fabiochiu/medium-articles huggingface dataset:
New Ground
By: Liza Braude-Glidden
Tags: Joe Biden, Resistance Poetry, Organic Farming, Climate Change, Environmental Justice

New Ground

Photo by Liza Braude-Glidden

Digging daffodil and garlic bulbs into damp earth,

The mountain sun sinks along with the temperature.

This was the last warm day of Autumn;

Snow gone except on north-facing peaks.

This ground is alkaline, only 5% organic matter,

But it’s a gentle southwest slope with enough water.

We’re some of the lucky ones,

We can do a lot with what we’ve got.

A two-week Covid outbreak at the John Deere dealership

Held our tractor hostage.

Our neighbor had to plow us out.

But Reed trailered the tractor home,

We broke ground on the garden we’ll be planting in the spring.

Bickering about how much to disrupt the ground with the tiller,

Our contrasting methods come together.

It’ll be a better garden than either could do alone.

We canned apple sauce from the old trees.

To share with new neighbors.

We’re some of the lucky ones,

But it’s challenging ground.

Reed gets nasty looks

In the hardware store just for wearing his mask.

Liberals, radicals, libertarians, independents, fundamentalists, cults, private militia,

We have to work together and we do okay.

Look west and you see weather coming.

“It’s hotter and colder than we’ve ever seen,”

Say friends who’ve farmed here for forty years.

“Everything stopped when the wildfires came;

Hanging Lake almost burned.”

Then a QAnon supporter was elected by three percent,

Even though we had phone banked till we couldn’t see straight.

A phone banker has to be cool with people hanging up.

Maybe they think you’re a robocall instead of a volunteer from their own community.

“I would have voted for Joe.” one guy said on the phone bank

“But I couldn’t stand those mouthy women especially Nancy Pelosi.”

“Too many phone calls,” said another.

“Ma’am,” I explained, “Democracy’s on trial in the middle of a pandemic.”

“I let my husband decide my vote,” she said.

“Get f*cked!” growled another.

But many people thanked me for my service

As if I was a first responder who might be saving their lives.

People like Joe don’t win against an incumbent;

They don’t triumph over combatants who ignore the law and disrupt the mail,

But Joe and Kamala did win.

Like me and you,

They’ve got blind spots you could drive a truck through

They aren’t going to save us, not by themselves.

Are you one of the lucky ones,

Standing on uncommon, precious ground

That goes deeper than our differences?

It falls to us to do justice to rain, roots, and children

And the days, nights, highways, and pastures we’ve been given.
Am I A Rude Scrooge?
By: Kensho Keith
Tags: Philosophy, Resistance Poetry, Christmas, Life, Poetry

Am I A Rude Scrooge?

Photo by Tamanna Rumee on Unsplash

I don’t feel the holiday spirit.

Honestly…

never really have.

All christmas was about

was getting things I never had.

Seeing my family was such a drag…

could probably pre-print a list of questions asked.

So disingenuous.

Put the phrases on a wheel and spin the shit.

Next time they’re contemplating graduation,

just might finish him.

I combat misgivings quick.

Seems my mortality less important than successful appearances.

The writing on the wall

in the rat’s obedient penmanship.

They’re killing me.

Race to ask questions

that are never fulfilling me.

Questions double as weapons

that take shots at abilities.

I feel in jeopardy.

But in this society,

that’s how we’re bred to be.

When people say they love the holidays,

I always think,

what makes a day a holiday?

What makes today so special?

That we ignore our present age to wait.

If someone hadn’t told you celebrate,

days would really stay the same.

So why do we delineate?

When we could just love every day?

Does this make me a crude scrooge?

Am I too rude?

For thinking christmas is a mission

for people to show who’s who.

Who’s new materials

replaces true miracles.

Connecting with loved ones,

but our love isn’t empirical.

They say to know we are loved,

why else would they buy you some stuff.

Its only logical.

Money is precious.

We’ve learned these false lessons…

They could have kept it for fossil fuels

If love didn’t exist,

they’d keep their hands in their pockets, you

Might not feel it but that isn’t their fault.

You’re supposed to know

based off things that they’ve bought.

But experiencing love is a stark difference

from simply having to know.

Having a go

at leaps of faith

because of what society wrote.

They never give me attention.

But they made my wish list their mission…

I really just want them around…

Its a true bond that they’re missing.

I used to have faith in

the meaning of family.

I was a pillar of patience.

Then I experienced the damning

stark realization,

that for my affection,

they believed they had paid him.

I just try to divert my attention…

Plug in my Playstation.
F*ck you and 2020 too!
By: Lyndsey Frondarina
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Depression, Mental Health, Anxiety, Poetry

For my Auntie Susie, my cousin Tina, my Uncle Paul, my Princess Whitey (my cat) and everyone else we lost this year. Whether it was directly related to COVID or not, a loss is a loss and a death is a death!

Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

Lost another one to 2020

not sure if it was COVID

or God just being funny.

I hear he has a sense of humor

but I think that’s just

another f*cking rumor.

They also say he never gives you

more than you can take,

but everyone I know

is about to f*cking break.

Maybe they didn’t pray hard enough

or maybe their beliefs aren’t strong enough,

all I know is this year has been

really f*cking rough!

I think what aggravates me the most

is all the f*cking a$$holes

who still think it’s a hoax!

As if the nations doctors and nurses

cries for help are one big f*cking joke!

All they ask is that we consider the

welfare of other people and the world

replies in a resounding, “NOPE!”

I hate to wish anybody tragedy

but sometimes that’s what it takes

for people to develop an ounce of

fu*king humanity!

