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Elegy Political Poems | Elegy Poems About Political

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

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Details | Elegy |

Eyes Never Dry

Her eyes were never dry
Since she was born she would always cry…
No matter what kind of lie I would tell
She would see right through me , a smile she didn't sell…
I don’t blame her when her lips fell…
She knew the world was aware of our pain…
She knew nobody cared about evils reign
She knew nobody cared about every body that laid lifeless on the city streets…
She knew…
So I understand…
In her still so young heart
Knowledge of the world there was that no man had…
Even though she knew it could get her killed she just couldn't stand 
When justice wasn't served 
When her mothers killers were free
And we get something no human deserves…
So I ask her please smile… 
The pain will last just for a little while…

Copyright © Zeki Majed | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |

Nuclear Armageddon

How is our mad world going to end?
With a deadly bang or a whimper?
Most people rarely stop to think of
Hiroshima and Nagasaki these days.
When they do, they usually think
that the Japanese fully deserved it:

“Didn't they attack Pearl Harbor?
We vaporized their women and kids
only because Tojo killed our men!
We incinerated their two cities to
save the lives of our fighting men
who were about to invade Japan.”

That's how the world keeps going....
A pompous, loud-mouthed general—
his testosterone level running high—
wants to teach Moscow a lesson
never to defy our global Empire....

A proud and imperious admiral—
aircraft carriers on his sword belt— 
wants to show the Chinese who's 
the boss in the South China Sea....

Bellicose diplomats want to lynch Assad,
like they did Libya's Muammar Gaddafi,
and open a dangerous nuclear game of
chicken with the Russians in Syria....

As the French say, the more things
change, the more they stay the same. 
People (not just the Bourbons) have
learned nothing and forgotten nothing.

This is how our world will end.
This is how our world will end.
This is how our world will end.
Our crazy world will end with a
roaring, fiery, annihilating bang 
and then a ghastly final whimper!

Copyright © Ross Vassilev | Year Posted 2016

Details | Elegy |

A comrade like Ben

                                 A Comrade like Ben

A statesman like Mandela diplomatically
suspended the necessary struggle of opposites,
gummed his fragmented land together with reconciliation….
exploiters to exploited , murderers to martyrs
imperialist to invisibled indigenes  
lives in Sandton and councils Bill Clinton
and Naomi Campbell on plush carpets

a sinewy activist, hard as nails, like yourself…
Ben Palmer Louw, always
beautiful in your pregnant concern
that freedom , dignity and justice
is tangible and beautiful as black skin, kinky hair
is real when a continent’s wealth is fairly shared
is manifested when the state collapses in selfless deeds

old man Nelson turned ninety and is now a teddy
to those who feared the terrorist at forty.
He no longer speak for himself but for his party 
and the party is a self-serving affair.

Pity your death at thirty-something
when Nelson started talking to his racist oppressors.

For ten years you and your young militant army
punctured holes in the racist ideology, 
marched flames and thunder through townships,
died in your thousands, 
stopping with blood and bones
bullets casted for centuries by the fascist
in black holes of greed and fear.  

“A shame … but subversion is to blame ”
`` the defenders of law and order loudly exclaimed 
“Not good for business”…the moneybags conceded
“ if Soweto bleeds , profit –rates  receeds . ”
“Give black chiefs and compradors the garrotte 
 and stick the small change of capital under their nose  .
 They will throttle the radical noises at the root ”.  

Wounded deeply, your rapid-firing baritone voice
still thundered on battle-fields and in halls,
urging us to destroy mental and wage slavery.
I saw you fight for freedom 
the whole scorching way,
every hour of that long bloody apartheid day…
but one night
you leaped ,
proud black brother of mine,
right into the sky…
fist raised high as heaven with a two-hour smile
whispering re-assuringly “Don’t ever give up, gents…
the harder they come , the harder they fall. 
See… brothers and sisters…revolution is!

