Poetry Political Poems

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Details | Rhyme |

Politics and Poetry – is hate really the answer

Why write a poem of hate about Trump
He’s been there just over a week
Though Hilary Clinton the people did dump
It still matters not what they seek

He cussed and he lied and they think that he cheated
While she was an angel for sure
Still not accepting that she was defeated
With her server on her basement floor

They say that this guy he don’t act Presidential
He talks like some dude in the hood
Just like a neighbor, a friend, residential
That proves then that he is no good

He lunges at beautiful women parading
This guy never can get his fill
Though they never minded the task of evading
Monica’s blue dress and Bill

I guess it just feels better when they are shouting
This terrible feeling they tote
To me it just seems like a big bunch of pouting
Perhaps some forgot how to vote

Now we see protesters clog up the city
Vulgar the words they do lob
If you ask me I would say it’s a pity
Why don’t these folks have a job

I’m guessing this problem, Trumps’ also to blame
No work must be fueling their fears
But wait now, I don’t think that he is the same
Who sat in that chair for eight years

They scream for the people his order is banning
This policy that they abhor 
Though back when the Donald was happily tanning
Barrack did the same thing and more

He called it a pause, whispered, it’s temporary
Kept them from reaching our coast
In secretive silence this news he did carry
Always a wonderful host

But I don’t recall hearing people complaining
No “you are a racist” was heard
No hate escaped from some loud voices straining
Not even one single F-word

Now Schumer is weeping, his fake tears are falling
Crying, “This man is so mean”
Though not long ago old Chuck he was calling
For banning and vetting extreme

Both sides of his mouth to me it is sounding
Claiming that he’ll never quit
I’ve got a huge headache, my head it is pounding
Can anyone say hypocrite

But Donald, that creep, he made fun of a cripple
Waving his arms in the air
While I don’t remember it causing a ripple
When Obama, the same he did share

The laughter on Kimmel was on the floor rolling
The POTUS excuse I am sure
When the Special Olympics were said of his bowling
Their handicap tied to his score 

But now we all find it’s a whole different story
Some didn’t get what they want
Cheering the sound of a Meryl Streep fury
While all the rest of us grunt

I didn’t cast not one vote for Obama
But accepted the office he won
Then didn’t whine and go cry to my mama
And think that the country was done

I never threatened to blow up the White House
Like some has been singer might do
Or paint on a sign about raping his spouse
That’s such a sick point of view

Yes you are welcome to have your opinion
Just try to use some restraint
And don’t try to change me, I won’t be your minion
Mine is a mind you can’t taint

Live and let live, now my penned invitation
Thank you if you stopped to glance
For I still am proud of this wonderful nation
Let’s give the new guy a chance

I am not very political and hardly ever include it in my poetry. But it is really starting to bother me the amount of hate that I see everywhere now about our President. The news, the internet and now hateful poetry. I get it that some don’t like the guy but if they don’t like someone at work or at school or at the mall or wherever, is attacking that person the answer? Is posting nasty things about them on the internet or social media the answer? Is destroying private property and threatening innocent people the answer?   Is acting like a bunch of uncivilized, ignorant, uneducated, DEPLORABLE people the answer? I am sure I will lose most of my readers here because of this but fair is fair. They way I see it, the guy deserves a chance and if he messes it up, then I will say I was wrong.    

“All we are saying, is give peace a chance” – John Lennon

Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
Man so mighty and wise
still has to define this
that another living being's life
has the same value as his 

Boasted, brazened
written in stone
raised above 
these highest places 
where power reigns
crushing down  
in white 
clenched fists
gripping so tightly
to "history" 
draining the meaning 
out of good intention

Those stones are weeping
as grass grows quietly around the edges
The future

are best listed
to be used like lines in the sand
some seen on the skin
most are though beneath 
a cross marking
the surface
this land of the free
that the privileged paid for
from sea to sea
with the lives of lesser men
and their women 
up for "grabs"

The women
best when big breasted
beautiful and begging
feeding their daughters
dreams of a better tomorrow
when that white clenched fist 
stops squeezing her tits
before slapping 
lips against her 
drooling over her
in her ear
something sweet 
you're mine"

What lines of defense
Those lines lie on paper
written, signed and etched by those
elected and chosen
statesmen stating authority over your body
their dolls
their toys
serving their purpose
the good Word stenciled in stone

carved out in flesh
fresh cadavers 
swept under the rug
serving their purpose

Gravestones weeping
as grass grows quiety around the edges
The memory

Keeping their hands clean
they wipe their mouths red
blood on their stained sleeves
the polish from their shiny shoes sully 
the stars 
and stripes 
stripped of the value they once held 
when they stiched us all together 
and brought so many strangers home

