My toilet bowl Muse, how splendid thou art!
Unlike the Bard, who had no time to poop,
I pen rhymes, metaphors, and rhythms that fart.
His sonnets, the best ever, did not droop
in force or beauty. Rather, they endure
for ever, and live alongside his plays.
My sonnets, albeit, like inspired manure,
excrete in the most personal, human ways.
But, as with Shakespeare, Pope, or Lord Byron,
divine afflatus, like their excrement,
smells like scent—but my droppings of bronze and iron,
like cow dung, are solid and more feculent.
O, toilet bowl Muse! Thou art my Tenth Muse:
when you breathe on me my bowels still won't refuse.
Moving house
I like to go to the building
that has no garage, that is full of
cars coming home after five
I don't want to live near a farm
As a boy, I picked potatoes
in damp soil and cow dung
I will not live near the ocean
I have seen its fury and hatred
The calmest ocean is the deepest
The dockland is where bad people are
tricking a seaman who, for a few
Hours get lost among thieves
I like to live where the narrow streets
have no traffic
There must be a place to break
the fast, a proper café for lunch
surrounded by people who live
in harmony with one another
I don't need much space in a room
with a writing corner, a kitchen
and a bath
That's all, but why is it so hard
to find, wherever I go, I meet
I myself in the doorway
Cow dung cakes
some eat from the load
Natural
and weed-free
Yes - both fresh and composted
... mild and sweet in taste
Inspired by:
Jan Allison's poem "I wish you would moooooove on"
I have a friend who can take any and every story
Turn it into a scenario about her tragedies
If you mention lemonade, she has been poisoned by lemonade
Gripe about your mother? Hers made Mommy Dearest look kind.
Willow tree? One fell on her neck and she nearly died.
Lightning bugs? She was attacked by a swarm of them.
Hearts and flowers? No one ever sent her any.
No one cares about her.
No one takes care of her. No one loves her.
Even her own parents did not like her.
Her brother? He was cow dung.
Her sister? She stole from the family.
I am beginning to see a little pattern.
Bagatelle
You see the old olive tree at the entrance of the village
take it for granted until you see the tree is dying
still, it has about it a non-communicative dignity
an acceptance of life`s unplanned cosmic shortness.
Dying slowly, a botanist is trying new soil around
to get more mileage, but in the plant is
too old, cow dung or artificial fertilizer can stop the tree
bark goes wrinkled, 300 years is enough
To be dead is to be unborn
there is no second coming
Not even for a 300-year-old tree.
The morning wakes us up with a dance of sunlight
thought of buying a pair of shoes, bagatelles are
the sum of our existence.
On the floor, off the mat
We all sat, slept & ate
Flooring of mud but broom laid
Cream of cow dung applied.
Life was simple though not smooth
Bit of course with pins and needles
All of it took years of strain &pain
To have a floor of cement paste
Life became a little fine
With no fear for straw/ pine or rain.
After long years of earnings and savings
Came a glossy floor of mosaic
Squares of many laid across
Life began to show finesse and patio
With dearness and dare to dream
Aloof came a wind of betterment
Which brought with it a
Reflection of steps of success
A smooth finish of marble floor
Start of prosperity and a sign
Of sapling growing into a plant.
Attaining a growth visibly and not
Easy adding in an element of luxury
In the marble floor
By
Bringing in a sofa made of velvet
Like a beautiful craving brought out a Rough stone
Hard work ways
Patience pays is what
Life says.
The wild clouds
Are traveling
In the firmament.
The missiles and projectiles
Are bursting the profile
Of many innocent people.
The children
Are crying on the benches,
And their moms
Are suffering miserably.
Big and expensive guns
Are devouring mountains,
Valleys and cities.
Where is the love,
Amidst all these killings,
In full fury,
Where day
Becomes night?
In the whirlwind of miseries,
Absent are the roses,
Where nature is gloomy.
Man kills himself, why?
For nothing; for cow dung.
Humanity is wearing a cross
Which is very heavy. No more bread,
They shot the workers and the bakers.
We are all in the face of danger.
The wise clouds
Have seen the gruesome images;
Both countries are demolished
By ignorance and demagoguery.
Give a chance to diplomacy;
Give a blob of common sense to peace,
In order to nourish the giant tree of respect.
War will always be a senseless folly.
Copyright © November 2012, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
Yes, I know fetid air has been filtering in
Everyone around chokes on the stench,
sour gin disguised as sweet words
from the mouth of the depraved, loving sin
one can never smother foul barnyard scents
It would take a thousand fragrant candles
to burn the donkey's ass
and get rid of the offensive odor and smelly gas
I sincerely wish this community
could become a site with more class
Will the rancid winds change direction
so the fumes of cow dung
stink up another pasture?
Something needs a serious correction
so, the sweet scent of roses once more
permeates the garden of poetry
poets dancing in harmony galore
There’s tons of fun things you can do on the farm,
like bucking bales of hay or cleaning the barn.
Or milking the cows and feeding the chickens,
working the garden where the beans need picking.
