Long Batons Poems
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They're starting to gather in small clusters.
Fed up with being shackled by a 5-star virus.
Letting a redrum rat control how they live and think.
Soon they'll gather by the thousands-then millions.
Shouting out "we are not your commie minions".
They will march and demand and never go away.
They will not stand for a summer of perpetual gray.
There are napalm and gasoline in the air... again.
Camouflaged hearts have turned into slurry and flint.
Batons will twirl in the streets, seeking innocent blood.
The sound of halos cracking-the smell of rat tails burning,
All the goodness in life being dragged into the urn.
The ultimate alpha male is pissing blood.
Eventually he'll place us gently into our destiny.
Churning earth into a ball of Tiffany glass.
Pretty whorls of panic, loneliness, and death...
Let the cleansing begin.
Bang spectrum of Confetti start the celebration!
Rosy majorettes clad in brick red whistle thrice,
Golden tassel batons toss and fly, greets sky!
Her comrade increase the feat heat synchronization,
Thunder cheers flood alongside adding spice.
Beginning their flamboyant rhythm and blues sound
Are black and white drum and bugle epic vibrations.
Come in well coordinated act: all nice
Loud gigantic flowered covered floats in slow motion
Meatball, the big brown bear, pop and arise,
''Catching the Big one'', orange fish rolls down,
Sweet fragrance of roses afloat around.
Yellow haired boy from ''Sea of Surprises'', drown the frown.
Tempted eyes, ears, nose and feet in joyous heights!
(c)Olive Eloisa
11:45pm
June 26, 2014
Originally entitled: COLOURS for the contest Colours of Shadow Hamilton placed 4th.. :)
Note: Inspired by "Tournament of Roses Parade". During New Year's Time, me and my mom views this telecasted tournament.. :) I love the creativity and the great imagination of the rose float creators..:D!!! This is held annually in California, USA sponsored by Honda. How wonderful it is if this seen live.. :)! On my readings, each year there is a theme to inspire the creators. The first ever theme was about Patriotism, this year: "Dreams come True" and next year: "Inspiring Stories".
For God's sake, we all make mistakes
We all commit inmumerable errors
Nobody is perfect, everybody is under the sticks
Like the old days in the school of horrors
Where students are mistreated or beat with wires
With sticks, belts, whips, rigoises, batons and fires
Because they burn your skin when you get hit
It is a shame that kids got punished out of hate
Love never hurts, love triggers hope and success
Sometimes, we find ourselves in a mega mess.
We all make mistakes. Let's forgive and forget
Let's continue to move and pay the musty debt
To society. Apologies do not heal old internal
Wounds, but they help soothing the past blows
We all make mistakes. We must not be in denial
However, we must fight for better tomorrows
When we have thick skin, the sky is not the limit
There is a bright light and hope after every defeat.
Copyright © February 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
The classic cars were wired with lights;
The folks inside them waved.
They rolled upon the cobblestones,
Of which the streets were paved.
The marching bands banged big ol' drums;
Batons were tossed and caught,
More entertaining than a show
Where tickets must be bought.
Karate kids displayed their kicks
And tots rode on the floats.
Savannah's t-shirt weather meant
No scarves or winter coats.
The girl scouts and Kiwanis club,
Miss Someone's School of Dance
And every local church group
Got to dress up, wave and prance.
For everyone who watched and clapped,
And I, of course, was one,
This charming holiday parade
Was sure a lot of fun.
My imagination was not amused by my muse
Had I thought they were the same thing?
If so I was sorely mistaken
My imagination was tired of her taking all the credit
For every line, every rhyme, every word that made sense
That’s mine! Trixie would shout.
Twirling her batons with the fire on the ends.
Leaping into the air higher than a well-endowed stag.
It was mine too! Imagination seethed. Irritated now.
What difference? I asked them. Are we not a “we?”
I never thought of myself as an I, did you?
“I am an I!” Trixie insisted, sticking her tongue out at Imagination.
I tried to apologize, but Imagination was all keyed up.
You always give her the credit he said, sticking out his tongue at me.
Good grief!
I rolled my eyes, but silently, and in my mind,
hoping Imagination would not catch me.
Of course he did, and he got all huffy.
Making Trixie laugh.
On meeting ruminants
My mother had tuberculosis, and my sister and older brother
sent to a children's home, where the idea was strictness
My brother didn't come he had an accident with
a hand grenade, he threw, but not far enough ended up
in hospital and later sent to an island breaking stones
in a quarry
My sister and I had gone to a Roma wedding and had been
told not to go to, a real working-class do, the bride was
pregnant in white, with plenty of food, and booze to
Everything began fine music and dance, until a woman
in a jealous rage, tore at the hair of another woman
Other women joined the melee, depending on the family
lines, but soon the men fired up by booze and dance
joined in a mass fighting.