How white clenched fists
hold power and privelege 
held so high in esteem
like our stars 
and stripes
teetering, unraveling 
the threads shaking 
as if stripped naked 
and forced to wave 
above that Capitol Hill
and still

Our Lady
holds a tattered gown

Copyright © Sarah ROSEN | Year Posted 2017

Details | Light Poetry |
You know we’re very poor, of that we have certainly, never denied.
Then the ‘Obama-I-don’t-Care’ gave us another whammy, Yes, indeed! Oh My!
Now, it’s Peanut butter we will have for supper, and even that we’ll spread thin.
And the little birdies we gave a cup of bird seed, occasionally, when we dared…

Well, this morning they got a handfull of Fruit Loops, and they were really stale!
With the sugar they have in galore, now birdies are doing cartwheels at my door.
All that crazy energy, they’re acting just like my kids. Hey! Is that my old phone?
They’re texting wildly! Not watching where they go! Hey! There’s a tree! Oh No!

Some are doing cartwheels… While others are staggering back and forth!
But bird seeds not an option, under Obamas new plan, now! Don’t you know!
We ate it all last week, on our free cheese, from the Food Pantry, Not! A! Joke!
He was supposed to make it affordable, now he put food… WAY out the door!

Hey! We WERE the poor ones! Now we’re worse, as he runs away! By Darn!
OOOPPPS! Maybe Fruit Loops weren’t such a good idea, after all, I surmise!
The Dirty Birdies, are walking upside down, in circles, saying they want more!
If only they had hands! I’d get out my camera, but I hocked it, for the food store!

We had good insurance before the ‘Obama-I-Don’t-Care’! But Now it’s gone…
And our small paycheck was cut in half! So I stopped my cable!… Well, Darn!
Hubby walks miles to work, in the snow, backwards, no shoes, uphill! It’s true!

Excuse me! I have to go! For it’s off to the Food Pantry, with others I am bound!
I’d impeach that silly idiot! But I’d rather, he had to eat, just like us, at our house!
Hey! Maybe that explains his crazy actions… Take his Fruit Loops away, By Gosh!
And when you’re done, make sure he uses the same ‘Obama-I-Don’t-Care’… As us!

Then take away that raise from Congress… to fill the Food Pantries… Yea! I SAY!
When you’re done! Remember to vote Them ALL OUT! For what they have done today!
Then send them Dumpster Diving with me… Because they’ll need to learn the art!
Darn! What Now? Oh Oh! Those little Dirty Birdies… Have learned how to fart!

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |
New Economics is Feminist Peace-Restorative Economics,
about cooperatively nurturing healthy nutritional investments
rather than WinLose dyspeptic high risk
divestment competition games.

Have you seen a Rockwell 1950's Lemonade Wars?
Two girls, both white of course,
dressed for YoungRepublican success
scowling at each other on a pristine deserted street
of the tree-lined suburban variety,
arms folded across their angry relentless middle-class chests,
shoulders hunched for their LoseLose anger battle.

Each stands before her lemonade stand,
across the street from one other,
each with a sign that originally says 10 cents,
but with a bold line across it,
replaced below with a somewhat smaller 5 cents,
also crossed out,
followed by a 2 cents price war notice,
about which the entire neighborhood apparently would not give 2 cents
to get involved.

Would this be less surprising if we were looking at two white boys?
How about two brown-skinned boys?
Does the humor have more of an edge to it?
Or perhaps it's no longer funny at all.
Maybe more about just another racist stereotype
about not having two suburban cents between them,
about what is intelligent multicultural economic behavior.

Do you think it more likely two girls might have formed a cooperative?
Replaced their two tables into one larger street presence,
faced their two signs both up and down the street
to better alert oncoming traffic seeking therapy,
rather than aim them across the street at each other
like weapons of mutual traumatic disdain,
splitting their take at the end of a lovely day
chattering away with and between more convivial customers.

But, probably less likely for two boys from the 50's and 60's.
Today, I'm not so sure.
Perhaps boys and girls, and all between,
are learning a healthier,
more fertile,
way of doing the cooperative math,
finding profit through ecopolitical interrelationships.

We have feminist psychology and therapy and medicine
and politics
and theology and history and sociology
and probably anthropology, for all I know.
Research and theorem proofing and disproofing
more likely to unfold through networking circles
of mutual refolding nurture
than competitive marching in bought-and-sold squares
of irrational spiritual distinctions 
without seminal natural difference.

