Post Your Protest Poetry

McMurphy

Here is my opening contribution to this thread's theme. Let me know what you think when you have the time. I wrote this a few years ago.

I've Come to Bury Your God


A nameless nomad arrived in town around noon.
He wore a duster designed without mirth,
Boots built to besiege dark drifting,
Hat that hung shade across his sight,
And a long barreled shovel slung
Across his back that he took to trough earth.
As he dug, he mouthed, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Preacher with pressed slacks came to pick at the drifter.
On the whole, the holy man had skin drawn
To successfully stretch over his feeble frame.
“The spider seems to have your spirit, son,”
The preacher said with perfect pronouncement of shame.
“You are tomorrow, and I will not take
Tomorrow tainting the town of Yesterday’s blame.”
The drifter merely took from his duster
A glossy paged Bible and tossed it for earth’s claim,
Whispering, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Businessman with a tie tried to buy the drifter.
For a sale, the salesman would always draft
His hair into a sand shaded, slippery knoll.
“I’d like to market your manner, my man,”
The businessman told with a melody like toll.
“Your mug could be on a lunch box---low price---
As long as your stock stays hot on Wallstreet like coal.”
The drifter merely took from his duster
Golden coins carved by kids and sent them in the hole,
Muttering, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Politician with pride stood aside the drifter.
As a law, the lawman would always drag
His loose hair across his head like a nervous itch.
“Plant your rinds of revolt elsewhere, you fool,”
The politician complained with a pious pitch.
“Your voice is not the current currency
Since my civic duty is of a corporate niche.”
The drifter merely took from his duster
Campaign pins for logos and plucked them in the ditch,
Uttering, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Reporter with spiked high heels hounded the drifter.
For the news, the newscaster always dressed
To bring some flash to a dull lead she might follow.
“Stand by your shovel and look sad, my star,”
The reporter requested in hope he’d wallow.
“Don’t speak and be cursed as Apollyon, but
Pose for me, and I can cast you as Apollo.”
The drifter merely took from his duster
Narrow lensed cameras and flung them in earth’s hollow,
Explaining, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Army man with stripes sought to suppress the drifter.
Generally, the general had metals draped
From his passionless apparel like a proud slave.
“Move, or I’ll be forced to remove you, foe!”
The army man barked to badly mimic the brave.
“Do what I command for you are nothing,
And I take commands only from my sharpened stave!”
The drifter merely took from his duster
A bloodied flag without stars and gave it a grave,
Declaring, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

The gunslinger galloped out of town at midnight.
He wore a duster designed by the dire,
Boots born for destructive drifting,
Hat that hid the moon from his sight,
And a shovel slung on his back
When he traveled with a tall trail of fire.
As he rode, he warned, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Ms. Haiku

You didn’t think
strength grew from your wife’s
broken neck and stabbed heart.
You smiled
as three women grieved
while her coffin dropped
to its entombment.

You didn’t hear her call the names of
her mother, her daughter, and the woman next door,
yet they responded without the shame
that murderers thrive on behind closed doors.

They prayed for her soul to rise;
a signal; a band-aid for unfulfilled expectations.
They burned her wedding gown
and wished time traveled backwards.

Beyond the conscious
what you could see
their hands bonded in an energy
that left these women’s bodies searching.

A week after your deed
you visited the dead.
A gravestone at her head.
Three sets of hands waited at her feet.

A fog covered you in a quick embrace.
The fog as thick as dried blood.
The shadows of boneless fingers alarmed you,
but no one phoned for your rescue.

What surprised you most
were the hands that held you tight.
The hands of women you thought were kind,
but when is kindness blind?
And you said,
"It was my father."
And they said,
"You are not your father."
And you said,
"It was my mother."
And they said,
"You are not your mother."
And you said,
"It was my son."
And they said,
"Your son wasn’t there. He died in utero the third time you beat her."
When they released their grip they promised,
"You will look behind.
you will want someone to understand
The fear of censure, of predatory hands."

Only those who died at the hands of lovers
watched as you were condemned.
No human being could save you then.
After all, widower, this was not revenge.


I remember I used to question photographers who compiled books of photographs that were many years old. I thought "Haven't you done anything recently?" Of course, one of my best poems (above) I wrote in 1995, so who am I to talk, eh?

Being Enlightened

How can you look me in the eye
and try to sell me the lie,
as the world continues to die,
will you be the one to cry?

Your thoughts have been
so clearly concocted,
you deliver them with
such egotism and ease.

Your suit looks so sharp
it cuts to the touch,
just like your words
through their brains.

Selling thoughts of
freedom and love
through fucking wars
and children's blood.

Work that hatred,
teach it in your history books,
hand it down and hand it down
generation upon generation...

Tradition and religion are so important,
they only want the shit
that you say is dipped
in the finest of gold.

Sell your soul to the infantry!
They really believe you care,
think they may get a better education,
then their country fucking rapes them!

"Manufacture of consent"
by your god & government,
media fraud and false statements
the truth is latent.

EvilToasterElf

Ms. Haiku wrote:

You didn’t think
strength grew from your wife’s
broken neck and stabbed heart.
You smiled
as three women grieved
while her coffin dropped
to its entombment.

You didn’t hear her call the names of
her mother, her daughter, and the woman next door,
yet they responded without the shame
that murderers thrive on behind closed doors.

They prayed for her soul to rise;
a signal; a band-aid for unfulfilled expectations.
They burned her wedding gown
and wished time traveled backwards.

Beyond the conscious
what you could see
their hands bonded in an energy
that left these women’s bodies searching.

A week after your deed
you visited the dead.
A gravestone at her head.
Three sets of hands waited at her feet.

A fog covered you in a quick embrace.
The fog as thick as dried blood.
The shadows of boneless fingers alarmed you,
but no one phoned for your rescue.

What surprised you most
were the hands that held you tight.
The hands of women you thought were kind,
but when is kindness blind?
And you said,
"It was my father."
And they said,
"You are not your father."
And you said,
"It was my mother."
And they said,
"You are not your mother."
And you said,
"It was my son."
And they said,
"Your son wasn’t there. He died in utero the third time you beat her."
When they released their grip they promised,
"You will look behind.
you will want someone to understand
The fear of censure, of predatory hands."

Only those who died at the hands of lovers
watched as you were condemned.
No human being could save you then.
After all, widower, this was not revenge.


I remember I used to question photographers who compiled books of photographs that were many years old. I thought "Haven't you done anything recently?" Of course, one of my best poems (above) I wrote in 1995, so who am I to talk, eh?

I agree, this is one of your best poems.

Mystique420

WOW!!

that was surely enough to catch someone's attention.