abuse of power poems

Whitehouse Wizards | Langley Shazor - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Whitehouse Wizards | Langley Shazor

Magicians weave spellbinding tales
Captivating onlookers
Shifting perspectives
Mesmerizing our eyes while holding our breath
Hostage
This sleight of hand
Grants us permission to assume we have it solved
All the while
Moving us in the opposite direction
These sorcerers keep us confused
With mythically mystical abilities
We are held prisoner under their trance
Hypnotized
Confined to a reality they create
Our lifeless avatars
Sway with the wave of a palm
The truth is never revealed
Such proper illusionists

Dictator | Osatogbe Shola - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Dictator | Osatogbe Shola

Looking at the serpent, trying to dissolve the conscience of a few in turpentine.
Trying to quarantine the consciousness of many on the eve of Valentine.
Wipe the smirk off the face of the nobodies.
Empower the busy bodies elevating them to becoming somebodies.
Play a discordant tune, horde and hurt them.
Burn bridges and don’t build bridges.
Synergize with the outlaws as well become a law unto yourself.

Regard the law but disregard the Rule of Law.
Many a few has followed suit in the concrete jungle taking the route of jungle justice.
The judicial system is not trusted.
In a “lawless” society lawlessness is bound to abound.

In the full glare of the international community remove your garb and fight dirty.
Smoke them out, round up the dissenters and light them up smoking them (one after the other) like a cigar.
The egos of the egoistical gold digger getting bigger.
His shenangians are becoming more obvious, oblivious of the fact that the international community have a hawk view.
Now all can see that he is just a spoilt brat lacking tact.
Wack is his art so his displays will never be taken to heart.
His Achilles hill is that he surrounded himself with praise singers. Gullible as he was they ultimately got his finger burnt. He was once adept at pointing accusing fingers- deflecting attention.
Back then he was always finger licking; human right abuses was his hors d’oeuvres.
Now he must eat the humble pie.

Politics as Usual | J.K. Durick - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Politics as Usual | J.K. Durick

Politics, too often, exists, survives in the valley of
its making, full of sound and fury signifying nothing
or little, which is fine if all the world needed was to
keep dangerous people busy with their own business,
they pose and party, form groups and apply pressure,
make speeches for the cameras in their mostly empty
chambers, vote and gloat, form committees, adjust
their thinking to keep their power, their place assured,

but, there’s always a but, when it comes to who runs
the show, there are problems all around us, ones that
get mentioned, but play out quietly in the background
in all the clamor and cluster of politics, think of all
the diseases that need to be cured, or poverty, or cities
falling apart on the evening news, the environment
and unemployment – when politics become about itself,
politicians on talk shows, politicians on junkets, on and
on, the art of the possible becomes impossible to take.

It’s Clear | Lynn White - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

It’s Clear | Lynn White

On a clear night
I should see the moon full silver
in a sky shot by moonbeams,
Not greyed by a smoky mist
and dust clouds rising from the ruins.

I should see a black, black sky,
Not bright from the orange glow
from the fires of hell on earth
Which send sparks high enough
to compete with the stars,
the pinpoint moonbeam spangles,
Not beamed by lasers.

I should hear the silence
in the depth of the black night,
not the explosive cacophony
bought by the masters of war
and the silent screams
buried in the rubble.

I should hear people talking in the street
and the music and laughter of the night.
I should see them walking home
to feel firm flesh loving and soft
unsplintered and unblemished by shrapnel,
unbroken by the metal-clad monsters
masquerading as humanity and
wrapping themselves in the uniforms
of thousand year old myths
dressed up as history.

These should be my rights,
But they aren’t.

I have no rights,
Nor do you.

Only what they give us,
the men of the flags,

temporally.

More at https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com.

A Poor Man’s Daughter | Narinder Bhangu - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

A Poor Man’s Daughter | Narinder Bhangu

The door cracked open
of a high house,
scattered cries of,
“Help, help, help!”
But no one came,
for these cries were
from a high house.
She was stripped
garment by garment,
her last drape snatched,
debased.
She was helpless
craven and lifeless.
Her youthfulness
was dead,
merely a pile of soot.
This was the honor of
a poor man’s daughter.
She was dead,
merely a pile of soot,
no longer able to raise a voice.
This was the honor, the chastity,
of a poor man’s daughter.
The high flames
of her pyre
became a vampire
to suck the blood
of her looters.

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