So, why is New Economics not called Feminist EcoPolitics?
Maybe it is, but not where I live
and not where I have non-matriotically read,
but I still hope to see more cooperative non-violent lemonade stands
across suburban and urban and rural divides,
blending gender divides to make lemonade out of,
well,... whatever you have of potential nourishing value,
discarding over-heated presumptions of gotta-have competition,
to pour out equivalent power-assumptions of cooperative ecopolitics,
where Golden Rules apply transgenderally
as Golden Ratios reply transculturally,
producing Golden Elixirs of inclusive consumer-producer satisfaction;

This day we will have done well
and faithfully,
and trustingly,
and justly.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
Dusty roads and fresh grass
summertime rodeos approaching fast
riding with a friend down on sandbars 

A piece of hay hanging out of his mouth
though some trapped water, out the other side
I had forgotten this wonderful life

I still see some twenty year old boy helping me up
now a sixty year old man rides in front
pointing all the changes in the last five years

I could not believe what time I lost
4 am to a cowboy is not early enough
my pants soaking wet my boots fixed

We rode on down to his dads favorite spot
to meet God when the sun comes up
we turned to face it and did not say a word

God's spirit was the only thing we heard
as earth to air, and water to fire, met in the sky
right there two old friends prayed to God


Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
If I were the president,
in our fatherland, no citizen will be a bastard
and mutual respect, our networking web.

If I were the president
the people will be my senate
and their satisfaction my template.

If I were the president
all sectors will be cycled with excellence
all human needs will be met with kindness.

If I were the president
cremation of human disasters fully executed
our mentality will be built in love.

If I were the president
good ideas, I’ll romance
into reality, I’ll convert.

If I were the president
life will be a comfort zone
with every compatriot a beneficiary.

If I were the president,
the simple flow of Life would be applied;
basic made basic, luxury made luxury.

If I were the president
health, mobility, literacy and justice
would be rights, not privileges.
This third world I see
would be transformed to the first, I dream of,
so God……… Make me the president that we need.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

Details | Didactic |
                 Sugar Cuba?
What's so normal about normalization?

We become a little more socialist
They become a little more capitalist

We all meet in the middle and hold hands… How sweet!

They give us Cuban cigars
We give them rap music
A form of torture

We can now visit Cuban hotels
Cubans can visit Disney World

My only question is
Does Cuba have toilet paper?

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |
The List

I was waiting by my mailbox
To hear news from the Soup
I know they like to keep me
Somewhere, in the loop
I couldn’t wait to see, ME !
Somewhere at the top
Of The Hundred best read poems
That reader's thought were Hot

While I nestled in my chair
Took my subtle writers pose
With my thumb under my chin
And my finger, side my nose
I started to peruse 
The list presented clear
While looking for My Name
I found it wasn’t there

Perhaps an over site
Could sure explain, a lot
They failed to read, the comments
And all the praise, I got
But then, it came to me
Those guys are really smart
My poems are so good
Their’re simply off the charts 

                                           By JTCurtis  

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse |

Voting day at long last has arrived.
Scrambling through closet,
a cavernous space in accumulation.
In the deepest darkest corner, 
purpose achieved, 
garnering my three by five inch American flag,
glorious yet demure.

This my opportunity to come out of the closet,
unveiled, exposed,
an upstanding silent majority American patriot.

Flag of three colors in one hand,
timeless roll of duct tape in other
the symbol of freedom to be bound, 
respectfully, securely,
to the antenna of my auto.

Such a glorious noble sight, a parade of one,
yet millions in situ
as neighbors shutter their mind blinds
and lock their doors.
I stand in awe.

Engorged excitement, dressed in best suit and tie.
My faded red sixty five Subaru,
now Lincoln Continental morphed in patriotism,
rolls thirty five miles per hour.
No more, no less under rule of law,
this a day of national law compliance as no other.

The voting station strategically positioned adjacent
the county landfill, shimmers in the radiance of liberty,
or perhaps toxic landfill gas.
This a singular psychedelic acid rush vision.

Donald Trump greeted me as I entered the hallowed hall,
remarking, I was no pussy.
I thought he'd be taller,
he bid me entrance.

The Lions Club was hosting a pancake breakfast,
I declined as my stomach was bound in knots of anticipation. 

Hillary Clinton reposed behind the official card table,
smiling her trademark look of resplendent surprise,
a true Duracell Energizer Bunny moment.
Requesting my voter identification,
I offered my newest library card.
She said , “This will do fine!”
then directed to the corner of the round room.
There Mike Pence and Tim Kaine 
held an olive drab
army surplus blanket on high,
securing the area of vote and privacy.