I know they say common sense

isn’t very common anymore,

but apparently common decency

also went out the f*cking door!
People Fall Back
By: Kensho Keith
Tags: Philosophy, Life Lessons, Resistance Poetry, Life, Poetry

People Fall Back

Photo by Thanos Pal on Unsplash

Why am I never enough?

My best efforts

don’t check checklists

other people have.

Please show me I’m impressive.

They don’t follow up.

So many pills to swallow…

Tough.

Why do I always get left in the dust?

Eating it for lunch…

They move so fast away from me,

the dust kicks up into the sky.

I’m here,

high and dry.

Feeling nowhere close to fly…

Unless we’re speaking insignificance.

A faint buzzing in their ear,

that doesn’t register as differences.

In their life or their sight.

A background character.

Obviously outside parameters.

That would land in the zone

where someone cared for ya.

I just keep floating…

Sometimes stare at ya.

Wonder why my jokes

don’t become imperative.

Its always a good time,

when I’m around.

But if I don’t reach out,

my phone won’t make a sound.

I’m always making the first step.

Trying to build friendships.

But seems folks idea of bonds

is how you incur debts.

I did this for you,

now you’re stuck here,

until I get the purse back.

I hate that shit.

I’d rather get my purse snatched.

So those around me

know my love is a conferred fact.

I just wanna be there for people.

To feel as if I help fight the evil,

I know is there for our minds’ retrieval.

Minding my manners.

Finding the standards.

To help my tales of loneliness get recanted…

Well…

If I make it about me,

do I have the right reasons?

They say people fall back,

no question,

whether they’re leaving.

I say I know all that…

I’m still tired of seasons.
Refugee’s Sonnet
By: Jane Woodman
Tags: Empathy, Resistance Poetry, Refugees, Love, Poetry

Refugee’s Sonnet

Photo by Siddhant Soni on Unsplash

When fear and weakness, fear’s true face, combine

To harden hearts and undermine our sense

Of unity, thus seeking just to find

A way to lock ourselves inside the fence

Of our own selfishness, our own conceit

That tells us we are not that which we fear,

That our beliefs are permanent, complete,

Must never change, adapt from year to year–

Then we can justify ourselves, with pride

Close up our borders, send our bombs to kill

Their innocents, those who have loudly cried

For help, for freedom, for relief. But still,

Be careful to avoid seeing their eyes,

For once you do, you’ll also hear their cries.
Singular
By: Virginia Roces
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Uniqueness, Individuality, Self Love, Self

Singular

Image by Fillipe Gomes from Pexels

I am an individual,

See the company I keep —

Individuals, like me

Hiding between herds,

A motley of moving figures in thick coats.

As an individual,

I am not shaken by their rustling noise,

So long as I might continue to illustrate in silence

That cross-hatched image —

The imperfect one I call my favorite work of art;

And as an individual,

It doesn’t quite matter enough

To live in a broken picture of reality —

The people around me, with their puzzling words,

mismatched faces, to put together for my own;

So long as I continue to move my wrist,

A time-worn hand, the length of an overused arm,

The singular work of someone like God,

The human being, inveigled, too,

Looking upon his work, as Art —

That — a masterpiece,

which belongs in safety,

In my shelter — a museum,

In my world — a Paradise,

In my peace — a vast imagination
A List of Demands on Tuesday
By: John Gillen
Tags: Life Lessons, Resistance Poetry, Lists, Life, Poetry

Photo by Cayetano Gil on Unsplash

I want Russian literature

German music

Italian paintings

African dances

Swiss chocolate

Swedish pornography

Japanese steak

Irish swearing

Canadian syrup

Brazilian sunshine

And American damnation

Hot n’ sizzling

With a side of fries

And plenty of wild screaming about God and poetry and love

And I don’t want to hear any fucking talk about Wednesday morning
Greed
By: Lyndsey Frondarina
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Capitalism, Holidays, Poetry On Medium, Poetry

original picture

It’s said to be the season

for caring and sharing,

better to give than to receive

is what we want to perceive.

But Santa brings the presents

and that’s what we teach,

too selfish and materialistic

to practice what we preach.

It’s the most expensive gifts

that bring the biggest smiles,

fuck living a simple

moderate lifestyle.

So afraid of rejection

and thirsty for attention,

we’re quick to buy

affection.

What better way to

spread Christmas cheer,

than buying presents you’ll

be paying off for a year?

Money isn’t everything but

we’ve made it such a necessity,

in our capitalistic

driven society!
Murdering Miracles
By: John Gillen
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Hunting, Murder, Birds, Poetry

Photo by Jonathan Carroll on Unsplash

What a miracle it is that the Earth birds sing

Not enough their soft feathers and tails with rings

Nor the glory of their many brightly colored wings

Though most creatures don’t have any of these things

The songbirds too have the secrets of flight

And keep a clean nest to sleep in each night

But they have yet together a greater blessing still

A song and a voice with a high clear shrill

To warn of the dangers that threaten their flock

To call for their mates and probably to talk

To greet the new dawn coming over the hill

To find somewhere warm in a long winter chill

What a horror it is then that the love in their throats

Is mimicked and mimed in many hunter’s totes

And lead birdshot is sold for ten-dollar notes

To make murdering miracles quite common and rote
Life For Death
By: Johannes Mudi
Tags: Life For Death, Resistance Poetry, Anti Death Penalty, Death Penalty, Poetry On Medium

