the community.
They've invested with time and money and poured out their hearts with much 

Forty to one lopsided comment reply ratios have made their day hard
all these folks want is a little quality soup after punching the old time card.

I've sat at the table and witnessed smiles erase in defeat.
I've listen to their requests get neglected each day on repeat.

Where is the owner operator, could someone please step in and perform a 
table visit?
Getting this restaurant up to code ain't everything I suppose, but it'd sure be 

Now I'm just an outsider, secret shopper if you will,
Getting this change in motion would ease so many emotions...
consider it dessert taken off the bill.

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2014

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Slouching Toward Ferguson

His life was gentle, and the elements
so mixed in him that Nature might stand up and

bodies in unregistered cars idling softly toward oblivion

some quick to anger
some quick to profit
some quick for justice
some tigers lapping blood
some mothers still at 3AM

hands on shoulders with coos commanding
that in a tear and turned cheek there be 'integration'

parody: an orphan annie reboot
parody: 'little black sambo 'round the tiger pit he go!'

we have rioted the last of our colors
bleated them with flexed toes to the wall at the edge of the universe to reverberate starless between
and madness

we have bleated the last of our colors
with centuries gone by without tongue, sockets or lobes

we will bleed the last of our colors
some quick to die
some quick to steal
some quick to burn
some quick to 

lend me your car keys

in a night of full of Alarics
I will bury you

in a night full of piccaninnies
I will melt you to butter

in a night where flames are fishhooks
Sir I need you to step back please

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
we have cried Havoc
let slip
and with purple'd prose stamped this hollowed earth

We who have lived so long
shall with our breath turned mist
I need you to
stain only under stones
that pave with slippery breath
a headline for last weeks massacre
and tomorrow's graves
I need you to
I drew a line in the sand and you crossed it They are not breathing
Look! Look there!
No. I will not.
He dies

Copyright © Brooks Lindberg | Year Posted 2014

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The world wants a torch
but I only wished to be a candlelight.
It gives dim light but will never scorch
Though it will never be a highlight
but it can be your hope tonight.

The world think highly of leader
but my eyes admire those who serve
Leaders may seems stronger
It is all because those who are willing to serve
Even if it will lead them to their grave

The world wants a raging water
But I only want to be in still
Does it even matter?
There is nothing more for me to fulfill
To become greater is what the world wants to instill.

By: Doris Jamoner - 01/28/2015

Copyright © Doris Jamoner | Year Posted 2015

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don't know if human's will ever see every soul born, is right where it's meant to be For the rich to become the richest there has to be a place for the poorest The entire world is built up from the same level of dirt each soul is born without knowledge to cause hurt Humanity teaches us what a human's life is worth, by money and glory I am to believe all lives are priceless, every soul fit's to tell Earth's story The luckiest to be born, is that of a poor man he learn's the treasures, of everything he can Those born into all riches, have no true understanding of richness seeing us not as human's, but those living in poverty as an illness Love start's from the soul, and from there it is taught to grow the rich find another kind of love, one only brought with dough Love, trust, compassion and grace defining the difference in richest and wealth t'is the beggar off the street, who climbs the toughest road to earn his wealth He is the most blessed man, he is rewarded with the most valuable key for his wealth is humanly uncountable, for only God know's the value of he...

Copyright © Denise Hopkins | Year Posted 2013

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Loud Mouth

Inspired by Machinehead – Darkness Within (Acoustic version) & members of society who refuse to embrace the kiss of silence…

As great intentions
Wither upon invalidated declarations,
Serenity’s crowd holds teary-eyed candles
Making silent wishes
For the venom to be sucked

Loudness’ waxy build-up
Making filthy demands
In delegated hostage stand-off

Cocked pistols, insignificant
Firing duds against glasshouses
Rubbing “war-torn” palms
Within cemented rubber bands

Forgetting life’s lesson
To shut their raging mouth
If they truly want to be heard

Amnesia’s warning sign to muzzle thyself
For one meaningful second
To ALLOW a merging of disappointed truths
Into their heartbeats

Salvation’s attempt to stifle boiling pressures of Sangre
From coming face to face with reality scythes

They latch onto plastic rosary beads
Fade to Black
Singing Gregorian prayers,
Removing knife from karma’s back

They strum in vain to please the Lord.

We see your true colors
Shining through

We see your true colors
That’s why we can no longer love you

Placing forced expectations 
Against vulnerable humanity
To lay weary heads on curtailed shoulder pads

With foolish attempts to swallow moot points
And pride-coated defibrillators
To jump start a heartbeat, extinct

Forgetting that even self-made pedestals
Have a limited warranty

I see your true colors
Shining through…

©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013