The Hopeless Radical, a poem

A fearful night,

and a burned bridge freshly smolders.

Such is the life of a hopeless radical.

Less sexy than a hopeless romantic,

but more useful than a hopeless idealist.

Two are ideal hands of the state,

whose hands when pressed against us

create our struggle.

Our struggle,

Our political struggle.

The hopeless radical knows

that identity is not solidarity,

and logic cannot fixate on rhetoric.

The pressing hands,

They ignite and explode gaslights

To burn and humiliate us.

This is the life of the hopeless radical,

Of the unbowed optimist.

The state, the struggle,

The hands against us,

And our rhetorical traditions.

This is our life,

The life of the unbowed,

of the unbroken,

of the hopeless radical.

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Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda – A poem for a dying planet

Would have,

Could have,

Should have.

These words which only pay lip service

to memory and potential

and attribute cause to regret

Serve no purpose but to hinder us

As our world decays.

We owe it to ourselves,

To our living legacies still too young to fend for themselves,

We owe it to them to act.

To organize and hope.

Two words to embody and elevate,

While we smash the banks of marble,

And pine for the fjords of freedom.

Would have,

Could have,

Should have.

Nay.

Will have.

Can have.

Shall have.

The Poet as The Revolutionary

The Poet as the Revolutionary

The poet as a revolutionary

is an all too common trope.

So what happened?

Where did they all go?

Where are the poets and lyrics

and bards who can spark the imagination

of a generation

to end the segregation

and the era of hate.

The poet as revolutionary,

A common but missing motif,

We have minds running for office

all of a generation inspired.

So dare does a poet

question their purpose?

Even now,

Even in a time of awakening,

Where conscious privilege cannot be forsaken?

The poet as revolutionary,

and the leaderless movement of leaders.

Poetry has its politics,

its stake,

its place in the revolution

and it always will.

The poet as revolutionary,

the romantics

and the voices of their days.

People Can Be Products, A Socialist Poem

People Can Be Products

Who are we but products?

Products of our time

and place?

Dare what questions are such to be asked?

Asked and then asked again!

Trivial though it be,

meaning is always the goal,

the objective,

the end.

Are we just products?

Products of anger,

reaction,

of hate,

Or are we something more?

Who are we but products?

Products of our time

and place?

We are the artists, the thinkers,

the doers, and the workers,

And in fact we are still much more

Power is a Predator (a socialist poem about living in the colonialist, racist patriarchy)

Power is a Predator

Escape is never possible,

For a mind that never shuts off.

Constant and endless flow,

Ideas upon ideas,

Questions arising ever second.

Existence is not a question,

It never was.

Existence simply is,

And survival is the question.

How do you survive,

When the powers are your predator?

So many never ask,

But many more have to.

Commodity, You Are Not Your Surplus Value (a Socialist poem about humanity)

Commodity

Everything from the human spirit

to dignity

has become a commodity.

Oceans boil,

Flowers wilt,

And blood is spilled everywhere.

We hold the wrong people

to the worst scrutiny,

and we continue to masterbate ourselves

with patriotism.

Commodities,

Our time,

Our minds and training,

Just means to our bosses ends,

only because they have our consent.

We are more than commodities,

we are people.

Earth is not a commodity,

it is our home.

We are not commodities,

not a means to profit ends.

We are not commodities,

we are minds, we are souls and we have dignity.

We are not commodities,

we are creatures, living, breathing, and thinking.

We are not commodities,

we are human beings.