In memory and respect to Ben Palmer Louw (1950-1987)a student leader of 1976 soweto insurrection 			

Copyright © Neil Mcdonald | Year Posted 2011

Details | Elegy |

Rondelet: Rat-a-tat-'tat

  For the Sandy Hook Newtown
children and their mentors

Rondelet: Rat-a-tat-'tat

Rattle staccato riddle tumble
Toppled children scatter rat-tat
Innocent voices all tremble
Rifled trillions sure-fire treble

(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2012

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012

Details | Elegy |

Farewell with Obama


As a yellow Asian man
from the poor country
next to Afghanistan 
I am also was very proud
when  mister Obama
won electing company in US.
But now when American police
failed deeply in our region,
and the US-airbase in  Manas
has expelled from Kyrgyzstan,
i am understood  clearly
the popular nowadays proverb
son of slave cannot be a good king
and in his place would been luckier  McCain,
sorry all of us, dear Obama,
but our world in your time,
has been needfull  deadly
for somebody  remained little
Alexander the Great.
Who just  come in Central Asia
with peaceful and strong  invasion
and expelled  the evil and rotten regimes,
that enslaved our people and dozen  nations,
instead have been expelled himself
and left us for multiplying destroyers. 
But I am hope for West that returning again
as coming from where the  truly Christianity
and free and deep interpretation of Holy scriptures,
and hope for Eternal life and peace
where shall not been the great empires
and theirs games, intrigues and  bloody sacrifices. 

Copyright © zamir osorov | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |


Posturing politicians pursuing their
pompous persona,oblivious of the
obvious,contemptuous of the common
man,and common sense that therein abides.
Such bella-donnas,a deadly night-shade
in their braying bubble poisoned our 
enfranchisement,those hard won rights
we and our forefathers sweated blood,
tears & long years to achieve.
Without a glance or referendum obliterated
on the altar of ego,subsumed to the
domination of the bureaucratic oligarchy 
of Brussels.
O England,that once fair land,alas 
now forever laid bare.

Listen to me recite this structured prose elegy on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2014

Details | Elegy |

Remembering Denis Healey

Lord Denis Healey was an intellectual Labour MP, 
Who represented Leeds in the Commons for 40 years,
From 1952 until 1992,
When he could at last objectify as a Lord his real tears.

He was a Beach Master hero in World War Two,
But his bravery continued in his post-war politics, 
When he advised other politicians on how Britain could,
Live within her means to become again productive, good. 

He was then Secretary of State for Defence,
Between 1964 and 1970,
When the Cold War so frightened and intimidated the many,  
Who just wanted their war victory respected in reverence. 

When he became the Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1976,
He demanded an emergency loan from the IMF, 
To save the pound from decline and most certain collapse, 
When Britain was fast approaching that Winter of Discontent, lapse. 

However, after that Labour did not see power until 1997,
But Healey became the Deputy Labour leader in 1980; 
And for most of the 80s he was Shadow Foreign Secretary,
And was slow at Falkland Island assault and battery.

He was normally on the right of the Labour party, 
A patriot who championed social justice,
Who guided us through some very dangerous times,
Where the country’s growing pains were his signs. 

He’s the last surviving member of the cabinet, 
Of Harold Willson’s government in 1964,
But when he graduated from Balliol Oxford in Greats, 
Him and the Communist Party were pally mates.

He had a love of classical music, 
But was enthused and besotted by poetry;
Shakespeare and Wordsworth were his philosophers, 
And Blake and Butler Yeats he always did glorify. 

Denis Healey died aged 98 at his home in Surrey on the 3rd of October 2015

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Elegy |

Africa for Sale

Feel the privatization in its might
A bullet in the African soul-
The sectors sold
The branches squared.

Our pride dwindles
When our Africa is slowly auctioned
To forces of stealth
Ruiners of our democracy.