Life For Death

Photo by Maria Oswalt on Unsplash

Oh life, where is your sacred

You once stood hallowed

Treasured gift and precious

Now so easily ruptured

By the rigid arms of revenge

Pseudo named justice

Proclaimed in a sentence

An eye for an eye

One life, another



Humanity, where lies compassion

Point me your conscience

That I may know it still breathes pardon

Of what use the retribution

Can’t we just have incarcerations

Of what gain the rigidity

The equal display of cruelty

I refer to the death penalty

Watching life sapped from humanity

Breath slowly fades at hangman’s bidding

He stands by never minding

Watching still

Until soul reaches home

Leaving behind it lifeless bones

Oh life, restore your sacred

An eye for an eye, the world goes blind
Inter-wishing for Earth
By: Caterina M.
Tags: Wishes, Biodiversity, Earth, Resistance Poetry, Poetry

Image by PIRO4D from Pixabay

I’m more impressed by

……………… a tangled embracing biodiversity

…………………… a homeostasis of home harmonised

not by a diamond shower

……… on Jupiter

……… in millions

or by the singularity of water on

………………… both

sides

…… of the moon

our virtual imaginings of these takings

accept a diminutive nature of our terrene

extinguish all my earth-bound experiences

make my whole life of no benefit to any life

yet ascending with the old regular moon is

an eternal faithfulness to the tides of our lives

a summons to synchronous coral spawning

a compass for a zillion lives in the darkness

and my inter-wishing

…………………for Earth

for every generation of every organism

to clasp us into a breathless sensation

of phosphorescence and foliaceousness

to remain immersed in a terraqueous life.
The day the sun stopped burning
By: Lyndsey Frondarina
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Economy, Freedom, Compassion, Poetry

The day the sun stopped burning

Photo by Joel Mott on Unsplash

The day the sun stopped burning

everyone started hurting;

physically, emotionally

financially, mentally.

The new normal arose,

the economy froze.

People lost their jobs, businesses and homes,

then started dying in droves.

Told to stay inside,

those who didn’t want to hide,

defied the warnings

completely ignoring

those in mourning.

Willing to trade lives of the “few”

for the “rights” of the many . . .

How selfish a country are we

to use freedom as an excuse

to be so carefree

while handing out abuse!
A Christmas Goodbye to a Toad and his Toadies
By: Christyl Rivers
Tags: Resistance Poetry, 2020, Covid 19, Humor, Trump

DRAIN the swamp, Photo by Byron Burns

It took a million trials, plus some hearings, I am told,

Finally! He’s going. Still, our nerves are rocked and rolled.

A man we didn’t read quite right, both cowardly and bold,

But not the kind of bold of old, of chivalry, and courage,

But more the kind of bold of devilry discourage.

We can tip toe outside our homes, for faith and food, to forage.

While he’s frothing at the mouth, like a lost and dismal Adolph

Gather your own bold. Say “Goodbye” to brown nosed Rudolphs

Day after day, plague drifts away: All the creepy doom coughs!
Trim Your Own Trees
By: Kensho Keith
Tags: Philosophy, Life Lessons, Resistance Poetry, Writing, Poetry

Trim Your Own Trees

Photo by Saurabh Singh on Unsplash

Trying to understand myself on a deep level.

Steel my mind for the devil,

he mettles.

I don’t fuck with Columbus,

he settled.

They’re one in the same for me.

Taking over lands really made for me.

Lording over plans that they gave to me.

Here.

I put this in your hands,

now you need to dance for me.

Make me a slave to beat.

Turns out,

I’ve got two left feet.

Mom always said,

give and take,

ain’t a one way street.

So you call it a gift,

but I see what you take from me…

Personal agency.

Find the beliefs of my ancestors,

call them make believe.

But you take words that were censored,

find innocent minds,

then you make believe.

Made the words on a page

a cage for me.

Setting the stage

for the rage you see.

How personal strangers will take beliefs.

Can only discuss differences angrily.

Blocked from respecting new angles seen.

Only bowing down

gives you pain relief.

They really shoot at your mind,

make it seem like they aim for knees.

How can you destroy minds,

then say that you pray for peace?

If you’re not here to judge,

stop loading your gun aimlessly.

Hunt through your own nature,

don’t guess mine then maim the trees.

Something lurks in your forest,

you need to tame the beast.
Wolf
By: Rob Janicke
Tags: Fear, Resistance Poetry, Truth, Change, Poetry

Photo by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash

Shed your fur but the wolf still rages beneath.

New friends replace old, but who’s going to replace you?

The spider bite stings the same.

You gave me that rusted key because it’s as worn as your heart,

so easy to turn.

Confusion spills all the way down to your shadow,

where no shade or sunlight can hide.

You’ve kissed everyone else goodbye never thinking you’d have to leave as well.

The venom swimming through your veins is the offering you’ve set aside.

It’s meant for others, never to mix with your tainted blood.

The realization comes, you cannot escape your sad eyes.

You hate what you see when it’s your reflection,

a desperate growl and show of teeth with no one to scare.

The forest is dense, trees provide cover.

You’re not unique, the damage is done, the moon rises and covers us all.
Piss Stinks on a Dog in Heat
By: John Gillen
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Truth, Lies, Dogs, Poetry

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Merika
By: Lyndsey Frondarina
Tags: Resistance Poetry, USA, American Dream, Poetry On Medium, Poetry

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Welcome to America,

you too could be living the dream,

but take heed, it’s not all

what they make it seem.

All you have to do

is eat up the lies

they shove down your throats

for all of your lives.

Freedom and equality

can be yours for a price,

just tell ’em what

you’re willing to sacrifice.

