Rioting Poems | Examples

Exiles

Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.

Exiles are men 
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.

Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath 
receding rims of the atmosphere —

the truths 
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.

They do not pray 
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —

Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.

How do pirates with their eye patches 
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?

Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.

Exiles

Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.

Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.

Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —

the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.

They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —

Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.

How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?

Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.

Jaywalking

This is when the old and the young,
beasts and confraternal drunks
damn the consequences of death
lying porous on crossroads upon
bifurcated paths, fractured junctions
and ceremonial cul-de-sacs...

The time is immaterial,
so long as the traffic lights — the veggie-green,
the claret, and the urine-amber —choose their slow
blinking and rapid-eyelid movement carefully.
And moon might decide not to power its own light.
Tenebrous tracks then fill our eyes with the age of
sea monsters blinded by charcoal waves.
Need I hail the neon signs of bordellos!
And the city’s restless constellations!
They sparkle with rage and with the brio of rioting stars,
thus adding celestial films to our already overloaded eyes....
But that’s another story.

C’mon... we are no Deer or Asahel descendants!
Closely related to sloths, millipedes and snails,
we drag our feet, which in turn drag the volumes of
stupidity in us, aggravated by drams and midnight parties
held between a flowing weekend and a stagnant Thursday.

HELL'S WINTER

HELL'S WINTER

Palisade fires
canvassing hell here on earth;
hot flames rioting!

Cupid will be Getting Coal Again

We are going to do a flash mob dance Comet told the crew.
I have a choreographer trained reindeer to help, her name is Bonnie Sue.
Vixen and Blitzen were miffed, because it was not their idea at all.
Dasher and Rudolph did not hear, they were watching snow fall.

Bonnie Sue came in and kept all the reindeers on their hooves for sure.
She had a sassy way about her, she was full of holly and manure.
Olive was irritated, because she was not asked to choreograph the dance.
Don’t be persnickety said Donner who thought with B.S. he had a chance.

Their dance steps were merry, they left prints all over the fresh snow.
Santa tried to find them but with all these prints he did not know…
Where his reindeer were or what mischief they were about.
Olive past him on her way out, her nose was in a snooty pout.

Dancer and Prancer said “we hear Santa” and all the dancing stopped.
Pretend we're rioting for better rations, said new elf named McFlopped.
“that won’t work, let me handle this, my friends,” with reindeer cheer.
Cupid lied to Santa’s face, so coal will be in his stocking again this year.

He Slept for Sixty Years

     

He slept for sixty years
  then woke up with a start
For the life of him
  he couldn’t tell things apart

Ghettos still all filled with blacks
  War everywhere he turned
Young folks rioting in the streets
  Property looted and burned

World ‘leaders’ puffing out their chests
  threatening to detonate
Nuclear arsenals built to the hilt … 
  Make love, but don’t procreate …  

So, the sleeper saw a doctor
  and told him all his troubles
Doctor said, “Your eye exam
  reveals you’re seeing double”

Day a Rooster Got Into My Face

I had nearly left the discomfort of the barnyard with some grace
when a roaming raring rooting rioting rooster got into my face
he chased me for a mile, and I felt more than a tiny bit of disgrace.
what are you doing? Someone asked me. Um…just a little race.
that mean fowl bit my ankle, and I landed upside down on my face.

Keep the Lid On

Keep the Lid On
There is no reason to throw away years of progress for a momentary,
    fit of anger,
        you will not obtain a profit from rioting in the street,

Do not play into the hands who would like to turn the situation,
    to their means,
        and roll good laws retrograde.

Keep the lid on for your own good as well,
    I have no snake oil to sell,
        acting in your own interest keeps your freedom free.

So far you have shown great restraint,
    that's more than I can say for the Memphis police,
        indictments have been made the guilty will pay.
a time for calm and reason © 10 mins ago, Terence Cummings Smith    justice

In My Dreams

In my region, my reality is dry, hot, and fiery.
There are breeze breaks, but no forecasts of rain.

But in my dreams, it's raining where needed.
In my dreams, wild life is feasting and breeding,

and all of nature is happily singing God's praises
In my dreams, non are hopeless or homeless.

In my dreams, true love is blowing in the wind.
In my dreams, a few fires ignite in the forests.

