Feminism Poems - Poems about Feminism

Not Anne, But Gabrielle by Gabrielle Munslow If you want me to take you to another time, take my hand. Don’t furrow your brow. Slick with storylines, my tongue twists like an adder. Poetry spills— some good, some bad, but always real. I write of suffering. I write of death. I write of want. No pretty, prophetic prose. But I can still slip a ditty off my toes. I am Anne with...

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They said she loved only one man — that’s how the old song goes. But the truth? It was a tree — no metaphor, no myth. A real one: knotted, gnarled, older than shame itself. She found it when her heart was still raw from trying, and men were hollow bells, rung too many times. So she tended it, whispered to it, sang into its bark with a voice no...

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Who am I, anyway? I wear the mask of many faces. I speak, read, and understand— sometimes with words, sometimes telepathy. My voice changes with my face. I just need a witness. Attuned to me, I become every language you know, but I do not know the geography of my own soul. I dare not look at my face. It is a drama mask— sometimes surgical,...

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I dreamed a song — hush tones and haunted chords. A woman loved once, and it grew into a tree. She watered it with years, fed it her voice, slept beneath it, called the silence love. And in the final verse, she hung herself in its...

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She Does Not Chase Light She does not chase light. She is the myth the men forgot to write. The goddess of the long, slow burn — hips like prophecy, voice like a key dropped in honey. She doesn’t beg for warmth. She remembers the fire. She is not the muse. She is...

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Women — we are the fault lines of the world. Every shudder, every quake, every heartbreak — we hold it. We turn pain into knowing. We carry weight like it’s woven into us. We feel everything, everywhere, eternally. We are tuning forks for feeling, diviners of grief, antennae tuned to ache — drawn to the buried, the overlooked, the lost loves still pulsing under skin. We are sacred dowsing rods. We find water...

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Woman is a hole, Soft with spongey walls, Press the button, make her howl, Crash through her virgin halls. A newborn baby, little girl, Fresh kitchen rag to store, Waiting ignorant of the day, When she too will be soiled. Decades later, kitchen rags, Sit discarded in a bin, A loony bin for hags to talk, And squeeze out salty drips. Streaming semen pulling...

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I. THE WANDERING I was born with a life that bled— a seafloor womb dragging tides of fern and marigold char The priests brought saffron and fear crowning me with diagnosis They said: She is too empty They said: Fill her with figs with seed with stillness They said: Her belly speaks too loud Mute her O Plato old patriarch of phantoms my body was no beast— just prophecy you never learned...

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Every picture I’ve seen of you as a child, You wear your hair in plaits. A stern middle parting and two dark brown braids Falling down on each shoulder. A maypole’s dream. You would do your best to wash them when you could, When shampoo was available, Or even in the single, small bathroom. You would vigorously scrub your face too With...

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Inspired by the USPS "19th Amendment: Women vote" forever stamp (2020) They stamped her face– like that could contain her fire. Purple, white, and gold– not colors, but warning, wrapped around a marching soul. She didn't walk, she moved like thunder– every step cracking silence, every breath remembering the women who weren't allowed to speak. They called her too loud. Too much. Too wild. But she was...

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the door is being knocked, For ages, it has remained closed Who is there? The Sun looks The Breeze Halts Tulips raise their heads in delight But the Cascade still flows on Humming like an indifferent Bee Knock - knock - knock How persistent the knocking is... But who comes calling? Through the peepholes, its light spills in The Valley enlightes with joy Old Cider tree opens its...

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They don't know my name. I keep it hidden between the folds of my skirt. They told me I had to wear it but they don't like that they can't see my legs anymore. I keep it hidden in the bows holding my pigtails together. They don't know my name. I'm my father's daughter, my brother's...

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Mirror Mirror everywhere Large Small and Pale None it spares from the critiques of its glare Mirror, Mirror, it Surrounds me from everywhere Like Im in a mirror maze, growing inside, in layer Waiting for my death, I am stranded there Quietly it creeps upon me, taking thousand form Pieces of my few thousand years, becomes the norm Where should I run?...

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providers mothers provided homelessness to get a job and now walk the streets, terrorizing men what do we do well you kill people so you can go shopping it is called shopping addiction and little boys and girls who you hate die in the receipts of your smile you don't see, but we get abused by the freedom we have as you grow and multiply the fat gross arms...

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“A fight of voice exceeds one of fists.” Bludgeoned, broken, cast away, Time devours, your name decay, Ascend beyond the gilded throne, Unsung, unrested, still overthrown. Happy Women's History Month!...

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