Social Justice Poetry

election poems

Dream Killer | A Social Justice Poem by Jonathan Otamere Endurance

Our dreams are rolled
Into a single page of blankness,
Each awaiting death in queue
Like Ibadan passengers
Throwing perseverance
Into the pocket of haphazardness.

Our hands are not dream killers,
They only hurled the choices of their heart
Into the secret ballot of ‘change’
Like an eye lingering
Upon a choicest dress.

Now, we will spin our dreams
Like 1 – 2 – 3…
Into the dark scene of the night,
Each to bargain death in dearth’s stall,
And pay in installment.

Elect | A Social Justice Poem by John L. Stanizzi

The air has mass. We breathe in a thickness
made weighty by the acicular words
that roil and topple, and the black rags of
loathing snap, and multitudes of wretched
screaming mouths wrest what light there was from the
eyes of the hopeful, wrapping it in hate,
in sotted shadows, dimity nylon
masks that stretch over fear and anger, the
noses bent and twisted, recognition
vanished, a horrid molding of neighbors’
faces into gnarled and grim phantasms
tumbling like Frost’s magnified apples, the
rumble of discontentment, and whatever
trepidation I must overcome I
can’t name, though each sense seems lined with despair.

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To the Candidate | A Social Justice Poem by Diane Woodward Dorff

I know you.

You are the film of spilled oil
on the surface of the pristine sound;
twisting and slick on the unsuspecting water,
surface compromised.

You are the jagged words that tear the air,
that as soon as thought,
burst forth in violent phrases,
hating all who are not you.

You are the first mosquito of the summer,
leaving your saliva in swollen bites:
an ugly reminder
that you were there.

I know you.
And I have had enough.

I choose silver puddles
and honking geese making their way south
and the smell of autumn leaves.

I choose the faces of babies;
the understanding in the eyes of mothers;
the songs leaking out of the churches;
the greetings of the bus drivers;
and the smiles of strangers.

I choose life with
the disabled who speak their truth
and the women who choose not to be victims
and the people without jobs
and the people with accents
and all the friends and all the strangers
who make this place their home.