Not that it matters,

you won’t be given a choice.

they’ll make you a slave to the system and

do everything in their power to silence your voice!

Hard work earns you respect

but don’t expect that to pay the rent,

you can work two or three jobs

and still live in a tent.

Only the one percent

earn a living wage,

the rest of us work our

asses off well into old age.

And don’t even think about complaining or asking

for help, just suck it up and put a smile on your face,

appreciate your scraps

and don’t forget your place.

Basic human rights are a privilege

not everyone can afford,

if you’re not part of the elite,

your suffering will be ignored.

But don’t let that deter you,

this is the land opportunity

just as long as you

come from the right community.

So come one, come all . . .

Give us your tired, your poor . . .

Oh wait . . .

That’s not our motto anymore!
The Fire Right Now
By: John Gillen
Tags: Life Lessons, Resistance Poetry, Fire, America, Politics

Photo by Pawel Janiak on Unsplash

Here the demons outnumbered the angels in every corner of the acropolis

Here the temperance of contrite dignity had never shown its face

Here there were castles of indolence and rivers of jealousy

Canons filled with boiling greed and the hungriest cannibals that ever lived

The bottom was unknown and the ancient barriers were all broken

It was only a matter of time before we elected him King

And only a matter of time

Before smoldering ashes

Hit gasoline
I Read the News Today, Oh Boy
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Donald Trump, Fake News, Humor, Politics

Was a tad bit surprised to see

A spike in the word “misnomer”,

But what else can we expect from

A man with a dead lobster comb-over?

I guess it could mean a mistake,

Or a common misconception,

It’s easy, really, when you can

Make up your own definitions
Athene Noctua
By: Rob Cullen
Tags: Grief, Trauma, Resistance Poetry, Recovery, Free Verse

foto©robcullen18122015

-

Black boughed oaks, snow whitened hills

remnants of a great wood cut for Lydney’s iron mills.

-

I searched alone, a white haired boy,

catching unclean little owls with the slow sweep

of a green wool sweater.

-

I stared long in the eyes,

of Tawnies, that in another age cured madness.

-

Jackdaws called my name from the river bank,

I saved them, from the waters rise,

wrapped them clustered close, in a dark green jerkin,

fed them and on another day let them go back to the wild.

-

I dreamt of eagles, hawks and falcons,

but Robins flew to my call, and sat still in my hand.

-

At St Anne’s strand in the West of Ireland, black Jack ravens,

clawed at my brow, trying to roost in dusks gathering darkness,

while I stood listening to the Atlantic rollers roar,

and the weeping sigh of the one I loved.

foto©robcullen01122018

©robcullen01122020

-

I realise that, in speaking and writing about trauma, this comes from almost forty years of working with extreme cases of traumatization, but I also have an understanding that, in my own experience, I have not always coped with trauma and particularly the death of someone close. These days, deaths of friends have a huge impact. Knowing this I’d rather avoid the funeral and particularly the wakes.

This poem speaks about my experience as a child, when family deaths overshadowed my upbringing. I was very much a loner, artistic and very much “into” wildlife. It was a way that I came to terms with loss.

But even then a close relative, whom I very much loved, when she asked for me as she was dying of cancer, I could not face her at that time. I left for another country. This remains a difficult memory. I wish that it weren’t so. But my memory of her remains never far away. My experience has always been at the center of my approach to children experiencing bereavement.

©robcullen11122020.
haikus for brandon bernard
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Haiku, Death Penalty, Justice System, Poetry

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Bits
By: Antoinette Nevitt
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Pandemic, Life, Poetry, Digital Life

Bits

Photo by Derek Thomson on Unsplash

I feel like a ghost

in this world

and it feels good.

No body, no time,

just bits

flying back and forth.

Lighter than the angels.

Just figures of speech

encoded in bits

flying who knows where.

We are

all bits of information

completely out

of our corporeal

minds.

Existing as

digital ghosts, like the stars.

We see across time.

Starlight from bodies burned out

long ago

blown to bits,

into photons of light,

lighter than the angels.

A culture of bits of information

flying back and forth.

Flying in circles,

circling back

in a world

smitten to bits.

Just a figure of light,

and it feels so good

to be this free -

but I miss

my life.
His Suicidal Freedom
Tags: Death, Resistance Poetry, Depression, Life, Poetry

His Suicidal Freedom

Photo by Andreea Popa on Unsplash

When the pain became too much for him to bear, he cried;

that was the only way his pain would fade;

But they called him names and told him that boys don’t cry;

A few years later, when he cried, they questioned if he was fit to be an adult;

When he cried a few days back, they called him an attention seeker,

Now, over his mangled suicidal corpse,

they posted RIP messages to his social media timeline.
Cold World, Knit A Sweater
By: Kensho Keith
Tags: Life Lessons, Resistance Poetry, Life, Writing, Poetry

Cold World, Knit A Sweater

Photo by JOSHUA COLEMAN on Unsplash

I’m outgrowing people.

Sowing needles

needed to adjust my network.

The threads need to be smaller.

Probably just removed.

Connected by outdated test work

where my perspectives were rated

against my best hurts.

The ones that stuck the longest.

Conditioning is the strongest,

when there’s nothing new under the sun.

Imagination shot,

but confused on why life’s fabric would run.

Tethered together by flimsy craftsmanship.

Low quality threads….

But they’re the only ones they passed the kid.

I wanted to have a ball,

but couldn’t get past defense.

That fear was holding me back.

That fear is how we’ve been matched.

We have the same ones

so we all became one.