Our masters slowly gather the spilled milk
Stride by stride
Grinning at the auction table
Their eyes glued on the politician’s billboard:

Copyright © Gerald Nforche | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |

My Kashmir Burns (Part 1)

I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. News of another massacre darkens my eyes
Winds are thirsty there. They continue to taste the young blood.
I groom myself with exquisite things,
Sipping ice tea in ac room, I comfort myself
And Kashmir burns. Kashmir set ablaze

I can smell the warm blood of beaten corpse
Where from winds bought this smell. Somewhere Karbala reborn.
Mosques are being slammed
There windows stoned. And the black boots leave their footprints on Mimber
Even God judges on evidence
There is one Imaam left now; he hides her daughters in his shadow
A blunt knife in his hands; soon he will sacrifice them to keep their innocence
Kashmir is burning. Kashmir is bleeding
And I write.

Army jeep chases the tracks. To find the associated bodies
They are alive now. Soon they will be dead
From Patan to Sopor, And in narrow passages of nostalgic downtown
Ghosts of curfew
Haunt the houses for young souls.

From the Kupwara cantonments, search lights chase emptiness
Nothing is left now. Search lights can’t see inside the graves
A boy there went missing for two days. His father starts digging his grave.
I put my earphones on and I close my eyes. I sleep
While my Kashmir is ablaze
“It’s me poor farmer’s son. Kupwara’s charm, I feel no pain”.
I see him so alive in my dreams.
He chants songs of Mahjoor from his burnt lips. My hands shiver. He has no finger nails.
I see his smoke tanned skin. Same as that of Khayam’s barbeques
He stands at a distance from me. I can still smell kerosene
“Tell my mother to let her heart become cold. Her heart will not bear my state.
Tell my mother to let her eyes become blind. Her eyes will not withstand my sight.”
I follow him towards his tortured body. He tells me to follow the spilled blood.
His blood has made its own Jhelum. I row on it. Until it gets lost in black boots
The story will turn into legend. I find his body no more.

On the streets silence prevails. Nobody has permission to wail.
Sisters are beatifying coffins while brothers look for stones.
For bullets there will be stones
Kashmir is ablaze. She is wailing in grotesque tones.
In Lal Ded hospital a new born cries: Father register me at cantonment then take me out
Death is recruiting in dozens at a time.
Tomorrow is curfew. Death has no curfew pass.
How they want to identity you. Becomes your identity
People burn up all you identity cards.

Copyright © Muzzaffar Ahmad Shah | Year Posted 2010

Details | Elegy |

West in our hearts

That was the worthiest step and decision
our pressing  to US for its airbase in Manas  expelling
from our land. The politic so vexed
so self-destructive  and  depressive
from various points and consequences.

When all our ancestors
from beginning of times, edem and hell
dreamed unlock our region
for west legions,
even if that were a war troops.
We gratefully received Alexander the Great,
for his strong impetus
joining West and East
and after his death
created own legion
of great conquerors,
from Kudzula Kadfises,
till Atilla the Great, Tamerlan
and last dreamers -  great Mogols.
All of them devoured to reach
the West values almost maniacal
through India, Russian, Byzantium, Germany
mainly  on horses
but sometimes  on  bouts of Baltics Vikings.

So mister president of Kyrgyz Republic
be honest and wise and brave
for truly friendship with West air force,
that so kind and friendly
deployed in our land
and so profitable
give  us  great money for our safety,
instead our paying them.

Why on Earth we trying
to be so polite with Russian
and so harsh and rude with USA?

West in our hearts
ask our grandfathers
from Kudzula
till yours favorite Kutuzov?
All of them fighting for freedom
and West values.

I didn understand completely
yours Kremlin patron
for his unnatural  hatred
the USA  and West  as whole
as if Russia don't belong to Europe,
so strangely polite with various enemies
of West,
as if he badly  want to leave
in company
with Ahmanijad, Bashar Asad,
Kim Chen Yr
and other moderns  Orcas and Goblins,
where nothing  from  common sense and eloquent.
We are urgently ask you, mister Putin,
left this airbase  with us.
Kyrgyz people so long
wanted to be with West
even with its military base
better,  then with traditional allies
our bastard friends and cultural comrades
around us
right in the centre
so long and hopeless  locked  Eurasia.