Or on top of the roof replacing the tin,
trying to find where the water’s getting in.
Maybe out on the tractor mowing the hay,
with the hot sun’s beating down on you all day.
When the sun finally sets down in the west,
you can start to slow down and take a short rest.
Now all winded and burned and hungry as hell,
wash off the cow dung before the dinner bell.
Sitting on the front porch beneath the moonlight,
with lightning bugs flashing like stars in the night.
A cool gentle breeze flowing over the land,
while you sit in your chair holding your wife's hand.
The scent of wildflowers filling up your head,
drifting in through the window beside your bed.
You lay your head down but before you can sleep,
you pray that this is the life you'll always keep.
MOTHER A WARRIOR
It was a small matter, but would can explain to the wind,
My mother used to make mascara for me from the lamp!
She made cow dung cakes, it must be compulsion
Perhaps these would be necessary to run the family!
She cooked food with wood fire,
What should I tell you, brothers, how much the smoke from the stove made her cry!
She used to dry the grains on the terrace of neighbours,
Her children should become successful, this was the worry that used to bother her.
The taunts of servants and relatives had troubled her a lot.
That's why she had gained only 40 kg weight!
In the hot afternoon, she used to pluck the cereals from the field and bring it, it would be a question of the sinful stomach,
Didn't wear slippers, maybe there will be a bark on the feet!
She has fed flowers by fighting poverty,
She has finally made his children self-sufficient.
Charlotte Anne is an incessant talker
does not listen long
stays on track
back to herself no matter what the topic is
“I know. My family was a piece of cow dung”.
“It is a wonder no one molested me.”
“That reminds me of my life.”
“I did that once.”
“That is my story too.”
“My friends all turn on me.”
“My relatives hated me.”
“My mother said she wished I would have died.”
Me, me, me, I, I, I, self, self, self, self, self.
I say “Wasn’t that horrible about Nancy Pelosi’s husband?”
“It’s a wonder my family didn’t do that to me!” she replies.
I have run out of ideas now as to how to turn the conversation.
I guess I may have to turn on her too.
Sidecar Bessie was always ready for a ride.
Her new husband George steering at her side.
They will travel west in a day or so.
She rides like a trooper, her hair all a glow.
She paints it red, thinking it makes her young.
The smell of the country brings a bit of cow dung.
They travel up hills and down against the wind.
Bessie and George happily leaning into each bend.
We’ll go through Illinois and I-Oh-Way
George tells her at six a.m. on sweet Thursday.
She puts her money inside her bra
By Friday they are heading to Omaha.
She has bugs in her teeth and her skin is brown.
She is the finest new bride this side of Chicago Town.
Her husband is showing off their new status as they ride.
Giving her romantic glances, for she is his brand new bride.
They stop in several motels along the way
Finally ending up down Dallas Way.
They visit her relatives, and give them quite a show
Before heading back to the windy city of old Chicago.
Women in my family
Indeed, are rustic-looking and homely
Wake up at four, of-course, with reluctance
Untie the cattle though with inner resistance
Wash each cow and buffalo so impeccably
Remove the dung as though very faithfully
Bake cow-dung-cakes (for fuel) artistically
See to the household drudgery altruistically
Six of them (as ours is a joint family) do not fail
Fight among them, for no reason, and even assail
Pick lice from each other's head, end-of-the-day
Forgetting all false enmities as though act of a play
Cooking, washing, child-rearing, tale-baring,
Sleep, cuddled together, tiredness overpowering...
24 June 2022
Women in my family Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
The same shriek he made
Escaping the womb face first
In that cow dung smeared hut
Was still echoing in her heart
When he frantically whimpered
In subdued feeble scuffle for life
Fraughting desperately
In his inconceivable horror.
His sun set in dawn
He died the death of the grown
Slaughtered clasped like chicken
Body hewed gruesomely
Portions grisly extracted
In gory of utmost malevolent
Conjured by egoistic endeavours
Unlike days of bloody plunder
Incited by abhorred revenge
Privation prowls and lurks
On pathways wielding axes
To purge the sprout of hope
Springing off the black dirty.
The shriek he made
In reed knitted basket cradle
Was for justice and life
And the same shriek echoes
In her grief smeared heart
For her son to rest in peace.
I know he croaks, croaks and croaks.
Like a croaker on a rainy day he talks;
He croaks, and I hear his prolonged croak,
Yet why dry dung his throat does choke?
Croak! I know, his croaking is a flaw,
But another’s flaw now begins to glow;
Croak! Croak! I do hear his guttural croak,
Yet why dry dung his throat does choke?
Whizz… a bloodhound flies sky-bound.
There! a dead swan thuds on the ground;
A king a wanton archer inaptly does crown;
Aha! this man now proves king a clown.
This piece is based on a tale in which a king hired a wanton archer to sling cow dung balls into his minister's/advisor's mouth, for king despised him for talking too much.
*5th Place* in the following contest (judged on Oct. 1, 2020)
Oct. 2, 2020
"The Unexplained" Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
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