I walked the distance in miles of quaking Jello,
quivering linoleum tiles beneath my feet.
Beaming in political grandeur 
they parted the drapery to the hallowed area within.

There on a table resplendent in national pride
rested two wicker baskets,
one of apples, one of oranges.
I made my predetermined selection
shakily, placed it reverently into
the white porcelain receptacle 
strategically occupying the table center.

Radiating patriotism, eyes aglow, 
I strode proudly as a contributing citizen,
in the land of choice and freedom,
toward the exit door.
Vladimir Putin placed an “I Voted” sticker
on my chest as a medal of honor for all to see and envy.

I drove away,
looking back to savor the moment one last time.
I glimpsed Barrack Obama
pushing a heaping wheelbarrow of fruit
into the landfill for the final tallying of the vote.

A grand American tradition fulfilled.

Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©

Copyright © Robert Stoner Jr | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
Oh By Gosh… and By Darn… It’s another political year.
Dragon wants in on it as a political candidate My Dear.
President Dragon is a lot… to sincerely be able to take in.
And he wants his own cabinet… So that he can surely win.

My cabinet was emptied and filled with penguins, to my chagrin.
They were secretly plotting… their strategy, they said with a grin.
Then they closed it back up, I thought, until who knows when.
Twitter was now in play, as his name appeared with his own spin.

He was now a candidate in every, single, blooming, complete state.
But, he was only to be found in Australia, I truly kid you not mate!
So… sorry you guys, I said, as I explained to them, their mistake.
They then decided to win, on two continents, to my amazed chagrin.

Shortly, they appeared on every docket, and state, in the good old US of A.
They even signed him up, for the flame-throwing contest in Rio, this day.
Apparently, World domination was absolutely, in mind-boggling play.
But I’ll be darned if I’ll wear a burqa, for that Middle East picture, today.

Dragon was to be the Law and Order Candidate, for even deep space.
He’ll wear his Super Hero Cape, wherever he goes, all over the place.
He pulled ahead, quickly in every state, without showing his cute face.
But there are a lot of Democratic crazies, in the United States these days.

And don’t forget the disillusioned Republicans, with egg on their face.
Never worry my friends; he’s below the age limit at three, in any case.
I’ll wait until later, to point that out, so someone else, eventually wins.
He’s learning about politics, tho political correctness, may be his end.

If only I could get my cabinet back, and set his penguins, on another track.
Or maybe I sould say, don’t delay, vote for Dragon, to get my cabinet back.
He can’t be any worse than the other candidates I see… and guess what?
He soundly, has the world’s paparazzi behind him… So it’s going to be… 

A Great News Day, day after day, until November 7th, so vote for Dragon!
What else can I say!!!  There’s too much at stake… to vote any other way!
Written 8-21-2016

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |

The warlock said to the witch,
Man, ain't it grand living large like Oz,
being bigly Emerald City rich
The witch crowed back,
I get paid good for giving speeches
that have no policy incantation glitch
The warlock laughed hard and long,
then chortled with maniacal glee:
I like the way you got a huge fee
for selling that "Deal Me In" dirge song
The witch returned the faint praise
with a piercing scowl and a sinister smile
You got those lemmings running thru a maze,
chasing your tale that it's all rigged anyhow
The warlock started getting miffed,
and his hair began to burn with an orange glow
He mockingly said, Endora, all the polls show
that you're a walking political gift
The witch angrily retorted: What spell did you use
to make yourself become 50 feet tall
Oh yeah, that's right. Should Humpty Dumpty lose,
it won't be much of a fall off that stupid wall
The warlock let out a sigh, and said:
You know we have to spit venom
at each other on the campaign stump
That's just how it is, and has to be
The witch let out a sigh too, and said:
Since our youthful days of wearing denim,
it's something we can't tell the voting chumps
That we're really friends, you and me
Then they both hugged each other,
and said goodbye to one another privately
The witch winked at the warlock, and cackled this:
No matter who wins,
I'm offering well wishes to you
So don't forget to send me a mean tweet
The warlock nodded back at the witch, and bellowed this:
Once the results are in,
I'll reply with well wishes too
But of course, don't you forget to delete

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
The elections are rolling around, 
And it's obvious to see,
The more one tares another down,
Lays claim to Victory!

Each is right and only them,
Can save us from our debts.
Enhance our life, correct all wrongs, 
And throw away regrets!

So get in line to cast your Vote,
And do it with great pride.
You're sure to pick a good one,
Cause none of them have lied! 