Copyright © zamir osorov | Year Posted 2014

Details | Elegy |


Hit Me with Your Best Shot - We are Orlando

A rainbow of all the droplets of color, 
begins to run with a red that bleeds. 
And from the sky it can mix any palette,
instead of parity and one of misdeeds.

The drinks are mixed in fun and joy,
as lanky men dance Hip Hop in form.
So young they live, despite brutal hate,
and also know, they're part of the norm.

The music peals, the voices double,
and laughter sings within their eyes. 
Two women dance, a close hot Rumba, 
they're young in age with spirits wise.

A bartender zips out the orders of shots, 
for two Hot Damns and one Captain Coke.
Bring on five more of Irish Car Bombs,
it is last order up, with the shots, not a joke. 

In the gray swirl of the dance by the girl, 
and the dudes there, more happy than gay.
Hearing shots, not the drinks, no time to think, 
as their bodies fall, the last breath in the fray. 

Falling down like the movie, or empire!
Jumping fast, through a hole in a door. 
Disappearing, becoming camouflaged,
to hide like an elephant stuck to the floor.

The man in the dark is unhinged and unstable, 
he laughs at himself, the dying, their fears.  
He's no martyr; his cause is but suicide,
to splash in their blood and dance in their tears. 

Who bore the arms in protecting the innocent?
What ammunition or gun rang freedom's bell? 
Was there life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness,
when at the nightclub, in Orlando, the last body fell? 

By Edlynn Nau
© June 14, 2016
Flag Day

Copyright © Edlynn Nau | Year Posted 2016

Details | Elegy |

My Kashmir Burns (Part 2)

Another son is dead, until five he lived.
For his long life at Shah-Hamdan he had threads tied
“Shehij ninder yee nai. Gahas Kormakh Khudayas Hawale”, his mother cries.
No news can penetrate across the mountains. Satellites work here no more
My Kashmir burns. And no one knows.
An old woman with torn scarf sits besides fire. While feeding her neighbor’s child
She sighs. Is my son dead or alive? She silently cries.
In Madrasa I hear children reciting Quran. A girl’s come out dragging her feet.
I remember her from somewhere. I remember her seeing naked. 
Oh! God she is the one who was raped.

Nights have turned pitch black. My eyes are losing the habit of sight
Midnight soldier’s set another house ablaze. At least there is some sort of light.
Many letters have been written to God. Postcards posted of those raped girl’s 
But its curfew again. No post office deliver’s the message again.
Death comes from everywhere. Close your windows mother
For bullet respects no womb. It turned Gulistans into tombs.
From the plains the visitors come to visit their God’s
They are our only witnesses but hypocrites at heart.
They say paradise is kaasmir. While my Kashmir is ablaze
They testify against us. Is anybody witnessing this? No one at all
Be witness to at least this. Open up your eyes my Lord!

When paradise is painted with colors of hell, certainly divinity loses its grace
In the news the reporter is beaten. Bamboo sticks are hungry for human blood.
Let Kashmir go to hell. A new promise in their portfolio.
Threads have given up at Dastegeer’s place. Even they are horrified at our fate.
In Maisuma boys are dragged by police. They close their dreams, end their screams
In a police gypsy.
Men shape into monsters when they are given right to anarchy.
The gypsy drives them into the dark cantonments. They will remember this day
Interrogation officer comes. After celebrating his son’s birthday.
The winds from the cantonments bring their news
Burned tires around their necks. Burning stoves near their heads.
The knife tearing up their flesh.
And the boys cry, “We haven’t batted yet. Cricket. We know nothing”.

Death wants children to be headlines
Hunger has affected the heavens as well.
Graves are full. No more space left.
We need land of the plains. For our graves.
In the ac car the bureaucrat goes. The mother’s with search full eyes
Ask about their sons they lost. They drink their tears
And he sips champagne.

