bigotry poems

The End of Sexism | Matt Alexander

Oscillating randomly around any true signal
Buzzes all kinds of noise

White, Pink, Brown, Black, Shot, Poisson, Normal, Phase, Transient
Temporary flares awaiting mean reversion

So to equate an unrepresentative spike
With a bona fide increase

And dub an anecdote
The new status quo

Is the mistake of an amateur
Fool or fraud with ulterior motives

Like when after the election of our first black president
Some claimed that racism had come to an end

“We have reached the top!
Now let us dispense with this pesky climbing gear.”

Only to have it roar back — broad swaths of people
Discounted wholesale

For their language’s
Word for God

Skin color
Or parent’s birthplace

— in its ugliest form
With a fool’s gold face of Orange noise

So now that we have a woman similarly poised
Brace yourselves

For similarly false grand claims: “Full Gender Equality
Achieved!”
Followed by

(Even more) misogyny
Hysterical, shrill, and overly emotional itself

And yet one hopes against hope
These victories are not outliers but indeed indicative —

Hope: echoes of that word reverberate manifold from bygone cycles
Transmogrifying the ‘o’ to an ‘a’ and the ‘p’ to a ‘t’
these melancholy days —

Of real progress, though the ever-increasing standard deviation makes
conclusions
All but impossible to reach

More at https://twitter.com/thenamesmatta.

A Mother’s Dream | Shawn Aveningo

I remember it like it was yesterday,
bringing my two identical bundles
home from the hospital. It was Spring, in Atlanta.
I remember rocking them each night
into the wee hours of the morning
blanketing them in as much joy,
pride a mother could possibly secrete,
attempting to feed them a lifetime of confidence
so that when the day came for them to fly,
they would soar, knowing they are always loved.

Every time a mother gives birth,
she gives birth to two dreams:
the dream that evolves within the soul of that child,
to be a firefighter, a dancer or a teacher.
And the dream that never changes,
the one that’s formed with the first fetal flutter,
cemented with the sound of her baby’s first cry,
that dream for her child to be healthy,
happy, loved.

So you see, I have a dream.
I have a dream that every child grows up
in a world, in a country, in a state,
secure that she is free to love
whomever she chooses.
I have a dream where “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”
simply becomes, “It Don’t Matter”.
What matters is what’s in your heart,
not what’s written or interpreted
to be true in a book.
What matters is the commitment,
the affection, the devotion,
between two beings,
no matter in what skin color, body shape,
or gender they reside.
What matters is love… period.

You see, it’s time I finally took a stand,
speak up to make you understand
because my daughters deserve
to walk hand in hand
with the one they love
just as my son walks today
in our supposed land
of the free.

You see, he has that privilege without contest or debate,
without the interference of homegrown hate
or those so ignorant they think they can pray the slate
clean of DNA, the very genes that seal our fate,
signal to our hearts who we want to date,
as we meander through this jungle for our one true love.

I mean, isn’t that what we all want in the first place?
Surely, love means more than just the ability to procreate.

I think it’s high time we unite,
we unite in this battle, this fight
the next chapter in pursuit of equal rights,
for all our children.

Because my children
and your children
deserve to live the dream,
to be healthy, to be happy
and above all
loved.

More at http://redshoepoet.com.

In the Bathroom Mirror | Shelly Blankman

She traces her lips with
the precision of Picasso,

strokes her silky brown
hair, carefully tucking stray
strands behind her ears,

smoothes her new pink
dress and matching heels
that hurt like hell.

She pretends not to notice
the giggles and gasps.
she’s heard them before.

She’s seen mothers hurry
their little girls to flush
and wash; they must
escape the danger in a
dress lurking in the mirror.

The bathroom door shuts
slowly behind her, laughter
leaks into the aisles and replays
the acoustical nightmare of
playground taunts and pranks
that seem to have no end.

Her mirror reflected the person
she was born to be, her truth,

they don’t know danger doesn’t lurk
in a pink dress with matching shoes.

Danger lurks in the broken
brains of average men
who feed on fragile egos
of little girls in pretty dresses.

Season’s Greetings | Stan Morrison

Protocols of the Elders of Zion
Fabricated in Mother Russia
Anti-semitism sent worldwide
Jew bankers hoarding capital
And planning global domination

No Jews with money found
In New York’s Lower Eastside
Or in all the urban ghettos
Michael Gold set us straight
Poor folks plotting survival

Henry Ford et al signed up
A threat to Model T riches
International conferences
Protocols of scapegoating
Aimed at settling the score

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