Category: Political / Protest

• The Relief Map

  History knows there is always a lord looking for land to rule over who is pleased to find patronage from passive peasants who prefer a pleasant life…

  …they turn into tyrants more often than not, torture the ones who nurture their triumph, who trade their hard work, twist up their minds trying to trust with their hearts, only to tire themselves on the alter of taxation…

  …until the earth heaves a sigh like a sieve filtering out the heaviness that hastened the Hunnic-like hegemony gathering on the horizon…

  …when we must remake the map of our world, righting the wrongs many endured while whelping and working, all worse for the wear…

  …mighty mountains falling to familiar forces like once fell the fortresses of long-forgotten kingdoms unfairly forged from the fields of man’s hunger…

  …the oceans overflowing their iridescent bowls, indigo depths inching upwards to insert themselves into dry, cracked crevices…

  …quietly quenching the thirst of the desert wanderers waking to the warmth of a sun slowly becoming the source of sweet salvation instead of slicing the days into servile halves… …at long last, we conquer the insatiable lust of lecherous men willing to declare dominance over people and dominion over land, demanding their due becomes their undoing.

  by Olivia Hillaire, April 17, 2025

  April 23, 2025

  poem, poet, poetry

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• The Old Ways Still Burn

  A cycle of birth and death plagues the mortal species.
  Lamenting, man attempts to change destiny’s theses.

  Some can’t seem to halt their lust for dominance and greed,
  they reject the warnings Earth is sending, pay no heed.

  They clamor for a way of life that will never mean a thing,
  as if amassing fortune, will to them eternity bring.

  Dissatisfied with the space, left to them in the kern,
  their howling calls the silent wolves—the old ways still burn.

  Humility is woven in the forest canopy and the ever-changing dunes.
  Songs of life await our notice, from dark whispering wings to bright feathery tunes.

  Through storm or fire the forest trees hold their heads up high,
  carry on a dignity that fate will not deny.

  They breathe in what we cannot, suffer our foolish way,
  and for this gracious gift, our sharpened axe does repay.

  Bearing our mistakes, nature mounts its fight to return.
  It’s time to call the quiet wolves—the old ways still burn.

  Can we learn to grow, as trees, in quiet meditation?
  Accept our fall, live among the roots with exultation?

  When the sun arrives each day, we may turn our hand,
  to create something true rather than something grand.

  Navigate a better future, leading from the heart,
  to become one with nature would be our strongest start.

  We will find a path through history’s next turn.
  Calling the quiet wolves. The old ways still burn.

  by Olivia Hillaire, April 2025

  April 23, 2025

  poem, poet, poetry

  ---

• Reap What You Sow

  Feel the percussive rumble on horizon,
  as earth once felt the beat of stampeding bison.

  The one percent are playing a zero sum game,
  they hoard stolen riches, live in pursuit of fame,

  connive to warp our point of view and change the vote,
  keep your best interests the care that’s most remote.

  Farmers seed the sowing of their fields asunder.
  Fools worship wealthy thieves and support their plunder.

  There is no excuse left, that you can offer me,
  as you stake claim to this deranged reality.

  When all is said and done, I know they sold you lies.
  Years I’ve seen the problem grow, right before my eyes.

  But you have convinced me, and so will others find,
  injustice is your nature, to your core unkind.

  You can’t clearly see the field, so call it fallow,
  trade your soul to the devil for something shallow.

  Not all who conquer are worthy their following,
  take care the bitter poison you are swallowing.

  Lest you find you’ve become the monster that you fear,
  try to disavow the ruin as it draws near.

  I know it’s not a righteous path on which you tread,
  many have the truths and warnings been, fair the dread.

  So, it will come down to all of us left knowing,
  we must excise you, the cancer we’ve been growing.

  by Olivia Hillaire, April 2025

  April 19, 2025

  poem, poet, poetry

  ---

• A Message

  What message do I leave for a world that is dying?
  Even though they specialize in destruction and lying,

  they can never stop all of us from feeling what they don’t.
  They can’t prohibit art, or us standing up for what they won’t.

  All they do is pretend and it fills them with hate.
  Their myths create division and calls to subjugate.

  I’ve read that book they claim to know, with its ever-changing notes.
  Love and wrath, written testaments they follow selectively, by quotes.

  Picking & choosing, they take the ones they like & leave those that they don’t.
  Do they worry about contradictions? If they don’t serve them, they won’t.

  They have twisted up this thing that some might still call faith.
  It is something warped and weak, transparent as a wraith.

  In the words of the good book, “they know not what they do.”
  In the Age of Information, this just doesn’t ring as true.

  How does one send a message to those beyond their time or place?
  That the cruel, self-serving ones, in their cowardice, lack God’s grace.

  They do not represent us all, do not convey the truth of us inside.
  For all the beauty that we can behold, in fear, must now run and hide.

  We’ll pray we make it through, survive to fight another day.
  Dear friends, steady on, take care through all the traps they lay.

  They are bewitched body and soul, but the thing that’s really broken,
  leads them down the poisoned path, is that their faith is but a token.

  For never shall the follower know, the message “God is love,”
  if all they’re ever sold are lies, they will wear the serpent’s glove.

  They will strike at all they meet, with their venom close at hand.
  Will not accept the truth about the side for which they take a stand.

  I can’t know if their myths are real, but I have faith, gleaned from clues,
  If God is real and “God is love,” I know which side he’ll choose.

  by Olivia Hillaire, April 2025

  April 19, 2025

  poem, poet, poetry

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