Copyright © Muzzaffar Ahmad Shah | Year Posted 2010

Details | Elegy |

Against the wind

Who threw water on the wick?
Who, as restless and trapped
can survive in this necropolis?
Trumpeting down the walls
that are not of Jericho.
Trumpeting down the walls
that besiege a chthonic people.

Tonight I shall return as a black dove
to bring you an oak tree branch from Dodona
And a darkness full of lightning
all the way from the palace of Atropos.
So that you stay up all night 
and knead
a bright sunshine for tomorrow.

"Good morning wind-vane",
to say when morning comes,
"where do the winds blow from today?"
And just like a white horse 
to gallop against the wind.

Copyright © Dimitris Varos | Year Posted 2012

Details | Elegy |

Africa for Sale

Feel the privatization in its might
A bullet in the African soul-
The sectors sold
The branches squared.

Our pride dwindles
When our Africa is slowly auctioned
To forces of stealth
Ruiners of our democracy.

Our masters slowly gather the spilled milk
Stride by stride
Grinning at the auction table
Their eyes glued on the politician’s billboard:

Copyright © Gerald Nforche | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |

Marie for President

Marie may be for President,                                     
Now in our hearts she`s resident.                            
Truly has a heart of gold,                                               
It should be widely told.                                                

Marie  `s hard working through and through,          
Great champion of the weak, we knew.                 
Clearly able to connect,                                                 
She`s earned our due respect.                                       

Great minister, mother, and wife,                                   
To help us, is her way of life.                                     
Marie stands so straight and tall,                                  
So loved by one and all.                                              

Copyright © Ryan Farmer | Year Posted 2014

Details | Elegy |

The Truth About Paradise

I used to think we lived in a world
With nothing at all to fear.
I used to believe we lived in a land
So perfectly crystal clear.
Away from sadness, away from anger,
Away from the clutches of hate.
I used to be full of innocence
Back when I was eight.
Now my best friends are both anorexic
And one's been raped four times.
And that girl who's aunt and uncle beat her?
She's a friend of mine.
I know a boy whose mother uses
His disabilities and disorders
To abuse him without touching him
In ways not against the law.
And his stepfather helps her do this to him
Because he's far too much in love
To realize that what they're doing
Is just morally wrong.
I have a friend who's terrified
For her father's life
Because she never knows when she'll find
That he's been killed in the strife.
It's a war of many, a war of hate,
And, sadly, for some people, fun,
And the only thing harder than being a soldier,
I've found, is loving one.
But no matter how many times people say
That they're glad there's only one war
There are many unacknowledged wars.
Just walk through your own front door.
I used to think our world was
A wonderful paradise.
Now I see that there's far too much
That's covered up in life.

Copyright © Maddie Tuning | Year Posted 2011

Details | Elegy |

The Lost Warmth and Me

The Lost Warmth and Me

Judus in the Garden of Gothsemane can trick
An Adam once again.

The pain opens teeth and grins 
At the face of our helpless obsession.
We breath sulpher--

Oh yes, human chemistry is changing. 

The warmth slips out of me
Yet, I feel ok with it --
The sulpher sustains our decayed souls.

Copyright © Sadat Khan | Year Posted 2011

Details | Elegy |

Bombay Missiles

From the eyes of Shangri-la and words indited in bulletin
spoken by  bellwethers and imagery on broadcasts
Felt the passing of breaths and federation menace.

The scourge abided by cause of hooliganism
By a group of libertine, 
Held, ye plot to an affright baker’s dozen bams.
He who fended collared gravely, and he who
Fathered, headed for the hills. 
Passing of breaths and the devour city
Bellowing mother’s cry and bemused father
The helpless baby yet addled with a smile.
The speechless contrarian and the stock market blues
Mongers fall back and the bollywood whodunit. 
Queried world and hastening federations 
The eventual address to make for red alert. 

