Ah, yes! College ‘road trips’ bring back memories fond
of toga parties, and booting on sorority lawns
Of pimple pus oozing out from one’s cheeks at ‘make-out time’
or asking your date if you can score another nickel or dime…
Ah, but today! Ho-ho-ho. To hoary old traditions we say a loud NO!
We ‘road trip’ to protest-rallies, to NYC, LA and Chicago
Bringing ‘paraphernalia’ we stash in our ‘toolkits’
Masks and kaffiyehs, bullhorns and live ammo
Stirring up trouble is what we do best
Road trip’s not over ~ 'til we’re under arrest
(“Utopia and Terror Merit Badge”, 2010, original oil)
The Age of Terror
It’s a new reign of terror
With demon hit squads roaming the earth
To lurk on roof tops, hedges
And parking lots for their attack
While cowardly anonymous callers SWAT
The unsuspecting next in line.
All the time the voice boxes
With their silent protest paddles
And bullhorns call for mayhem and murder,
Blood in the streets
And resistance in the name of democracy,
All for their deranged minions to do.
As they do nothing but double down
On their insider trading
Planning on the day
When they’ll be back in the seat of power
Back driving the economy off the cliff
And their adversaries into gulags.
This is the age of terror
Where nowhere or one is safe,
Where the Death Cult's agenda of greater good
Includes the sacrifice of you and me
By the billions
In the name of order, security, peace and freedom.
This is where we are today.
Are you terrified yet?
Or are you laughing at their desperation,
As the morning tide continues to rise, lifting all boats
Destroying all
Their castles made of sand.
(3/12/25)
A politician using a bullhorn
places it over the mouth
Though given the stuff that comes out
it ought to be positioned down south
The art of intelligent debate is gone.
Lost in the children of the corn maze.
A generation raised by brainless boxes.
Know-it-all that really knows nothing.
Civil debate has become passe.
Now it's only my way or hell's highway.
Tear gas-bullhorns. doxing.
Up in your face is all the rage.
These little demons of anarchy.
Should be caged until humanized.
Goodness needs to take a last stand
Up in the turret of the damned.
You should be
Strolling fields of wildflowers.
Munching heavenly grasses.
Sun polishing your satin flanks.
Sipping from a lily-kissed pond.
Running the hills-full throttle.
Necking with a favorite mare friend...
Tails twitching merrily in the wind.
Instead,
you're prodded into a war zone.
Bricks and rocks smacking ribs.
Ears rattling from bullhorns-sirens-egos.
Shattering glass -
Shaking tear gas.
Half-blinding your wild brown eyes.
You try reasoning out the scene
of these crazy-crazy human beings.
After the carnage- it's back to the stalls.
For all your blood sacrifice and burning eyes
you're given half-rotted, bloody New York apples.
As spring fades to summer, and summer to fall,
The world goes on turning, indifferent to all,
Not caring for emperors, peasants, or popes,
But forging fresh fortunes for scaling new slopes...
And so go our hopes.
Some stage a distraction, a senseless sideshow,
Insisting on missing its unflagging flow.
Some raise a resistance, a psychical dike,
Opposing by closing their minds all alike...
On motionless strike.
Bold bullhorns keep blustering feeble-brained views
With fists full of fury no proof can defuse,
Old wagons still wedged in the earth’s worn-out grooves,
Yet one thing is true, despite who disapproves...
It moves.
Force, Don’t Think So
Written: by Tom Wright
3/15/2018
When we surrender to numbers we then enable,
But demands alone won’t usher me to the table.
I never cede to force and have no plans to start,
I won’t compromise with any sign carrying upstart.
They learn the intricacies of getting things done,
And enlist other feeble minded, to march as one.
An impatient crowd who wants everything now,
Demands are often more than budgets will allow.
Each perceived crisis see’s a new protest transpire,
And when we give in we succumb to their desire.
A protest is all just the “silly season” of our day,
With bullhorns and signs adults demand their way.
bullhorns in their hands
the right of free speech for all
gags in their pockets
One day I was awakened,
I could sense change in the air,
No humility,
This feeling was like no other!
Nothing could compare,
I proceeded to get ready for work,
When I stepped outside,
Birds were chirping, neighbors didn't stare,
I guess hope is alive,
As walked into the corner store,
Nobody followed me around,
Keeping eyes on my back,
Like I was the a clown,
I walked back across the street,
I was amazed!
A cop saw me walking
He never said a word, Just smiled and waved.
As I walked inside the bank,
I wasn't given false stares,
Or evil looks of workers who really despised me there,
As I walked on the bus,
Where usually I have to stand on my feet,
A white lady told me to sit with her,
In the very front seat,
Then I was awakened by bullhorns and cops ready to breech,
Tear gas and rubber bullets filled the street,
I looked around for the bus and previous nice cop I seen,
Then I realized it wasn't reality,
It was merely a dream!
Most people would not try to arrest me,
Or even think about shooting it out.
Surround me with bullhorns ready to shout
Tough, not as tough as they pretend to be.
Which detective will bring me to my knees,
And when will he begin to fight this bout?
No detective has ever had a doubt
That I will ultimately remain free.
Every time a detective gets close,
Destiny has always kept us apart.
Police Officers just might get a dose
Of my poison, delivered with a dart.
Even bounty hunters will get "out-grossed,"
Through the visions of a hole in a heart.
Me and Alex were walkin' on State Street one early Saturday morning
in the bright sun reflecting off deep snow. I saw long-haired ghosts of '67
drift by on the nearly deserted sidewalk....Alex didn't see them, but they looked
my way, held my gaze, and shuffled on.
....I heard bullhorns blasting truth, and
students rushing by, clutching busted heads,
early in the mornin'
.....30yrs. ago,
walkin' on State Street.
now,
silent anthems sleep,
while ages sow keepers
who lift hearts
like the sunrise,
spurring miracles from
helpless seeds,
amid the yearning, frozen will, and
gun-clenched enemies of peace,
....30yrs. ago,
walkin' on State Street
....dedicated to the courageous students at the University of Wisconsin, Madison who, in 1967
staged a peaceful sit-in on campus to protest 'Dow Chemical' (manufacturers of napalm)
recruiting at the University,
Madison Police were called in to clear the building, (at the request of the school's Dean)
brutality erupted, sending chills to College campuses nationwide, sparking students at
Universities across the nation to protest the 'Vietnam War' the rest is history...
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.