social commentary

There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.

Good Morning, My Funny Friend
Good Morning, My Funny Friend Good morning to my cheeky mate. You made me laugh before my tea. Those giant eyes and crooked grin. Are smiling right back here at me.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
Restlessness. Top Story - August 2026.
The fluorescent lights hum lowly-- Not enough for ears to pick up, But enough to faintly make skin crawl. The itch beneath my business casual blouse Is the reckless urge to abandon Another eight hours of "circling back" to emails And "taking this offline" when attempting to "move the needle." No need to reinvent the wheel, just get the project done. As if reinventing the wheel doesn't sound So much more divine. My desk chair creaks and I catch myself swaying In an attempt to keep myself awake. I click a tab that's stuck, loading, on a black screen Forcing my reflection to become visible. Past the glare of the stagnant mirror image I try to catch the eye of the girl I was at ten. She had the world ahead of her, She could do anything she wanted With oceans of time. She wouldn't want to see that, This far along in the road, She works in an office 40 hours a week Under moldy air and toxic management Doing a lulling job Instead of being. Every evening, I press submit into the void, Attaching my resume in every job portal, Waiting for a chime or a sign. The inbox stays clear, And the quiet bounces back. Static is the sound Of everything happening All At Once. It never unfolds, Doesn't waver, And remains persistent. You can stop and stare Or reach your hand into the noise Sift for a sign, And hope that the dead air Finally starts making sense.
By Annie3 months ago in Poets
Hard-Hearted Jasmine
Hard-Hearted Jasmine Jasmine wore a smile as sharp as winter glass. She welcomed every neighbour, yet none were meant to last. Behind lace curtains, behind polished doors, she swept away compassion like dust across the floors.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
The March of the White Man. Content Warning.
Beware, when the white man comes to your shores For from the moment his boots hit your ground He will submit you beneath his foot
By Rae Fairchild (MRB)3 months ago in Poets
Who?
Who crushes the caterpillar’s wings? Who listens when the butterfly sings? There is no fright with a dog’s play bite But we are furious when the bee stings
By Atomic Historian3 months ago in Poets
The Telltale Signs . Runner-Up in Static Challenge.
I've been thinking a lot about how static builds a charge within us when we caress or rub certain fabrics and materials, how it builds and builds silently, subtly, without warning unless you see those telltale signs: the flicks of hairs standing on end, dancing dust particles.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
Meeting with the New Principal
Her words were catered, as if served on a platter before her subjects; worn and tattered are my ol blue jeans. I hope your next one is more conservative of our culture , she uttered. We ought to conserve what remains of the chosen white . Stark were our eyes, our mouths agape, for she japed those many a man who built the school; sweat clung to their nape. Blood on the leaves fell from the cypress trees. Think about it like this — We have to appeal to an older audience, longing their so-called lost cause. But this insolence is undesirable — no longer recognizable to parents and children, to the settlers and colonizers who washd upon our shore. Cloaked in ivory linen, she muttered, ever so quietly, and let’s keep it PG, okay? lest we upset the marsh wren in its habitat; she squalled her discordant song like a gnat in the muddy estuary.
By Thomas Bryant3 months ago in Poets
The Noises and Senses
Ever since childhood… The world went too strange … I may have an odd sensory issues … I get overwhelmed with many strong noises..
By Meghan LeVaughn 3 months ago in Poets
She's a know-it-all
She carries herself like a statue in a museum display case Never changing Her stance and demeanour remain the same As they were five decades ago
By Sun Bee3 months ago in Poets
POSTCARDS...POST EVERYTHING
Inspired by a song. POSTCARDS...POST EVERYTHING A little crab is born one day From broken eggshells He steps away. Goes about his way. Not knowing...
By Victor Mendez3 months ago in Poets
Moldavite
Moldavite They say you fell from a burning sky, A green-eyed ember wrapped in flame. The earth still carries where you landed, And nothing living stayed the same.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
old fragments #2
i sit, worried, listening to lyrics. an attempt to soothe. little simz says, "time will heal you." how odd, i think, because i once wrote a haiku, when brand new here: time will tell, they say. or, in time you will heal. but time does not serve you. i wrote it, but often write things. the question is, do i believe it? i was sad then. am i not sad now? i am. yes, and... not sad like i was some time ago. but yes, i believe it. despite the sadness, in that time, having changed in more than name alone. the grief, as i call it now, was wild once. when i was young and more certain, my grief was the decider. which is to say, my grief called the shots. my grief didn't leave room to assess, run a cost-benefit analysis, or even think more generally. my rational mind was absent, hardly at work, unless you consider the work of wild grief a rationale equivalent to the caliber of my stable and contented mind... i don't. is the work valid? yes. but reasonable or measured? hardly. what is all this grief for, you might ask? what is it that acts as tether to this potential weight? death, i suppose. to put it simply. loss, more broadly. the loss of self. the loss of loves. the loss of our planet and entire species, en masse. the loss of compassion from people and of empathy for things that don't happen directly to loved ones or us (whether complicit in their occurrence by choice or not). you know, perhaps by using time to patch all wounds, we liken ourselves to the concept. perhaps the world is so heavy, that we prefer the indifference of omnipotent measure. perhaps our hearts are opened, but lose the heat of emotionality. perhaps our minds are quieted, but lose the clarity of connection. you see, time isn't concerned with memory, or preference, or truth. you see, time isn't concerned with convenience, or perception, or linearity. you see, time isn't concerned with people, or flora or fauna, or any conception of mother earth gaia terra. you see, time isn't concerned. but i would hate for that to be me.
By kp3 months ago in Poets