In my dreams, no smoking pollutants.
In my dreams, no murderous arsonists.

In my dreams, no shortest of fire fighters.
In my dreams, no shortest of good police.

In my dreams, no 'rent-a-mob' protesters.
In my dreams, no more rioting in the streets.

In my dreams, yesterday is a lesson in history.
In my dreams, today is a very good day.

In my dreams, tomorrow is paradise
In my dreams, ..............

072421PSCtest, A Brian Strand Couplet, Strand. 1P

Among Clumps of Autumn Leaves

In the recesses of autumn woodland shadows
I sense villages of miniscule creatures – ants, beetles, chiggers
They are spending their lives constantly moving, working, hiding, and digging.

The leaves are turning, giving me a sense of impending winter.
These creatures are protected under the cover of these red and yellow leaves.
I see them not, yet, I sense them. Knowing they would scurry at the giant, me.

Are they dangerous? Rioting? Screaming for solitude? Playing tiny guitars?
Or are they merely teeny beings, working themselves to death, like us?

Opinions

Opinions
(“everyone has a couple,
and like armpits they usually stink”)
By: Tom
November 21, 2020

I’ve never seen our nation in such great divide,
rioting in the streets has become a common thing.
Some burn our flag, having no sense of pride,
others bus in protesters to continue their fling.

Rioters march in common, with police held at bay, 
for those demolishing statues I’ve contempt, not pity.
But truth be known, looters want things their way,
they seek to change history of many a great city.

The First Amendment is our voice’s source,
but rioting of any kind should beget extreme force.

The Tempest

The Tempest

Upon enchanted sands of shipbreached shores
Dethroned beggar of a borrowed callow mystery
Heaves a lightning staff into the waves -
Thunderous and raw clandestine secrecy
On luminous swirling ariels sheering the celestial –
Into the curfew of castaway souls as a hoary appeal
Where storm surges loot delirium in foreboding typhoons
As rioting angels brood in their search
For the orphaned heart in tattered rags of upheaval.

Hear the muted tempest of dark depths roar
As wintered tantrums rock the shores
Leasing waves with unseen spells and charms,
Harnessing the tidal astrals in purifying
Tsunamis of holy risk –
Storm watch night, for souls in cataclysmic squalls,
Reshape the shallow shoals infected by deceit
Refresh the tidal pools emptied by betrayal
Now calm the ruffled gales -the shattered glassy sea,
Return from shipwrecked isle to fury abandoned shores.

11/3/2020
Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 6
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Inspired by Shakespeare’s The Tempest

Tree Tanka

Tree, fills my window
Red, dotting its massive green
Soon, it will glory
Rioting colours in all hues
Until, it's stark, bare and brown

Turning Red

The same people who are demanding 
I put a suffocating thong over my face
are the same ones who lift sieves from borders
and invite in the slag along with the gold
the ones with no respect for law and order
the same ones that demonize all police 
the same ones who close an ocean 
because of a stray rogue on the beach
the same ones who claim
they can stop rioting with a hug and bubbles of love
the same ones that showcase the rarities in society
boiling our souls for the sake of blood ratings
the same ones that release violent inmates
into society to protect them from the flu
the same ones that are defacing honest Abe
the same ones that use retirement homes
as halfway houses for rapists and drug addicts
the same ones that rip toilets from their mansions
to avoid paying taxes-while raising mine...
that's why you can bet your sweet "regressive" behind
that my thumb will be turning red come November.

Cult of the Mask

The cult of the mask dictates:
that you must staple a facade to your face
or be given the stink eye-by the wolf pack
chastised and treated as leper 
not to attend places of worship....
However, "peaceful" rioting and looting are O.K.
Even commended by the leftists.
The cult of the mask dictates:
if you vote red, you're to be harassed and attacked.
The cult of the mask dictates
that all white police are racist and should be hunted down
effigies of honest Abe are to be raped and defaced
portraits of martyred thugs erected in his place.

Anything white is to be washed away or erased
placed in the urn of forgotten history
the cult of the mask dictates 
that the United States kneel to tyranny.
diversity of thought is to be shackled then slayed
put on public display and shamed.

the cult of the mask dictates ...

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