A monolithic masterpiece to those who remain 1

percent of the wealth that the earth’s brung.

That they took from the earth really.

Connected by the ability to take advantage

of those who remain down.

All because of how they’re standing

is viewed by fools who only inclinations to use.

Not interested in a truce.

Rather see a deluge

of negativity,

if it nets them the ability

to blind your eyes

to the evils

they perpetrate with their gilded feet.

They see us as stepping stones.

Make money when civilians die from a drone.

They use the dead as the rug,

that protects their feet from the dung,

the shit they’ve stirred up

and the stench that it’s brung.

Most don’t know what they’ve done.

Instead they live life only to judge

their success based on far flung

ideas of what makes their life worthy.

When they rip up real dreams

and replace them with money,

how could you stop hurting?

I saw the connection

and saw through their directions.

Now I cut all the tethers

that were blocking real lessons.

Hopefully I can do better.

Hope this cold world change feathers…

Maybe knit it a sweater.
Math Class
By: Rowen Veratome
Tags: Numbers, Resistance Poetry, Sexism, Micropoetry, Poetry

Hi, it’s Rox. In case it isn’t obvious, I’d like to give a little context for this poem. It’s about a boy audibly rating the attractiveness of female school-mates in math class. Little moments of misogyny like this occurred every day in my experience of middle school. I hope that it’s getting a little bit better for future generations after the #MeToo movement.
Our Rainbow Banner
By: Patsy Starke
Tags: Resistance, Resistance Poetry, LGBTQ, Transgender, Equality

Photo by Sara Rampazzo on Unsplash

Oh say can we see

with open eyes and open hearts

To see what’s just not right

To know, we are better than that

We witnessed the battles;

Injustice

Inequality

Racism

Hate

Though murdered and bruised

our flag does still wave

So proudly we marched

on marginalized streets

So proudly we still exist!
Take a seat (or two…)
By: Nomsa Mlambo
Tags: Resistance, Resistance Poetry, Poetry

Bhala Writers recently held a Masterclass titled Writing as Resistance and tasked us to write something based on the following quote by Angela Davis, “I’m no longer accepting the things I cannot change, I’m changing the things I cannot accept.” I wrote this poem a few years ago so I decided to ‘submit’ it as my pièce de résistance.

Dear white folk,

Some years ago, we fought and you won

That doesn’t mean you’re better than us

It just means you own the narrative

But today, we get to speak

So please — take a seat

White man, sit down

I don’t want to play your game

Where you pretend that I’m invisible and all my peers look the same

Black man, sit down

The strength of my voice will not take from yours

Even though yours has almost always taken from mine

White woman, sit down

Your way of doing things isn’t always the only way

Your whiteness doesn’t offend me so my blackness refuses to offend you

White man, put your pen down

You’ve written the story for too long

Remember that though I am forced to learn your language

No law or university has ever forced you to learn mine

Black woman, sit down

Let my hair grow and my ethnicity show

Don’t laugh at my accent or instruct me to fit in

White man, stop drawing me

If all you want to represent is the curve of my naked hips

And the shape of my thighs

Black man, sit down

Don’t whistle at me in the street

Or stare at me like I’m a piece of meat.

Sit down, let me speak

My intention is not to offend

But for my daughter’s sake, I won’t pretend

Sit down, let me speak -

…let me laugh as loud as I’d like, let me be as playful as I like (I don’t exist to grow up to become someone’s organized wife)-

let me pray how I want to pray, and sing when I want to sing.

dare I say it? Let me live.
Miracle In December
By: Johannes Mudi
Tags: Miracle In December, Resistance Poetry, Covid 19, Pandemic, Poetry On Medium

Miracle In December

Photo by Hert Niks on Unsplash

I’m thankful for the light of day



My pulse racing against my breath



Covid still raging



Hope looming for a glorious ending







My life walked steadily to day’s end



From rounds of toils, and some joys



Infecting beings met along with love



Freely received and freely given







I’ll recline raising hands in victory



A breaking triumph for humanity



Clipping covid’s wings with a vaccine



Unmasking smiles; bridging divides







A new dawn is so close in sight



Dark clouds making room for sun and stars



Evaporating fears of the pandemic



At last, Twenty-twenty speaks blessings
Decorated Ugliness
By: Rhonda Marrone
Tags: Homelessness, Resistance Poetry, Poem, Homeless, Poetry

On a cold, snowy night,

While driving through busy city streets,

I stopped to fill my warm car with gas.

Across the street at a busy intersection,

A man stands,

Bundled in dirty jacket and worn jeans.

He has long hair and scraggly beard.

Is wearing a disposable blue mask

Over mouth and nose.

The homeless can practice pandemic guidelines

Even as many prominent figures refuse to do so.

He is holding a cardboard sign:

“Homeless. Anything helps. God Bless.”

He stands outside a storefront in the cold.

The store is decorated with pine garlands, red ribbons,

And sparkling Christmas tree with countless lights.

The sight makes me uncomfortable.

The homeless man does not belong.

He doesn’t fit in this scene.

I want to write him out, remove him from this story.

The scene is of Christmas, capitalism,

And a stop light with a lot of traffic.

It’s not a place for homelessness:

A homeless man with a mask on his face

To fight a pandemic is out of place.

He doesn’t fit in front of a Christmas tree.

Homelessness and Christmas and capitalism make a dystopian nightmare…

The homeless man does not fit!

He is all wrong in this place!

But, wait… Wait. A. Minute…

Is it the other way around?

Maybe the homeless man belongs,

And the Christmas tree doesn’t fit…

The traffic is not right…

Homelessness and pandemic are the reality.

