Society Poems
rusted edges, burning gears
by Rikske Kessner
The gears don't just turn;
they gnash—teeth of industry,
blood-stained from forgotten hands.
Whispers don’t drift;
they crack like breaking glass,
but no one listens.
Faces sink into hollow screens,
cogs spinning louder than their voices.
......
Thrown
by Aynia Moreaux
Torn, like paper shreds
Thrown to the wind
The hands tossing the pieces pay no mind
What direction the breeze takes them
Only focusing on their own stumbling paths.
Our Babies
by Corey Alpough
What are they doing to our babies
Looking on the news and see that they been dying lately,
What is going on this world its getting kinda crazy
Drop them off at school to tell them see you later, maybe
They go to school to learn and have fun
Shouldn’t have to worry about a killer with a gun
Preaching to them in the room like a nun
Praying to God that they never have to run
......
“Good Morning!”
by Jeffrey Pipes Guice
“Good morning!”
As I welcome a stranger into my daily world...
One we share together with each other...
A gesture we share openly, totally unfurled...
“Good morning!”
To the father, walking hand in hand with his son...
They both offer a nod and pleasant smile...
As their new day has just begun...
......
Ready To Strike...
by Jeffrey Pipes Guice
Hello there, young lady...
I’m the voice of reason...
Now listen to me closely...
You’re entering an exciting new season...
What your fickle parents taught you...
Wasn’t all together real...
So I’m going to tell you something...
That will change the way you feel...
......
Silhouette of a Stranger
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
The bloody stranger stank of rank grass and
Animal grime and strutted unnoticed on
Our threshold on a long, misty night.
Lightning, unaccompanied by rain,
Exposed his grisly image,
Comprehended quickly by the village griot,
A humepenthe with seeing eyes, though blind,
Who could smell danger even from long-dug holes of
Doss-houses from distant caverns.
......
Echoes from a Dark Corridor
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
I
Promises are yet unripe.
Trumpets and cymbals from callous pimps
Across the desert reach our aching ears
Night and morn bring forth silhouettes of
Inebriated masquerades armed with whips adorned with
Thorns.
What’s more, their breaths are stale.
......
Thrown
by Aynia Moreaux
Torn, like paper shreds
Thrown to the wind
The hands tossing the pieces pay no mind
What direction the breeze takes them
Only focusing on their own stumbling paths.
rusted edges, burning gears
by Rikske Kessner
The gears don't just turn;
they gnash—teeth of industry,
blood-stained from forgotten hands.
Whispers don’t drift;
they crack like breaking glass,
but no one listens.
Faces sink into hollow screens,
cogs spinning louder than their voices.
......
Musical Chairs
by Niels De Schryver-
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