Is there such a thing as a "feminist poem"

If so, would these poems of mine qualify? Or would they quantify? Or would they simply echo like walls, stone-mute witness...

-Mother-
"You are just a mother"
he said
"you can't understand
how it feels to be me"
beaten on the playground
to be tough
to be tough
"you can't know my embarrassment"
at the first hint of tears?
at losing?
at being called "a girl"
"a pussy!"
"queer!"

I touch his face
catch those tears
but my hands clench in powerlessness
and rage
No.
I don't need balls to comprehend
the threat of punishment
or the push for conformity
when every breath is competition
and every pause is fingered by the accusation and implication:
"What, are you scared?"

No.
I want to wrap my fingers around each neck
and rip from the minds and the tongues
the words than tell my son
Exactly how "To be a man"
I want them to know that I won't let them beat him into hatred
Or beat him down
No.
Because I am his mother
Because I understand how wrong this feels
Protest uttered in brokenness silenced and repulsed by the taste of brokenness
Tears and rage the pieces of glass
stained by the blood of those trying so hard
to beat the man into every boy
and annihilate the woman in him.

*(For my son and any son and daughters too)
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-War Poetry-
She said something years ago
joked about the ache in her hip
the constant limp from it
"resulting from a landmine"
shellshocked, her eyes still registered
the imprint of her husband's boot
"Such things bought with a single diamond ring
and a signature and an oath or was it the oath first, then the signature?"

There is no justice
no justice of the peace present
no peace process here woman
pressed in these sheets skin pressed flatter and colder
more rigid than the last leaves of spring
made hard, thin and brittle by relentless snow.

I stood I stared shocked and scared by the whispers of you
swelling into the twisted branches of a tree
the flood the bathtub unasked questions bone calligraphy thread
in the ebb of severed wrist-flesh torn in protest
an ever open toothless angry mouth and no
there is no justice just protest
and no answer that will satisfy
throw another thicker quarter inch stitch over
those eyes
those eyes that could mimic the twilight sky
ready to storm ready to steal another to drown another invisible her
before she reaches the other shore and declares a proclamation of liberation
Written in tears a song for her daughters, her sons, her mothers, her sisters, her lovers, herself
We simply cannot ever fill the demand
Fast enough
Supply
the demand
Well enough
to satiate the need
for newer fresher lambs
with newer fresher blood.

********************************************
-this strange occupation called woman-
did the word you just said stick in your throat
did it sting a little going down
or hurt
coming up
I felt it ripple in my head
cold against my temple
your coldness a loaded gun
and I write you letters with my eyes
rage (disguised as tears) knows its own language
years learn in time, to speak in code
always the same: asking for pardon apologizing for demanding
for failing to succeed in this strange occupation
called woman
when really,
You pull the trigger with every snicker
every time you ignore and pretend innocent oblivious indifference
as if to say, "What did I do to piss you off THIS TIME?"
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-assumed-
The myth goes:
all women who call themselves feminists
must hate men
because they have been hurt by a few
or are too ugly to "get men"
or are just happier when they are angry
when they can cry: "abuse"

How can I answer with the dirt heaped onto my head
the vines of the past all bloom flowers and fruit for wine
to deaden
to present anger as a garnish
and viable criticism
as an afterthought

"You can either eat it or starve." She said and handed me contentment
as a blue plate special.

*(this poem is NOT about the victimization of "all" women. What it IS expressing and addressing is the lack of language strong and skilled enough to resurrect what many today prefer to see (feminism) as something dead and better left buried.)
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-complicated-
i do not want you to make peace with me
to conceed without ever hearing or having to hear the demands
to do so is to place forever
however lovingly
your hand across my mouth
whether your lips or your fingers the result is the same
in this silence however long however calm however seemingly beautiful
in this silence it is always
one sinks so that the other can survive
when neither can seem to see nor say
if we continue on this way
we'll both drown.

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-Massive head trauma-
Your mouth impales with words and silences sunk so deep they cleave bone
And write me in trace
Brain matter. My head splits apart with the force
Of falling. Of admitting that yes the desire exists but I hate it
And you are a fist and I am a wall and “love” is a force that Life throws us with, ever against, as if babies, just to see what we’ll leave when we splatter.

Dissect this…tissue from bone (you and I, spread thin against unyielding years) someone later can decide which moment can be classified
as “art.”

Need is massive head trauma. And I am in a state of perpetual annihilation...a universe reconfiguring itself within strands of black, identity-weary stars.

*(Despite the heaviness and visceral nature of this poem, it is written as a sort of Dantean divine comedy, which is what love is if you think about it or...if you tend to do what I do and step in it and go ugh, I really didn't have time for this...check please? Beyond that, I love the last line too much not to post it so...it's my way of saying that which is truly beautiful and unique should be left alone, not classified, categorized, calculated, dissected, observed or Othered. Just leave it alone.) :)
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-Touch-
Gave birth to hope on a roadside
Redemption in a field far from the city’s eyes and ears
(Dreams and Fears)
There, we taught each other that life had more truth
Than what we’d been offered
That the Lady’s Home Journal roadmap of shit was really just a lie
And that in every body a human is buried waiting to be exhumed
And exonerated

With each kiss, purge this need to prove
There is something more to this life

*(I love hearing what others read in my words. It makes life like less of a one sided conversation and more of what is summed up in the word: Communicate). peace!
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"...unless one lives and loves in the trenches it is difficult to remember
that the war against dehumanization is ceaseless"--Audre Lorde

"Say you don't want it, again and again, but you don't
don't really mean it
you say you don't want this circus we're in but you don't
don't really mean it
You don't don't really mean it"--Tori Amos, "Spark"