Social Justice Poetry

diseased society poems

Hello, Win. | A Social Justice Poem by Alexandre Bartolo

Her eyes gaze at
a lady with implanted hair
across rosé cheeks,
screws spiking
children’s necks,
Egyptian bands
enrolling firefighters’ bodies,
cliché bloody teeth
coming from my gums.

“It this Halloween,
We tell our children:
“Lies often have shorter legs.”
How can I
tell her this is not?

Should I tell her
the lady has hypertrichosis
which her insurance won’t cover?
Her childhood peers
were murdered by the soon-to-be serial killer?
The mighty Estate
won’t assist His more-burnt burdens than heroes?
My company
is moving towards tax-breaks?

Searching for Presidential Biographies Christmas Coming | A Social Justice Poem by Gil Hoy

Looking for a Christmas present for my son.
He wants to be a politician.

Not the merriest of Christmases
nor the happiest of New Years
for politics in America.

Abraham Lincoln is neatly
standing next to Teddy Roosevelt
at our local bookstore

With best-selling volumes
of FDR and Washington
stacked comfortably nearby.

With another somewhat dusty
book sitting far to the right

On another shelf in the non-fiction
biography section titled
“Donald Trump: America’s
Failing President.”

Sitting next to a few dull
panned volumes excoriating
Richard Nixon.

My son is a passionate
progressive Democrat.
He is wondering how a racist

With his money God, occupies
the White House in America
with Christmas coming?

As billionaires get tax cuts,
beggared sick lay dying
in their beds

Anti-Muslim venom spews,
gay pride flags are burning,
the NRA controls Congress.

Did our President really just
tweet that a New York
US Senator is a whore?

Did our commander in chief really say
that Rocket Man will be met with fire
and fury like the world has
never seen before?

Looking for a Christmas present for my son.
Not an easy choice to make. Perhaps FDR,
but he seems so far away.

My son wants to be a politician.
He’s a sophomore in high school
and wants to save America.
He’s always been such a good boy.

Song of America | A Social Justice Poem by Gil Hoy


I see you, Walt Whitman, an American
Rough, a cosmos! I see you face to face!

I see you and the nameless faceless
Faces in America’s ageless crowds of men
and women who you saw in your mind’s eye.

I see you crossing the river on your ferry.
I see you walking down America’s public roads

Where everyone is worthy. Neither time,
Place nor distance separates.


For you once saw the corrupt currents,
Fast flowing into the land that you loved.
And you once saw that which had departed

With the setting sun, half an hour high,
For when another is degraded,
so are you and I.

You once saw what had flowed in with the
Rising flood-tides feverishly pounding,

Sea water soaked—saturated,
With exploitation, bribery,
Falsehood and maladministration.


When you saw the motionless wings of
Twelfth-month sea-gulls, when you walked

On Manhattan Island, when you watched the
Great ships of Manhattan, north and west—

Did you see Wall Street banks seizing
Homes of your beloved countrymen,
Crossing in their fragile ferryboats?

The carpenters, the Quakers, the scientists,
The opium eaters—the immigrants, the squaws,

The boatmen, the blacksmiths—-the farmers,
Mechanics, the sailors and priests?


Did you see monstrous megaton
Corporations feasting on America’s flesh and
Blood, nameless faceless parasites sucking the

Marrow from the bones of your beloved land,
Like a malevolent disease?


For you saw very clearly the political and economic
Malfunctioning mutant ties that connect us.
Neither time, place nor distance separates.

And you saw very clearly the sickly green sludge
Secreted by lobbyists to their bought and sold

Henchmen soldier baby-kissers—slowing,
Stopping the flow of nourishing rushing sea
Tides into your revered democracy.


You saw dark evil patches—the clinging selfish
Sinister grasp of the flourishing one per cent
Oligarchs, who lusted, grubbed, lied, stole—

Were greedy, shallow, sly, angry, vain, cowardly,
malignant—Seeking only to hold on to their
Spoils and preserve the status quo.


Each still furnishes its part towards the death of
America’s democracy. Each still furnishes its part

Towards destroying her soul. The mocking bird still
Chants his tearful musical shuttle to the barefooted

Bareheaded boy, and the final word superior for
America may still be her Death, Death, Death,

Death. And you, lonely father, graybeard more
Beloved—the generous sea, she’s whisper’d me, too.

Insatiable | A Social Justice Poem by Tara Lynn Hawk

We spend and hoard
Ourselves into blind oblivion
Take a pill for any minor discomfort
Seek the product that will make us new
Beautiful, acceptable
Disregard our mortality
Aspiring permanence
Take more than we need
Realizing too late
Our legacy in
The young

Visit Tara Lynn at

Tara’s poetry chapbook, “The Dead”, available on Smashwords,