Copyright © Judy Konos | Year Posted 2011

Details | Political Verse |
I often find myself reminiscent of 
a time I've never known.
immersed in memories that 
i've never lived.
my mind won't stop 
plaguing me. 
I dream of wars, bullets, bombs and shells 
I can smell the crisp, innocent blood from the ongoing massacre 
I can hear the Aleppians cry 
I can imagine the centuries of history on the crease of their hands 
I don't know their names, but their eyes once glistened-  
Ah, the beauty of Khalpe  
I can't stop crying 
I have forgotten how to breathe 
I wonder if the people of Aleppo  
have accepted what is happening. 
What is the difference between  
revolution and war? 
and why won't it end? 
I don't know what the Middle East looks like but I  
imagine it smells of blood and prolonged terror 
Cities that once smelled of jasmine  
now reek of 
fear and famine 
I am sorry for the horrors. 
I am sorry for turning your pain into poetry. 

Copyright © Anais Sarah Aiache | Year Posted 2017

Details | Light Poetry |




Copyright © Michael E. Harris | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
Serving one's country used to be a task done
with loyalty and pride,
but, the truth sets in after the perilous ride,
Veterans are let down by the promises made,
After the adrenaline subsides, 
They are left hanging in the shade,
without aid,
homes, families 
and incomes,

Abandoned without hope,
thinking that they are only
as good as their last battle,
shifted around like unwanted cattle,

How can America prosper with
these uncomfortabilities on their hands?
Veterans and their families deserve
a life that's becoming of the sacrifices
they made,
They deserve to feel pride and a sense of 
satisfaction, long after the battle and 

Copyright © Margeret Bailey | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |
As the dogs led me on our walk, I took a chance and left my raincoat behind despite the threatening clouds.  The sky turned from dappled to grey but I stayed dry, although my legs were damp from dogshake after we past the creek.

In the woods, the air was quiet as nervous birds flitted silently from tree to tree, uncertain if they should hunker down to feed for a few more days or move on afore it gets too cold.

Across the border, the wanta be leaders of the flock, all dressed up in party suits, are playing a different game with stakes almost as high. And while I don’t have a vote I sure do hope that Hillary trumps Donald.

Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
It is not preposterous to think
people are motivated by sin,
A taste of the flesh
will make folks do wrong,
Just so they can toot their 
own horns,

It is not preposterous to assume,
that for a piece of a human being,
pests would stoop very low
to stealing a family's heirloom,

It is not preposterous to know,
we are living in a world that
is ignorant and shallow,
the hollowness that exists in
human kind,
will be the trait that leaves
the despicable behind.

Copyright © Margeret Bailey | Year Posted 2010

Details | Light Poetry |
The pieces of peace were handpicked
Picked in the heart of the night 
Shredded for an aspiration 
To clutch the lone torch contained by the dark
A glimpse for some unusual rank

Then comes the arrival of time  
With the angst that grow by day 
Comes the fast ticking of time 
 Hastening all; unnerved in the bay  

At this moment 
Love was censure by lust
In the euphoria of the game
Featured by despair and shame   
The eventful spar between the dogs and the baboons

And then comes the contest of blood
The Spartans, the spectators all flood 
Melancholy yet to befall 
Then it begins 
Passing through the span of day
Scotching rage of the sun
Little rain, little dry, little sounds of gun 

But the dogs and the baboons 
Tailback in fear; scowl 
And little by little 
Comes casting and counting  

And after a little while
Anger was unshackled 
Accompanied by lament 
Yet, not enough raison d'être to toss away the tot and the bathing water

Then comes the voice of command 
We were deprived!
It is our time!
Kill them anywhere you find them!
Rigging, rigging, rigging! 

Peace was shattered
Broken into pieces 
Like a bowl that fail out of safe 
And pandemonium overtook all

After a little calm 
Scores of guiltless essences met their Waterloo  
Mostly in the cities they ad-hoc  
Like those trapped for a catch

And their figures continue counting 
Some unassumingly lost to the swampy woods 
Searched by trained dogs and their masters 
Into the depth of the swampy woods  
Bled; death; covered in mud.

Copyright © Godwin Ibrahim | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
Benefit for all is converted for the use of a few their pockets are included in national budgets and their wants, top the country's priority list. Even the Cock's raw corn is highly coveted by the Cat. An old plantain tree, preventing its suckers from growing or a father, who frustrates the welfare of his family is exactly the hell, created by these money and power mongers The political system is all about a game of cards. A particular clique fixes their huge pipes as the fatherland shrinks under no mercy. Leaders they call themselves, yet they invest on the hunger of their people profit in the poverty of the land and trade on all forms of artificial instability. Acquisition of a generation's sustainability turns out to be a hobby as they still fight for the crumbs with the weak and go for the meat, no matter how hot the soup is disregarding those who cooked it. The same citizens who once lined up to give their confidence which has now become a fatal sacrifice are gradually reaching the wall. So know ye this! A hungry man is one that is angry and when millions of angry men unite nothing can stop their quest. A people once treated less than animals will hunt like vengeful kings taking what is rightly theirs marking a restoration, stained with blood. Blood, far from innocence and purity!
Dedicated to African leaders, especially Nigeria!