Police were called, they came with batons swinging
when peace ensued the police went back to their
station, no arrest was made
When we got back to the children's home, she went
to the house for girls and I to the house for boys
I sat in the piano room, which had a picture of men with long beards, looking serious when the boss arrived to punish me came in, I threw a vase at him
The next morning, I was sent to a farm to learn how to milk
cows and and an enduring respect for ruminants
is always on my mind, as is their mild nature
I was born in a banana republic,
Between the carnivorous chains of Françafrique,
In an open-air dumpster,
Where tyranny, barbarity, and savagery speak with arrogance.
I am perfumed with all the nauseating scents of misery.
I grew up under the honeyed speeches of necktied oppressors,
Their swollen pockets vomiting development aid.
They painted the walls of despair UN blue,
While our starving bellies served as ballot boxes.
My tongue is a battlefield
It was cut, stitched back, trained to sing the masters’ symphonies.
I speak French like a trauma articulated,
With the pain of my color since the first slave trades.
My struggle, a reminder of the invasion, an inheritance of batons from the Caribbean plantations.
I saw dictators blessed by chancelleries,
Oil traded for diplomatic silence,
Mines bled dry by hands gloved in elegance,
And mass graves hidden beneath bilateral agreements.
I am what they call human resource,
Exportable, exploitable, erasable at will.
I was born where dignity is sold by the kilo,
And where the future fits in a punctured boat at dawn on the Mediterranean.
I was born where the future fits in a punctured boat at dawn on the Mediterranean.
Where a passport is a burden, not a key.
Where one sells their skin to organ merchants
To buy a pixelated mirage of Europe.
I saw my mother weep silently over deportation slips,
My father break his back in open-pit mines of the cradle of humanity,
I learned to read in the pamphlets of the defiant,
To count on my fingers the promises unkept.
School, a factory of stillborn dreams.
Healthcare, a market where cancer is sold in tainted doses.
Justice, a rumor, an insult whispered
Between two power cuts and three police blunders.
I am the child of fake independences,
Of tailor-made constitutions stitched for insatiable gluttons.
I was born without inheritance, save for
This rage accumulating like sand under the skin.
They called me delinquent, migrant, underdeveloped,
But I am the living archive of their beautified crimes.
I am the raw product of their refined markets,
The shattered mirror they flee, for fear of seeing their own barbarity within.
Poems creep in like spiders, capturing me in web so fair.
Poems slip in like mice, sticky traps holding them in place.
Poems prance in like majorettes, throwing batons in the air.
Sci-Fi dances around in my muse’s brain, taking all the space.
Poems twirl around my dendrite highway, waking me up.
Poems shake me off the bed, landing me squarely on the floor.
I hear the last line, and I think “was that word buttercup?”
Poems laugh at my consternation, their humor I deplore.
Poems slide by on the wings of undiscovered pretty galaxies.
They jump into my head at restaurants when I cannot find a pin.
Poems dive bomb my bed at night, witch-like in their hex-ease.
They throw themselves at me in bathrooms; I simply cannot win.
I do the best I can though, amusing poems in ways I do not dream.
They throw down words I have never heard, and so I look them up.
Poems own me, taking me hostage in a pretty hostage stream.
Did you hear that? I have to know. Was that word buttercup?
White pebble
midnight pond
society ripples
from coo to caw.
Tsunami coming from the blaze
batons -n- blood
plastic shields
window shatter
church aflame
bricks and stones
do break all bones
as well as names.
God cursed
the shame of it all
riot horse clickity clackity
peace shackled
mankind sputters
in the middle of Pennsylvania autobahn-
Pond settles
riot horse back to stall
bloody nostrils
eating a big rotting apple
kicking walls
life settles into black ripples
sleeping white pebbles
snapping turtle press
gobbles it in
it craps
splashing it out
again...
White pebble...
Insidious, insipid, id-inebriated imbeciles
incite impetus into inevitable immolation.
Bombast, bluster and bluff: blunt batons of barbarian bullies;
backwards behaviour blackballs baronial breed's burdens and bonds.
Weasely, willy-waving warmongers wage wanton war of words
without wit, wisdom or worldliness, whilst we weakly watch and wait.
Regrettable, repugnant reprobates ravage refined realms with
reprehensible rapier-rattling and rancid rhetoric.
Clash of corrupt, contemptible cutthroats carves calamity 'cross
continents and culminates in catastrophic conflagration.
Pointless predatory and political power-plays pale as
pirouetting pariahic pyres patently a pyrrhic prize.
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(16 syllables on every line, checked with howmanysyllables.com)
14 October 2017