Long Ceasefire Poems
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The land where olive trees used to grow
Now is all just rivers of blood flow,
The eyes had sparks that they hold
Now has vanished as history unfolds
The mother screams in pain
But for people who are deaf, it's all in vain,
The father carries his child with blood on his hands
And with eyes half blind he carries sacks of sand
They smile with tears
They hear screams with open ears,
Losing their consciousness they still take his name (almighty)
Where the world stands silent and completely the same
Doctors under torchlights
Journalists under landslides,
Kids by the roadsides
And they still have hope in their darkest night
Where we cry for days seeing a family member die due to age
They smile at their child's grave
Their heart shines bright as gold
And their destinies are written and told,
This is not a test for them
They were destined, as the greatest choose their fate
And it's a test for us which we need to pass before it’s too late
Kids without hands and legs
Babies taking their last breaths,
Children without brains in their heads
& the world without a heart in their chest
A land that held beauty and life is now a graveyard with
Human bodies, more than bees in a hive
The world stands in silence and as they cry for justice
And yet we say we are humans,
Kids with no future
Teens with no dreams
Yet they crave Allah's acceptance and no other griefs
As no light, the sun shines bright
And the moon at night,
The sky cries as it hears the voice of the thearsts
And indeed Allah sees us
They fight alone in this cursed world
The war brings floods of blood,
And yet they say ya Allah
Alhamdulillah laillaha illallah
A land of harmony all are dead
Yet even animals are treated and fed,
Today we are too lazy to bow once
In front, on soft carpets and cool air
They pray six times with deaths they bear
Palestine a land of olive trees is now all dead thanks to genocide
And a ceasefire they say
Pain is not for those who are dead,
But for those who smell their scent
And live without families under refugee tents.
Some soldiers receive medals for their bravery in war,
Or praise for their services on ships, air, or shore.
Men and women fight for world peace,
Continuous battles that never cease.
Make love, not war is an adage,
Where is the love? when wars are savage.
Wars cause death and destruction to all.
United, we stand, divided we fall.
There are no medals or words of praise,
Or sculpture busts or honour flags were raised,
For the victims of war, who through no fault of their own,
Have lost their homes, livelihoods and families,
And struggle alone.
Alone in a world that is alien to them
A world where you lose trust in your fellowmen.
Doubt creeps in, and the truth seems to hide,
But with their strong faith that comes from inside,
These courageous, faithful, stoic folk,
Even when they are down and broke
Soldier on and endure it all,
Until they hear a ceasefire call.
Unsung heroes everyone
Who, without cover and nowhere to run,
Lived in fear every day
Praying their enemies had gone away.
The world should give a rousing cheer,
A cheer that men and creatures hear
No medals made of solid gold,
Or regimental marches to behold
Was expected from these human beings
Who are the salt of the earth
Their fight for survival
It showed their strength of character and worth.
The survivors of these war heroes
It will not be recognised.
They had to suffer in silence,
As there were so many watchful eyes,
They would not want medals,
Medals would not be right
The world could raise a glass to them
That would bring pleasure and delight
A glass full of praise and friendship, too
A symbol of unity, a vow to stay true
To each other as much as we humanly can,
It should be the purpose of every man.
Hello Palestine,
have you seen the headlines today:
400 US federal workers tendered their resignation over the war, seeking ceasefire. And a Vietnam war veteran donated his pension to Palestine relief fund. Also at Brandeis the president was sacked for violating US Constitution, and was seen packing back to a Kibbutz near Gaza. Send them back, I say, to disallow infecting American democracy such. Palestine will never be free when those scoundrels have the upper hands.
And this just came in, sky over Gaza is clearing, the mist is gone and plenty of sunshine for the foreseeable future, enough to bring the birds out again, singing to the tune of Glorious Palestine, from river to the sea, this holy land shall always be free from the smug of racists and supremacists, clinging to their dystopia of land without Palestinians. Their days are numbered and nightmare is over, hello freedom, hello justice's return after the snub of cold shoulder for a generation.
Gaza cafes are now open again, markets filled with fresh fruit, and children playing with new toys donated from good will citizens of Tel Aviv and East Jerusalem. It is good to live free again.