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |
When I was eight
I knew Paradise could not be merely secular humane
and yet be justly and omnipotently divine,
when a Great Horned Owl
breathed her last sacred breath toward me,
left alone
while she flew away
to where I would thinly follow
in my robust adult time.

It took me eight cycles of octave eight
to realize why
Paradise must include multiculturing nests for fowl
and ecopolitically cooperative seas for fish
and surf's bilateral co-gravity
eco-measuring timeless here and now eternity.

Because a monocultural Paradise
would be polypathically oxymoronic,
an economically and nutritionally ridiculous metaphysical paradigm,
not ecologically sustainable,
not even basic harmonic balance
because not multiculturally
and polypathically 
or polyphonically healthy intelligence
of regenerative/degenerative ecopolitical design.

Everybody knows that Heaven
begins and ends in an organically holistic Earth Garden,
with zero-balanced degenerative waste stream,

So how does denying our climate
and Earthscape wasting pathologies
help us become the ReForesting Paradise 
we might cooperatively become
through healing these dissonant
decaying apartheid anomalies

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
Truth is a fertile feisty feather 
pushed off to the academic side.

Truths are climates of feathers
within which creative co-empathic minds transgenerationally reside.

Owl Medicine

"At the beginning of the twenty-first century,
for the luckiest
people who have ever been born,
[high-risk and opportunity for co-empathic ego/eco-consciousness]
it seems that our passionate pursuit of individuation
has reached its apex [EgoLeft YangDominant climax]."

"We have discovered that we are [also] part of a vast,
[polynomial, polycultural, polypathic, polymorphic, polysymbiotic, polyphonic]
fourteen-billion-year process
that is [climate] evolving right now, 
as ourselves."
[AND Other AND Earth
as WinWinWin ego/eco-cooperative ecopolitical
positive-therapeutic resolution]

"And our ability to recognize this vast [healthy/pathological climate] trajectory
that lies behind us
and that still lives within us
allows us to appreciate
the tremendous significance of the [great transitional] moment
we are [evolving] in."

The awakening of this evolutionary
[dipolar co-arising (0)-sum ego/ecosystemic] comprehension
shatters the postmodern predicament."
[Concerning creative design
as more sacred-divinely trusting omnipotence 
or more humanely natural-empathic copresence 
co-arising within Earth's ReGenerative Tribes;
and our positive answer is Both-And Yes!].

And it is up to those of us who recognize this liberating [dual-destiny] context--
the luckiest [bicameral balancing] people in the world--
to make ourselves available
to the [coarising] energy and [co]intelligence that has,
over tens of thousands of years,
patiently cultivated our human capacity
for higher [and deeper listening] consciousness
and [Tao of Revolutionary-ReGenerate Zerocracy] cognition,
so that it [regenerative healthy ecopolitical intent]
can take the next [cooperative networking WinWin] step,
through us and as us."

Andrew Cohen, "Evolutionary Enlightenment, pp. 83-84, 2011, SelectBooks

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Epitaph |
John F. Kennedy 1917-1963 The great 35th president of US It wasn't really a success He tried to stop the missile bases There were lot of angry faces When there was about to be a war Peace was what he asked for Texas was the place he was shot Later, the criminal was caught He didn't survive the pain His people cried like the rain

Copyright © Heeju Kim | Year Posted 2013

Details | Personification |
Four corners.
Stands, four players. 
Quarrels of foul cries, collided.
Facing each nemesis into quadrants, divided. 

Individuals motivated by objectives.
Devising plans, careful detectives. 
Goal to achieve the highest rank, careful steps--discriminate.
Going by the hit-list, tunnel vision, hindrances must eliminate. 

Scoping intensely, measuring opponents, methodical evaluation. 
Staying alert, mind assessment, sedulous investigation. 
Shrill of the first struck, the red bullet--bounces. 
Instant reflex, ricochet the shot, violence--denounces. 

The King may bend the rules, charges swift modification. 
The Pawns are summoned, critical prosecution. 
The Bishop prays for the suspects, classified praises, flattery denunciation. 
The Queen cradles a heart, each beat rebounds, battery probation.

