Social Justice Poetry

subjugation of women poems

Innocent | A Social Justice Poem by Kara D. Spain

Forced, against her will,
pregnancy was not her choice,
yet she loved her babe with a heavenly force
Upon giving birth, he was stolen away,
she never even had the chance to nurse that day
She ran behind him, with panic and fear,
knowing his end could be near
Now, what to do with all this milk?
Sold for profit; lies told to the people at the market
Her baby boy, never will she see
Now, her inner light, diminished in sadness and grief

Visit Kara at https://lyrical-discovery.blogspot.com/.

A Nice Roast Every Sunday | A Social Justice Poem by Donal Mahoney

Bill would come every Sunday to his mother’s house after a tough
divorce. He’d bring his laundry for his mother to do and then he’d
devour the roast beef dinner she always made for him. Afterward, he
would watch martial arts on TV. He didn’t talk much but Beverly was
happy every minute he was there. She was lonely the rest of the week. She could hardly wait for Sunday to come.

Beverly is 83 and buying that roast every week took a chomp out of her pension check. But as she has told herself many times, Bill is 52 and has child support to pay and payments on his new condo.

His former wife got everything in the settlement of the divorce—the house in the country, the cars and the horses. Beverly knows how much Bill loves horses. But what bothers her the most is the judge who said Bill can’t see his kids without a caseworker present. Beverly doesn’t know why the judge said this and Bill won’t talk about it.

But life changed for Beverly one morning when she was out walking her pug. She fell on the ice and broke her hip. It was a compound fracture that would take a long time to heal, especially on a woman her age and weight.

A month later an ambulance brought Beverly home and the neighbor
ladies came out to greet her. Her daughter, Ella Mae, was there as
well. She had come in from out of town to help until Beverly was able to get around—first on a walker, then on crutches and finally on a cane. Beverly knows she will have to use a cane the rest of her life but that’s better than a wheelchair.

The odd thing is, there was no sign of Bill while his mother was
recuperating. He didn’t call her in the hospital or at the
rehabilitation center or at home. Beverly didn’t talk about Bill
with her daughter but she did tell the neighbor ladies he had a new job and worked a lot of overtime and weekends. How did she know this to be true?

Maybe it’s fortunate Beverly didn’t mention this to her daughter
because Ella Mae has seen her brother’s car parked outside the
bowling alley in town. There’s a good chance the neighbor ladies may have seen Bill there as well on the night the ladies bowl in the Senior Women’s League. If they have, they haven’t mentioned that to Beverly. They’re her friends and she doesn’t need anything more to worry about.

Right now, though, Beverly has high hopes. She told the ladies she
wants to be much better by the time Bill gets a vacation. She wants to make a nice roast beef dinner for him and take care of his laundry. As she told the ladies, what’s a mother for.

Visit Donal at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs=.

Better at Worst | A Social Justice Poem by Ndifreke George

She wraps herself all in one rough piece
Away from the universe filled with cruel voices
Beautiful demons and charming dark angels
Smiling their deadly fangs
Her heart is plagued
With endless slaps and stabs
Scorched by the sun
Soaked in the rain
But she is safe in her tattered refuge
The gutter is safer than the estates
The dumpster cooks better meals
Her tattered rags fit better than shimmering apparel
Once beaten, twice shy
She is safe in others’ danger
She has nothing to worry about
Let her worries worry over her
She is not schizophrenic
Because she can still remember
That she is one of those widows
Abused, beaten and deprived of her life.

Cold-Blooded | A Social Justice Poem by Ndifreke George

The married men have killed the widow
A merciless beating to death
Deaf to her cry and plea
Her desire to be with her infant
And feed it to maturity
They dragged her along the tar
And tore her into shreds
Through the horde of voiceless masses.
Whose hearts had helped
Whose hearts had beaten them up
Whose hearts had raced after them
To deliver and set her free
Their hearts had treated her wounds
And nursed her to recovery
But their hands were chopped off
And helplessly they watched
Burying their faces in shame and pity
Their goodwill suffers limitations
Fear assumes the greatest prominence
So they watch her die
And suffer hunger from her absence

Our greedy and merciless leaders
Have killed justice
And have made a shameful show of the law
Which has gone unpunished.