The idea that if we rush by in our warm cars,

filling our gas tanks, buying gifts,

And try to decorate the ugliness and horror out of existence,

Then it will all just go away:

That is the true dystopia.

If we put enough sparkly lights on top,

Put enough fluff and icing on the inedible cake,

Then no one will see the ugliness hiding underneath.

But it is no longer working.

The horror pops through,

In a homeless man on a street corner,

In almost 300,000 dead.

Homeless men and women I see you…

~~Rhonda Marrone 12/2020
No
By: A. J. Gabs
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Strength, Motherhood, Rape, Pain

No

Photo from Pixabay

My voice died a little that day

The day the boy kept pushing when I said NO.

Come on, he said

No

Please

No

It will just..

no

Just this once..

no…

and then I found out I never had the choice anyway.

My voice died a little more

When one by one my friends left the table

“Sorry you guys broke up but we were more his friends anyway”

I sat at the table

Quietly singing happy birthday.

With shaking hands I stacked these bricks

and built a wall instead of me.

And my cry echoed in the chamber, bouncing off all the walls

and drowning me in its sorrow.

So, I stayed quiet .

Quiet for years —

Like the stillness of winter,

Sitting in my tower,

Surrounded by people,

But always alone.

And then she came.

I could see my fire in her eyes.

She came from my womb and my fire was there.

She looked at me and rekindled the blaze,

It’s time to come out now, Mom

I need you.

When they tried to tickle her,

no

When they tried to tease her,

No

When they tried to belittle her,

No

When they tried to silence her,

NO.

My words rose up like smoke

Almost choking me to get out.

Her and I sat in the ashes of the bricks

While embers flickered around us.
The Drowning Men
By: L. M. Kang
Tags: Environment, Humanity, Resistance Poetry, Ecology, Poetry

We watch the sun rises and fall, some of us witnessed

the dark days, the days it was hidden behind

chemical clouds, or when we blamed it for self-made aridness.

Lies filled our throats and turned us blind.
I Want to Be a Real Woman
By: Never Sugarcoated
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Women, Commentary, Feminism, Poetry

I Want to Be a Real Woman

Photo by Diana Nazarali on Unsplash

I want to be small;

to quietly captivate,

like a flower in

a thunderstorm.

I want to be seductive,

like the droplets

sliding down

the sides of her glass,

filled with pink cocktails.

Blushed,

like my flesh.

I want to be refreshing,

like skinny dipping after

a long, hard

sweat.

I want to be tender,

like a bite of

the juiciest plum.

Mouthwatering,

forbidden fruit.

I want to be toxic,

venomous and vapid,

proud and insecure.

I want knives to

seep from my pores,

so I may stab other women

in the back,

front,

side to side,

while we dance together

for everyone else.
business as usual
Tags: Consciencia Negra, Brazil, Satire, Resistance Poetry, Poetry

At Carrefour you’ll find plenty: Rice, beans, eggs and more! All at your local grocery store. And please ignore the dead man on the floor!

The sign above Manuel Moises Cavalcante says ‘Welcome to Brazil in 2020.’

In honor of November 20, the dark meat’s on sale, it’s practically free! That’s our savings guarantee. Get fresh meat so rare, it’s still bloody! We’re woke, so aware! It’s only fair — Joao Freitas reminds us all to care!
Do not silence my wails
By: Daniel A. Teo
Tags: Uyghur, Resistance Poetry, Poem, Muslim, Genocide

Do not silence my wails

Photo by MARCIN CZERNIAWSKI on Unsplash

On your halcyon days

sun shines there

yet it doesn't seep through rooms besieged in dull

because beyond our gates lies

the torment of the innocence

wails of agony unheard except our own

In congregation

we’re packed like sardines

to count the last of our days

with torn skin

and eyes unable to tear

for the thought of ever leaving the doors

never crossing our minds.

For we are fatigued,

with our organs removed and trafficked

as we sit here impotent

resist so hard yet remain helpless in

mental tug of wars

to lose hope

but still clinging onto the refracted beams of light

shining through holes in

spaces of indoctrination

For once, a beautiful family

now nothing but fragments of blood, tear

and suppressed agony

laid out on the floors

of deceased

to wish for repose above the clouds

fail to notice their souls

still

engraved into red stain coffins

To work for these people

get nothing in return but

what they call

“military-style management.”

For our fathers to suddenly fight back

be cursed with a few more scars and a tongue-lashing

tongue forced to taste meat never tasted

tongue forced to speak languages never spoken

Keep praying,

Keep praying

Mother always tells me

but where do our prayers go

if not but reverberated through

the remains of demolished mosques

and the walls of camps

we’ll never leave.

Maybe those.

Maybe those beyond the gates can help us.

But we can't keep praying

for us to be repaid with more lacerations

because as they

drink wine on Friday nights

we shake the body of our parents

trying to bring life back into their soulless cadavers

as the world around us remains cavalier

in its silence

oblivious to our discord.
I Put a Spell on Trump
By: Jay Sizemore
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Witchcraft, Spells, Trump, Poetry

I Put a Spell on Trump

Photo by Devin H on Unsplash

If I believed in magic, I’d believe in God,

but I know the woman in the box

just curls her legs

into a chamber beneath her

while someone else wearing her shoes

puts on a show of wiggling toes.

If God created everything,

he gave birth to the devil,

while he miscarried a billion babies this year

into toilets across the land,

and he isn’t doing shit

to protect your immigration status

from an orangutan with a comb over,

no matter how many kewpie dolls

made from orange hair and blood

you set fire to in the urns.