Copyright © Jesson Rata | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
In the Work That Reconnects,
we have a dialogue exercise
in which Person A asks Person B
"Who are you?"
several times over a few minutes,
as it feels right to reprime this exploratory pump;
then person B does the same for person A.

The person hosting, facilitating, enabling
this reiterative question's redundant possibilities
is merely an echo-present listener,
noticing diversity within these multiple evolving responses,
without judging good, bad, ugly, or even indifferent,
quietly hearing rhythms of longing for love
between the crippling cracks of anger and fear,
compelling and compiling self with other hatred,

The question,
Do all these diverse self-descriptions truly fit
this same love v. anger-fear polyculturing elephant?
does not usually arise.
we accept all these scrabbling voices
and hats
and feelings
and ideas
and beliefs
co-occurring within one bilateral
positive-health v. negative-pathology mindbody ecosystem,
seeking diastatic fullness
polymorphic communication,
design, development, co-empathic investment,
and cooperative-integrative implementation outcomes,
at the end of this elephant's rhetorical day,
if not sooner.

Why is this not always the case
when we ask our friends and families,
our public sector leaders 
and financial sector investors,
"Who do you hope we are becoming?"

What loves are we preparing to invest in 
and which past angers and future fears to divest of?

What indicators can I give
that I already invest in cooperatively regenerate health
designs and intentions,
co-mentoring therapeutic diapraxis
of which I preach so positively to others?

I know you support restoring regenerative health to our soil
and preserving clean water,
as I do.
So does it bother you,
as it does me,
that we still contaminate our water with poo and pee
instead of investing in nutrition-starved soil,
where both could be positive resources 
countering past neglect and abuse,
rather than doubly-negative pathology?

We say we support cooperatively vibrant and healthy local economies
and empowering political vitality,
so does it bother you,
as it does me,
to so often hear "either-or" deductive reductivism
and wonder why not first cooperatively consider "both-and?"

I appreciate what you just said
and I wonder if adding X might make your idea
even better.
Do you agree,
or maybe you see concerns for yourself and others
new to me,
of which we might learn together?

Could a cooperative election or social change campaign
begin with compiling interdependent hopes and wishes
and loves of Who Are You?
thereby more smoothly avoiding stuckness-traps
of fear and anger and dissonant pathological constipative outcomes.

Could investing both-and cooperative communication norms
better lead toward co-investing in healthy wealth,
politically strong-embraced policies,
procedural and dialogical transparency,
polyculturally inclusive design and development and discernment
of poli-eco-logical therapy
v. multi-morphic pathology;
co-arise local through global health outcome networks,
diastatic eco-normativity,
embracing each and every sacred Person A and B response
to Who are we?

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Rubaiyat |

I am from the Mississippi Delta where cotton use to grow.
	I am a codified bonified mind that way sets the flow.
When Hurricane Katrina hit, the vibes of so-called power were felt.
Crossing the Mississippi River was a manifold shown.

I went to the North to discover self.
I gain knowledge and intellect.
They say the ways of the oppressed man was embedded by King, Jr.
Who went to West to learn Gandhi’s concept! 

	Oprah Winfrey visited his slums.	
Where she was greeted as a great one.
She walked through the City at night.
Gaining her insight as sums of sums.

You see the Northern region of the U.S. desires the prophecy that man bought via    
        The time of servitude and bondage.
Today the power struggle cover is iniquity.
A paved path of emplacement is the European man statement.

X marks my footsteps said 101 Black Man of the Delta President.
He is a statue of political etiquette.
He hides behind a culture of low-downiness.
He broadens my world as the bawdiest bitch.

	We all family out.
	What do we talk about?
	The systematic discrimination happening in our lives.
	To conclude, family and friends is how we socialize.

If you want to know how this lineup.
I will see you in stance as a home front hand-cuffed.
Get your house in order.
Your blood does not provide a hidden culture of defiance.
Penned 02/21/2015!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
We are told to never assume,
to guess, or to anticipate
or even try to presume.

So if we try to articulate
of things we aren't sure,
do we assume or shut the door
on thoughts we may abhor?
So don't assume, just give the facts
that you are sure to know. 
And you will find
it often stumps your mind
how the facts become just so.

The facts somehow get twisted up
even though you know for sure
that you were right and others wrong
no matter to whom you implore.

That's really known as politics
when facts aren't facts and we assume 
the facts are just made up for tricks.
Then no one knows for sure 
who's right or wrong or just 
what is the score. 

One side says the other is wrong
and tries to give the true facts.
But their facts are no more true
than a fairy tale or an old song. 

So once again we should not assume
to know what we really know.
Just toss it up and then presume 
the facts got lost 
as round and round you go.

