As the
incoming administration builds its agenda of attack on marginalized people, on
freedom of speech, on the earth itself, poetry will continue to be an essential
voice of resistance. Poets will speak out in solidarity, united
against hatred, systemic oppression, and violence and for justice, beauty,
and community.
In this
spirit, Split This Rock is offering its blog as a Virtual Open Mic. For the
rest of this frightening month, January of 2017, we invite you to send us poems
of resistance, power, and resilience.
We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.
We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.
For
guidelines on how to submit poems for this call, visit the Call for Poems of
Resistance, Power & Resilience blog post.
***
The New
New Year Fear
by d.o.
by d.o.
Recall the Puritan
progeny,
the god-blessed money tree?
Now all pretense of righteousness
gone up in smoke, emissions for
The Machine of very bad dreams.
The new calendar of your devices
says 2017, the scene is not serene
it's mean and it seems the angry fist
is shaking in your face otherwise, the
dark motorcade still passing bodies slumped
in even more doorways, under more
crumbling bridges, babies still in trash cans,
unnatural disasters mounting the screens
and he who would be king, gold plated,
phoney as a three dollar bill, fake and
on the take, holding court with the worst and
your best interests in contempt, by the neck,
staked decks and a knockoff disaster sequel,
bloodful, dreadful, and yes, deplorable
spills off the screen into your scream.
Still the homeland shelters wait
only for the great and fate, but
we know where the hiding is,
we live out here after all
and for now.........we wait.
the god-blessed money tree?
Now all pretense of righteousness
gone up in smoke, emissions for
The Machine of very bad dreams.
The new calendar of your devices
says 2017, the scene is not serene
it's mean and it seems the angry fist
is shaking in your face otherwise, the
dark motorcade still passing bodies slumped
in even more doorways, under more
crumbling bridges, babies still in trash cans,
unnatural disasters mounting the screens
and he who would be king, gold plated,
phoney as a three dollar bill, fake and
on the take, holding court with the worst and
your best interests in contempt, by the neck,
staked decks and a knockoff disaster sequel,
bloodful, dreadful, and yes, deplorable
spills off the screen into your scream.
Still the homeland shelters wait
only for the great and fate, but
we know where the hiding is,
we live out here after all
and for now.........we wait.
