The Poetic Political
Fumings of a Feisty Feminist
Making waves of change, one poem at a time.
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(I wrote this poem after seeing the barrage of misleading propaganda by the NRA titled “Freedom’s Safest Place”). https://www.nraspeaksforme.com/ Statistics about how America compares to other countries with regards to gun violence http://www.cbsnews.com/news/how-u-s-gun-deaths-compare-to-other-countries/ ) Just ‘cuz you say it,
Doesn’t make it true. "Freedom’s Safest Place", Ain’t red, white, and blue. America is the best, When it comes to shootin’ people. Looks like we aren’t really good, At being all that peaceful. We lead the world in guns, That are owned per resident. The USA’s incompetent, Just like our president. "Freedom’s Safest Place", Ain’t here on ‘Merica’s soil. Going back and never forward, Just like a gun’s recoil.
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I wrote this poem after seeing the latest NRA recruitment video that calls for violence and these videos of pastors preaching about firearms and assassinating abortion providers: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZV1nonDZ5PM https://thinkprogress.org/in-churches-across-the-country-far-right-pastors-preach-anti-gay-hate-and-violence-cc82d78ada4f http://www.patheos.com/blogs/progressivesecularhumanist/2015/11/evangelist-calls-on-christians-to-assassinate-abortion-providers/ A twist on “A recipe for love” poem. https://www.scrapbook.com/poems/doc/10979.html Can you tell me how,
A terrorist is made? A heart full of hate, And a deadly hand grenade. Add a cup of fear, And a suicide vest. A mind of ignorance, And a brain that’s repressed. Two arms full of bombs, And lethal ammunition. Minced with words of paranoia, Tossed in lies and suspicion. Sunday sermons proudly preach, Hateful stories full of sin. Violence and weapons, Are the only way to win. “Freedom’s safest place” Is a Bible and some mags. Stir in pious gullibility, But disguise it as the flag. Serve hot just like hell, 'Cuz it’s the only thing they know. But Satan holds the lighter, Saying “Make a wish and blow”. A terrorist is made, When we neglect to see, The NRA’s deception —camouflaged publicity. As the Fearless Girl braves the world We watch as grown men come unfurled We see their insecurity And sexual immaturity A peeing dog to fight their battle Afraid to sit upon the saddle Of the Charging “Bull” of masculinity Fear her fierce femininity For only a girl Can show the world Man’s true asininity! I wrote this poem in response to reading these stories about the Fearless Girl statue. The peeing dog gave me the push to sit down and write “Fearless Girl”:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2017/04/12/charging-bull-sculptor-says-fearless-girl-distorts-his-art-hes-fighting-back/?utm_term=.2248d0cd9375 http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/man-humps-fearless-girl-statue_us_58c4a268e4b0d1078ca72c93 https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation-now/2017/05/30/statue-peeing-dog-appears-next-fearless-girl-statue-nyc/355289001/ War is hell, As far as I can tell. Nothing good, Just a lost boyhood Horrible moments, Of a helpless opponent. Only dead friends, I can’t make amends. Anguish and pain, Will drive you insane. When your call to duty, Is a life of cruelty. War is still hell, as far as I can tell. (This poem was written after seeing a photograph of a solider wearing a helmet that said, "War is Hell". The photo of the soldier was taken by Horst Faas, June 18, 1965 . 173rd Airborne Brigade Battalion member Larry Wayne Chaffin on guard duty at the Phouc Vinh airstrip)
He’s running to his death
As the bombs begin to fall Hot shrapnel all around Each one to close to call. The noise is overwhelming And the screams are quite intense He can see them running towards him Off in the remote distance. As he’s running closer to him We both are out of breath I’m just like him, he’s just like me We’re running to our death. I will gladly argue there’s no winners in war
Only death and destruction that we both abhor. Bodies strewn across the land Bomb shells lodged into the sand. Used brass bullet casings abound Littered dead bodies on the ground Mines left behind for others to find As a consolation prize to remind Us that in war there’s no winner—only death As we die victorious and take our last breath. We sanitize war to make it more bearable,
Concealing the truth that it’s gruesome & terrible. We remove the blood and insert our flag, We hide war’s destiny in black body bags. We talk about patriotism and our nation, Freedom & justice is our proud declaration. We mask the pain our soldiers feel, And the awful sorrow that they conceal. We dismiss the families struggle to cope. Instead we shout about liberty and hope. We ignore them when they finally return. Showing little regard or even concern, For their wellbeing and mental health. Too focused on our commonwealth. As we hang our flags and talk about pride. Pushing the apprehension of war aside. Hiding the scars and the amputees, Sanitized war’s pure reality. The kid’s not old enough to buy a beer As the recruiter whispers in his ear Telling him lies about life as a soldier Handing him forms stuffed in a folder “Make tons of money for the rest of your life And if you get married we’ll take care of your wife Just give us four years it’s all we ask Sign this form, it’s a simple task” Don’t tell them to read the tiny fine print Explaining that it ain’t no real quick stint. Or clearly stating that it can all change Your entire life can be rearranged Emiliano Santiago knows this well How the military can put you through hell Told four years was all that’s expected Then extended 27 more than he elected In 2031, he’ll be 54 And finally able to walk out the door Tell our soldiers, that they’re expendable And the contract they sign is always amendable. If you expect children to die for our nation Then recruit them with truth, not misinformation. The soldier’s heart is battered and beaten,