*  This poem was written as the result of listening to political debates and political messages, talking points, and commercials during the 2012 elections.

Copyright © Leonard Kleeman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
I have a son
with more than his share of heart
and mindbody intelligence,
to comprehend vastness of Earth’s evolving history
and future demise,
to comprehend full emptiness of universes within
and without
co-arising nondual universes,
enough intelligence to become haunted
by our deep dualist dark insignificance
as a species,
and far less value even than this de-commodification
of AnthroCentric Futures,

His own autonomous Ego value so inconsequential
he doubts his worthiness of food he eats
of water he drinks
of air he breathes,
much less worthy of employment
or any developing sense of healthy vocation,
meaning midst his human comedic environment
at its best a good musical comedy cooperative network.

This, he can more or less actually find
but not so much within his own family,
much less school.
Well, maybe there were a few exceptions
to the individual student competing against all other students rule,
everyone playing an absurd Win-Lose game,
with loser death the inevitable outcome for each and all.

In the meantime,
should we choose to fiddle while Earth prepares 
to burn in the middle
and flood on the shores,
why not orchestrate WinWin cooperatives
deep learning strategies,
more fun
more opportunity to improve interactive communication
and co-deductive dialectic analysis,
to live empirical-cooperative method
in an active healthy 
open communicative
mutual Win economic and political kind of Taoist way.

But, of course,
Taoism, in his expansive view,
hides in a Pandora box labeled “EXEGENESIS of RELIGION”
which is about a spirituality cat half dead
and unfortunately only at best half alive,
as if spirit is any other than eco-dynamic nature,
as if yin were other than absent reverse nondual inside 
yang’s revolving bilateral time;

Spirituality implying he walks through a divinely inspired comedy
with few speaking parts and no solos allowed,
which he knows could not be true
unless divine inspiration
is no more or less
than human natural regenerative DNA programming function,
developing form,
informational ergodic prime patterns and rhythms,
synergetic invitations toward gratitude,
integrative predestination of phylogenic bilateral form
revolving through Earth’s interdependent spaciated orbits of time.

To what end
could we possibly become
for one who is humanist musical comedy cooperative-preferred,
with polyculturally inclined interests of rich dense fertile healthy sharing
this hour,
this game,
this day's plan,
but without actively articulating hope for any self support,
thrival nutrients for his body;
not just his mind.

Surprising to me
how my lovely son quickly learned to see
spiritual as natural nonduality,
but has yet to recover his embryonic mind
as body co-arising transparency,
much less divine as also humane 
musical comedic unity
without aspiring toward monolithic uniformity.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Rhyme |
My feet,
got a rhythm
A nervous beat

Oh the meet
Should I eat more meat?

Nah focus more on wheat
Better calm down and take a seat.

World coming at you like a big huge fleet
They try and feed you but you don't wanna eat
I don't like the taste of there beets
I'd rather give myself some tasty treats

Oh wall street
I ain't gonna eat
Get off my bicycle seat 
Filthy ol' wall street smelling like your grandma's toilet seat
gonna throw you in some disgusting embassy suite

I used to have a fear of hurdles, but I got over it.

-Jomarc Bernardo

Copyright © Jomarc Bernardo | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |
My mind went on a trip one sunny day
In that trance I was president
Papa was proud of me
Mama felt pleased too
“You are a natural leader” said my neighbor
“I knew you would make it, it’s not a fluke” commented another
Frenemies surfaced in haste

My face was on TV
I was a president on the move 
Ain’t nobody stood in my way
I travelled far and wide
My term was short
I had to make an impact
Etch my name in the hall of fame
History had to have my name

Time is a march and the powerful are drummers
He who drums loudest leads the song
His life is lavish and his abode magnificent
Look who is drumming
Would they be drumming if I weren’t president?
Are they friends or foes?
Only time will tell
Then there was a reality check.
The chimera was over

I am just who I am
The same old nobody

Copyright © John Pen | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
The Little People

Where do all the little people live?
Marine Le Pen lives in France
A rabbit, who has come out of her hole
Donald Trump lives in America the Great
Trump will soon enough make it a dump
Fernando Furtado
Starves all the Brazilian Indians
No rice for the dark lazy ones
What ever could the Amazon teach us?
Putin, is truly a littleput one
A puffy war chest for sure
He sits on old telephone books to seem tall
He may sit down for Turkey dinner with a smirk
Little ones soon realize when it’s too late
That Turkey will eat them.

I am sad
So many migrants in one boat
When if dreams came true
The Little people above
Should migrate to the sinking boats below

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015