As the presidential plane kissed the Alaskan ground,
I beheld Putin — the fox, the KGB man,
his boot pressing on soil once Russia’s own,
a chess master reclaiming forgotten squares.
Another jet descended. Trump emerged,
a merchant prince, an actor upon the stage,
his hand raised high over a land America bought,
yet Russia never forgot.
Shadows lengthened over this summit:
Will it weave a ceasefire for Ukraine?
Or shall vultures circle,
Europe’s hollow face speaking only through America’s tongue?
Putin has danced with them all —
Clinton, Bush, Obama, Biden —
and now, twice with Trump,
he checkmates the board with steady calm.
Where is Zelenskyy?
Wise, or merely a fool at the table of giants?
Will he steer his people toward dawn,
or cast them deeper into the furnace of war?
These are not questions for the blind.
Those who pierce the veil,
who read the game behind the gestures,
already know the answer.
History weeps, but power does not.
And in the silence of Alaska,
a cruel truth lingers like smoke:
The world is a stage,
and men are pawns—
until the fox decides otherwise.
MLK day on every third Monday of January
Remember his sermons daily though you celebrate him annually
Before that balcony where the bullet sent his blood flowing like a stream
He had shared his famous words, "I have a dream."
He was no swindler looking for a benefactor
He was a visionary of a coming judgment by the content of character
Though through life his struggle never eased
He spoke of thankfully saying "If I sneezed."
The times were tense and highly racial
But today MLK's words are revered and held special
By all from all walks of life
To quell America anytime it's threatened with strife
Since then the colour of a man's skin is a little less sinister
But still far from the envisioned end of the baptist minister
The law says "equal" but perceptions linger of the otherwise
Many only suppress their hearts and wear pretence and disguise
The change of the atmosphere is yet to cause a change of hearts
Every verbal ceasefire being followed by some demeaning dart
If the God of Love inspired Dr. King
Disobeying evil law to entrench good without a spring
Then let God's moral standard be our guide
Let the law not give some too much to take in a stride
If God made them all and saw that it was good
Let not their appearance alter your mood
K. Muitherero.
Not a dove but a treaty,
still wet with ink,
signed by hands that once held nothing but a border,
a line drawn hastily through breath and blood,
through cities turned to dust.
Diplomats gather round a long table
believing paper can outlast a wound.
I have read of peacekeepers who dress the wound
of nations with gauze thin as ink,
blue helmets standing sentinel at the table
where old enemies redraw the border
not with rifles now,
but dust of chalk,
erasing what they built on breath alone.
A ceasefire is only breath
held long enough to let a wound
begin its slow arithmetic with dust,
to let the pen release its ink
into a silence larger than any border,
a hush that settles soft across the table.
But peace is not a signature,
not a table set once and left.
It is the daily breath
of tending what refuses to leave the border
between memory and wound,
each morning choosing to lift the ink again,
though the page keeps turning to dust.
Perhaps we are all made of dust
that argues with itself across a table,
each nation a paragraph of ink
trying to become a single breath.
The charter calls it dignity; I call it a wound
we bandage nightly at the border,
not to erase the border,
not to deny the wound,
but to keep faith that the dust
will someday settle into something whole,
this breath we share,
this fragile, shared table,
this covenant renewed in ink
and human, human breath.
So let the border hold its dust,
the table keep its wound half-healed in ink
still we return,
still we bring our breath.
Fire, fire, countless fires
Fire of hate that nobody admires
Fire that hurts, maims and kills and innocent victims
Fire that burns, cremates and destroys many buildings
Fire that is misused
Fire that is diffused
Countries with more firepower rule
A gangster with a heavy fire is used as a fool
As a deadly instrument or tool to bully
To murder and to eliminate potential enemies
Fires of hate, fires of hell that kill families
Fire, fires, uncontrollable fires on the sea
Fire, natural fires in California
Fire, deadly fires in Gaza
More fire, more power, more firepower
More power, more fire and more back-asswards power
Fire in the kitchen to cook gourmet food, delicious dinner
At the fancy cocktail hour
That’s my kind of fire, that’s good fire
Fire, fire, and ceasefire! Nobody wants war
Because war is hate, war is hell at the bar
War is nothing but an evil fire
War is not a game. War is not natural
War is a disaster. War is a man-made hell
War is a waste of human lives and resources
More water to kill all of fires and all sources
The world needs good fire to protect the environment
The world wants peace throughout the continent
God created One World, One People and One Race
And man invented division and many races in this space
Man created nepotism, money, hate, envy, discrimination
Terrorism, color, greed, betrayal, suffering and corruption
Fire, fires, ceasefire! We need rain, more water to quench the fire
We need Love to annihilate hate and more love to fire
The evil leaders that are destroying our World, our Universe
We want Peace and good fire for our World, for Our Universe.