Wounded by war, fighting for freedom. Bloodied body, shattered mind, Ensuring no one’s left behind. Honor, discipline, strength, obedience He must be strong with utter resilience. But war is never quite what you expect Empathy is abandoned with neglect No longer able to care or feel As he fires his gun made of steel. Unable to forget what he’s seen and done, Nightmares of memories he can’t outrun. So how do we help them? Where do we start, When our men come back with a “soldier’s heart”? Growing up when I’d hit my brother,
“Use your words!” would shout my mother. “Don’t fight!” “Be kind!” “Listen, then speak.” And God forbid “Don’t pick on the weak!” Whatever happened to those words of advice? Goodness and kindness would always suffice. When did our country ignore our mothers? Instead dropping bombs to kill our brothers. Our world is our family if only we’d see, That WORDS solve wars without casualties. Is it right to stand and fight
Give it our all and try as we might. For what is “right” and what is “wrong”? The weak will perish but the strong live on Hundreds of thousands may die in war As we try our hardest to settle the score. Leaving behind bloodshed and sorrow Of those who died and won’t be here tomorrow. Words are our strength and greatest weapon No need for harmful acts of aggression Our wisdom will guide us and lead the way In hopes that we just one day may… Be able to live, in a world without war So that we don’t have to fight anymore. *An American woman is fatally shot by her partner every 16 hrs. Hour one he finally awakens
Hungover he’s still a little shaken. Hour two he takes a shower Grabs some bacon to quickly devour Hour three he’s off to make money, Slams the door and shouts “Bye honey!” Hour four he hammers his thumb Pisses him off as his finger goes numb Hour five he’s starving for food, Cranky and crabby upset in his mood. Hour six he shouts at his buddy For leaving some boards all grimy and muddy. Hour seven his head starts to pound So he downs two pills to drown out the sound Hour eight he falls down some stairs As he’s struggles inside to make some repairs Hour nine he feels fatigued Hard work pays off he’s always believed Hour ten he’s back at it again Finishin’ up, hallelujah, amen! Hour eleven he’s ready to eat Take off his shoes and put up his feet Hour twelve he’s finally done Time to head home and have some fun Hour thirteen he downs a few beers Hoping that his head finally clears Hour fourteen he begins to get rough He pushes his wife and gets pretty tough Hour fifteen he can barely walk Puts his wife into a headlock Hour sixteen he grabs his gun Killing his wife, and other loved ones. He owned a gun to keep him protected Ended up using it, not quite as expected. Spending his life locked up in jail. I question whether justice prevailed. Guns guns everywhere Get ‘em here, get ‘em there. Over at the corner five and dime Pick up another ‘cuz it ain’t no crime To have ten thousand guns if I’d like My constitutional and religious right. My guns make me feel like I’m a big man Just try and take it if you think you can. I’ll blast you away with one single bullet You’ll die right there and won’t even know it. Cuz I’m a brave man who carries a gun Scared of my shadow and most everyone. Panicked the world is out to get me But sure my arsenal is gonna protect me From all of those crazies who want my life But instead most likely I’ll shoot my wife When she pisses me off and walks out the door She won’t get far when I aim my .44. But I realize the “crazies” who are out to get me Turn out to be me…oh the irony. But it’s too late as I bury my wife. And go to prison for the rest of my life. Thank god for my guns ‘cuz they kept me safe But they’ll do me no good locked up in this place. Silent no more, we speak for the dead,
Saying the words the need to be said. Murdered by bullets that shot through the air Killing each other without a sole care Leaving behind the ones that we cherish Never knowing that they would too soon perish Over 110,000 shot every year Over drugs, money, or just plain fear When a gun becomes the only solution Their final, horrid act of retribution. Keeping guns from the mentally unstable The abusive, and addicted ones if we are able. With smart gun laws and regulations We protect the people of our once brave nation. |
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Poetry by: AsherahAlthough she was selectively edited out of the Bible two thousand years ago, she raises her voice for women today in hopes of a better tomorrow, as she makes waves of change, one poem at a time. Archives
May 2020
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