Staked City and yet another lionize attack
To their day of remembrance on the cause of vandalism
Dawdled to a tetrad later 
Abided by the juvenility of their community
Held, ye plot to an heptad bams.
Office hour rushed shush dead to the world
Aghast citizenry and deplorable family
Her plighting husband to return and son’s oft exacts
Left apart for an unknown time.

Ruled by terrorism, shame upon faith
Around-the-clock yet another hark back
Abided by the army of pure
Held, ye plot to tenner explosions.
Challenges taken were overwhelm 
An arrest bore witness
From the eyes of Shangri-la and words indited in bulletin
spoken by  bellwethers and imagery on broadcasts
Felt the passing of breaths and federation menace.

Copyright © Swairik Das | Year Posted 2010

Details | Elegy |

RIP Police Constable Keith Palmer 2017

RIP Police Constable Keith Palmer 2017.
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author

Who shall we bury today?
Who has been taken away?
Not me yet I’m pleased to say.
So I can write these words today!

As we mourn loved ones lost.
Or friends we knew, in days gone past.
Lost to us but not high above!
Where innocents go to be loved.

Cry not more tears, I beg of you.
Remember me as you should do.
The last time you were full of glee.
Remember that time you spent with me.

We mourn a special man today.
Killed on duty policing I say.
Policing outside our country’s Parliament.
Unarmed on duty in these days of torment.

In heaven, he will surely take his place.
Head held high, with no disgrace.
So when we all pass Saint Peter’s gate.
Don’t be surprised to see his face.

Of course off-duty he will not be.
Saint Peter’s gate is so busy.
Yet all who queue to enter there.
Cause no trouble I do declare.

So when we finally do die.
Shake his hand, will you and I.
For he did not die in vain!
At Saint Peter’s gate he is on duty again.

Copyright © STANLEY Harris | Year Posted 2017

Details | Elegy |

One for today's thinking

I have wandered into a human stew of inopportunity, as my marriage/love/parental life have all come to an abrupt closure, noncompliance and final withdrawal from any real meaning. Am I dead yet? Not necessarily, but it seems that entity is not so remotely absent from my thoughts, as it once was given the supposed social tenure of our powers to control our nature, so now it seems "stupid" to even begin to engage a strategy, plan, answer to reclaim that "Lost Horizon" that will put me, us back into a Nirvanal state of eloquent bliss so aptly stated in the substantive, anal, vows we still take when we engage, marry, obligate, consumate, consecrate, and you know the rest. Grandchildren as quickly as possible. Forget the "Happy Couple" and all of their existance desires/wants/needs. Thank u socialization/domestication for ruining the fertile pastures of real love and affection. Feed the economy, we need workers/bosses, CEO's, sell, buy everything, produce, produce and produce. Keep us ever informed with all the trinkets which keep us isloated, unemotional and spur inhumanity to all that terse that tricky transient torment of T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z bytes, or in whatever compuscale u eat, that only serves to further the noncommunication life of our species. I only exist within myself in this space. Are my thoughts my own or just a reflection of what I receive? Do I exist? When I answer, am I being true or is it a stated recording of past sequences that are familiar in a patterened sense of my former being? My salience, remorse, continued presence upon this Earth is at best questionable? Meaningless? For me, the current standards of being have become to contentious; the stupidity, too overwhelming; the ignorance, too unbearable; the incompetence/divisiveness/poor judgement/antiquated/uneducated thinking/acting/feeling, our illustrious president, his supporters, henchmen, cronies, nepotism, DFA and their anything-but-a proactive approach to problem solving for the benefit of us all, leaves me in a lackluster quandry of whether, "To Be Or Not To Be? Believe me baby, that is MY question! My God, and I am not a religious person, but in the fin al analysis, you will reap what you sow!!!!!!!!! And I will laugh. I like "mushrooms" with my atomic grilled steak. No waiting.

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2017