Copyright © January 2025, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Prince Oldenburg Seaside Park, Old Gagra, Abkhazia
Palm trees, cypresses, flower beds with roses
Surround the alleys covered with red gravel.
The sculpture of Medea in the pond is covered with green mould
And Cupid shot his stone arrow two hundred years ago
Wavy parrots fly from one tree to another.
Silence, the sound of waves can be heard. Not a soul around.
Now is the time of ceasefire.
You have to walk carefully here -
The alleys are littered with spent casings
It’s easy to stumble upon them if you don’t take a notice
The heat is unbearable, I could do with a beer.
After walking some distance, I hear the sounds of pop music.
The path leads me to a clearing.
There is a kiosk - two local lads selling drinks and snacks.
I buy a bottle of cold beer, they smile at me.
I ask them if they have any cassettes with local music.
Can you play me your local musicians, do you have some of their music? –
Yes, they do, the guys nod.
They change the cassette, and Samba Pa Ti of Santana plays on.
Thanks, I really appreciate this, have a good day..
I go out onto the pier — no one is there. Boats rock on the waves.
Maybe this is what a ceasefire should look like in this place.
The fighters have run out of ammunition, and it's time to go home,
Turn on the football and fall asleep in the armchair
At the most exciting moment of the game,
When the ball flies into the goal
From a free kick in the extra time.
Nineteen ninety-one, just four years in,
love's first blossoms wilting, with little peace,
and, straining underneath its fragile skin
resentment, like hot magma, sought release.
A revelation reared its ugly head,
something I never knew from years before,
the cracks grew wider, from them anger bled
erupting skyward from it's ugly sore.
Like through the ceasefire in some no-man's land,
where hopeful birdsong soothes amidst the calm
she introduced herself and shook my hand
a warm 'hello', a smile, and I was charmed.
'Love at first sight' I thought was a cliché,
a fairytale for those more heart than brain,
but must be real, for now I felt that way,
infatuated, giddy, free of pain.
In no time we were lovers, things moved fast
from handshakes to bedmates, blink of an eye,
it all seemed meant to be and built to last
as those few breathless days passed quickly by.
But, sadly, things did not turn out that way,
responsibilities dogged every move
This love affair was but a holiday
and doomed to fail, thus circumstances proved.
Unravelled years ago, I hold a thread,
one end of it still tugs within my heart
reminding me of something not quite dead
that stops us both from being far apart.
But one thought often crosses through my mind
is that she doesn't hold the other end,
a truth I hope that I shall never find
which means this broken heart will never mend.
For contest 'An incomplete love story', sponsor Faraz Ajmal
11th July 2018
My fragmented heart defied my mind's authority
A gloomy transformation carved from sorrow's blood
Dopamine disappears while endorphins are the minority
The down feeling crashes in like an uncontrolled flood
An unwelcomed intruder colonizing my obedient body
I routinely succumb to your callous commands
An old foe by the former name of melancholy
Like a sponge you absorb my joy unarmed
Your fourth unsolicited visit in fourteen years
The voice of my normality fades in your shadow
Familiar with your punishment I become immune to fears
The heat of your rule coerces my heart to feel mellow
I forbade hopelessness to assert its voice in my head
Through gruntled teeth I allow my pride to fall instead
Antidepressants forces a ceasefire in our internal war
Tranquility pushes you out through my heart's aluminium door
I embrace peace knowing It too visits but does not stay
For I know you will return again in a few years from this day