I wrote “Fuck Trump” in caps

across my chest with a black Sharpie,

and cut up pictures of his face

and fed them to birds.

I said the words, “Be bound to your angry chair,”

and threw crow feathers up into discordant spirals.

Trump gave the CEO of DuPont his pen,

and told the media to fuck off

with a smile on his face

like the day the devil was born.

And the Christians kissed their crosses

and said, “Amen.”
It Stings
By: Annine Massaro
Tags: Life Lessons, Resistance Poetry, Life, Self, Pain

It Stings

It’s needles

Prickly needles

Over and

Over —

You know, the ones that leave an after pain

Echos of memory refreshed

Again and

Again —

Each time an opportunity to make room

In the belly

Digest fully

Until only an absurd laughter remains

No room to leave in the prick of it

©Annine Massaro
My personal Anthem
By: Patsy Starke
Tags: Resistance, Resistance Poetry, LGBTQ, Transgender, Poetry

Photo by JJ Jordan on Unsplash

Glitter spangled Transgender girl.

Shining through hate.

Glowing away from bigotry.

Sparkling with authenticity.

Pretty as she thinks she is.

Proud of who she is.

Holds her head high.

She is a regular girl.
Reflection
By: Rob Janicke
Tags: Reflections, Resistance Poetry, Survival, Life, Poetry

Photo by Erik Eastman on Unsplash

What you see in the mirror,

Is the residue of every thought you’ve ever had.

Raging with the urgency of a flash flood,

Your reflection is scarred by an unrelenting sun.

Being ripped in the direction of chaos isn’t your road home,

In fact, you don’t have a home.

The journey has enough shelter that you’ll be ok in small doses,

The times you’re not though, your vices will overflow with use.

Fog and filth for breakfast, a banquet fit for what you’ve become.

Suburban mentality on a city mattress, dreams are rocks and rocks pillows.

Lift yourself up but we know just how much you love to go down,

The alleyway your castle, you can be queen for about seven minutes.

There are man made laws and mind made laws,

You’re imprisoned by both.

You knew the creed all along,

It filled the walls beyond your white picket fence.

The sun for a son, the dollar for a daughter.

Your death meal will lack flavor, but the indigestion lasts generations.
As The World Sees Change
By: Andrew Wlos
Tags: Creative Writing, Resistance Poetry, Haiku, Poetry On Medium, Poetry

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In case, just in case … we ever forget.
By: Matthew B.
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Fox News, Trump, Republicans, Coronavirus

Sky News

The criminal, criminal idiocy

of those ridiculing, denying,

downplaying Republicans

& their enablers, sycophants,

ever-knowing heads-that-talk,

on Fox …

oh, yes … Fox!

OAN, Twitter, Parler,

& such, & on & on …

…

As of this day,

December 3rd, 2020,

273,476 folks have died,

& over 144 million

carry the virus.

All those who denied the mask,

shrugged off ‘the flu’,

reasoned with ‘heck, death is natural’,

argued as political hacks,

ignored science as ‘free-men’,

safety as ‘patriots’,

just plain decent common-sense

& care & respect for their fellow

travelers in this fragile world,

… as tyranny, leftism, & elitism,

…

& Trump,

oh yes Trump …

with his early bluster, denial,

petty ignorance & ill-preparedness …

…

& so here we are …

273,476 as of this morn,

& let us not forget

those whose in-action,

ignorance & denial,

have a responsibility here,

at this moment,

that cannot, cannot,

ever … be forgotten.

Cnn.com

Time.com

with tears, long distance farewells,

pain, heartache, sadness & sorrow …

never forgotten.

… & never forget.
Leaf Blower Man
By: Emma Briggs
Tags: Noise Pollution, Resistance Poetry, Poem, Leaves, Summer

Photo by Callum Hill on Unsplash

Leaf blower man, please stop.

What are you doing?

Leave the leaves alone.

They’re not hurting anyone.

You’re hurting my ears

and burning carbon

for no good reason.

Go plant a tree instead

or at least feel the peace.

Hear the distant waves,

smell the summer air

and watch the fluttering green

of the occasional leaf

dance down to the ground

and let it be.
Girl Power
By: Jen Kleinknecht
Tags: Resistance Poetry, Women, Kamala Harris, Feminism, Poetry

Girl Power

Photo by Olenka Kotyk on Unsplash

I was born with a vagina,

So life’s been nothing but angina.

I’m a bitch or I’m a whiner,

Lamenting first world problems at the diner.

Underestimated and ignored,

Tired and saddled down with chores,

I’m a prude or I’m a whore,

Always wishing, wanting more.

I cannot have it all at once.

Whoever said that was a dunce,

A snake oil salesman. Thanks a bunch.

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

Some days I wonder how I’m coping,

How I’m smiling, dreaming, hoping.

Caffeine’s my drug and I’ve been doping.

I’ve got cramps, but I’m not moping.

But now I have an upbeat feeling,

Because Kamala broke the ceiling.

In the White House, wheeling, dealing,

Not stooping, serving, nodding, kneeling.

This is our time. This is our hour.

Victory is sweet, though Donald’s sour.

The world’s my oyster to devour.

My veins are coursing with girl power.

Our veins are coursing with girl power.
Have You Heard of Mississippi
By: John Gillen
Tags: Patriotism, Resistance Poetry, United States, America, Poetry

Photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash

Have you heard of Mississippi

Have you heard her Muddy Waters

Do you know the many sighs

Of New Orleans and her daughters

Have you been to Alabama

Have you heard of Doctor King

Have you listened to his words

How they made the mountains ring

Have you danced in Tennessee

In the hall of Graceland’s King

Have you heard the slap and tickle

Of the rock n’ roll he sings

Have you been to California

Have you walked the desert sand

Have you seen the dreams of angels

Put your feet where they did stand

Have you heard the Kansas wind

Have you listened to the band

Singing songs of marchin’ glory

And the wars on Texas land

And have you been to New York town

Have you stood at Woody’s side

Have you journeyed ‘cross the nation

To the bed on which he died

Have you seen the sun in Florida

Have you felt the sea in Maine

Do Virginia mountains echo

With your lover’s whispered name

Have you had the corn in Iowa

Seen the greens in Idaho

Has a memory made in Utah

Kept you warm in winter snow

And do you love America

And would you miss her too

And if she needed saving

What are you prepared to do
The People vs The Army
Tags: Abuse Of Power, Resistance Poetry, Africa, Nigeria, Poetry

The People vs The Army

Photo by Jay Rembert on Unsplash

Press release from the Nigerian military.

“Our soldiers were absent

They were not at the scene,

The witnesses, they are lying – they do not know what they saw”.

How about all the cameras,

Is that not proof that it was you?

Second statement follows;

“Alright it was us

But rubber bullets, we swear”.

You seem not to have seen the footage,

All the bloodshed was recorded.

Army issues a third statement;

“It was us and we used live ammunition,

Now what? Are you going to protest again?

Because we have got plenty more bullets in store,

Our American friends make sure we never run out”.

The people keep silent and

Carry on with their lives

Like the killings never occurred.

Just an event in history,

How you make life cheap.

Impunity and injustice,

A recurring theme from our past.

A Soldier can kill you

And get away blame free,

Tell me how you expect me – an ordinary civilian

With a family to take care of

To risk everything I have?

Not to be insensitive

To the ones who have died,

But too many times

History repeats itself,

Always a similar outcome .

I tell you what, there was man

From our great continent.

When truth and integrity marked our leaders,

The desire for liberty, was their undying cause;

His name was Amilcar Cabral,

A revolutionary from the past.

His words, he prophesied

Of how corruption would ravage our lands.

If our culture was overwhelmed by colonial dominance,

He warned that if the revolution that had liberated our continent,

Was to be usurped and replaced by

Imperialist’s beliefs, then the revolution

Will be laid to rest,

Buried for all eternity.

For every time

The fires rekindle

They will get quenched,

By the most violent of means.

History tells us, that many countries in our continent

Including my beloved homeland,

Went through decades

Of brutal military dictatorships.

In my opinion,

These regimes were ultimately

What quelled our revolution,

By viciously suppressing the will of the people

And never having to account for their crimes.

They created a culture of acceptance

Among the masses,

Of injustice and corruption,

And most importantly

They instilled a fear

That made sure the populace will never fight back.
House in the dark wood.
By: Rob Cullen
Tags: Poetry, Free Verse, Loose Words, Resistance Poetry

foto©robcullen01122020.

-

This house stands on the six hundred foot contour,

cradled amongst a wood of blackened, bare boned Oaks.

-

An Atlantic weather front had brought rain all day,

it was a bad storm we get every other winter,

but this one was worse than the others.

-

That night — I listened to the wind throw spatters

of rain, hard at the windows, I can remember those first years now,

when gales blowing in off the mountain, clattered slates

of the old roof, that needed replacing, but we couldn’t afford it.

-

And in the morning, the roadway had been turned into a stream,

but it was another winter without damage and we knew we’d get through.

-

On nights like this, another storm, and I sit reading, unable to sleep,

wrapped in a shawl, listening to a neighbour’s dog howl,

worrying about my daughter and hoping she’ll recover.

-

©robcullen01122020.
Interesting views Imad.
By: James G Brennan
Tags: Free Speech, Resistance Poetry, Cancel Culture, Poetry, Social Media

Interesting views Imad. For me, vitriol should never be given a platform, if you can't say something positive keep your rancid mouth shut. Opposing views are fine and make the world turn round. If you have to resort to misleading and lies, then you had a weak argument and should never be given a voice. Just like those Aryan twins. Keep up the good fight Imad. Always. J. 🙏☘✨☘🙏
As Moses Slept in The Shade of The Sphinx
By: John Gillen
Tags: Moses, Egypt, Resistance Poetry, Sphinx, Poetry

As Moses slept in the shade of the Sphinx

The sand around his mind was cleared

Then the beast stood

And they exchanged blinks

See thou I as thou art, or doest thou foolest these mine eyes?

If thou be he whom now I see, teach me wisdom’s mystery

If thou dig and set me free

I will give thee Pharoah’s ring

And the Great Arcanum?

The Caduceus and Staff?

Iod-Hei-Vav-Hei

Shem-Ham-Aphorash

Worship and Sinai will burn holy ash

Fire and lighting and pillar of smoke

Such a promise is something no man dare hope

Yea, shall I rise to push desert away?

And do honor this temple of the Zep Tepi Kings?

Aye Gods, no Kings

No Kings, but Gods

Keep thy faith here not at odds

Remove from me these Earthen clods

And I will give thee Elohim’s rods

So deal was struck and oath was given

And neither believed the bargain he’d driven

So the lawgiver swept all the sand from the Sphinx

And returned more than rested from his forty winks

And the Israelite’s God is still well revered

And that temple from sand is always kept cleared

But the mysteries they shared were mistrusted and feared

So the knowledge there yielded has disappeared