Long Shelling Poems
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Lethal Thermobaric Bombs
Also known as vacuum bombs
Sucking the oxygen out of the air
For many miles. Nuclear and cluster bombs
And the worst of the sickest bombs
Of all: obvious racism at the borders
Life is never, never, never fair
Even in war, for many brothers and sisters
The shelling will not stop
Too many explosives are being popped
Innocent and young people are dying
And the hypocrites, the racists
The murderers, the war-mongers
The cowards, the propagandists
The shenanigans, the monsters
The fakers, the sinners and the liars
Are on the very top of their games
What a shame! They shoot all blames
Toward the victims and the innocents
Remember the shameful wars
Remember the shattered lives
Remember the blaring sirens
Remember the supersonic sounds
Remember the deafening cries
Remember the powerful roars
The constant shelling makes no sense
Because children are being killed
That's a lethal and deceptive ploy
Real humans should build
Not bomb, not destroy
I am pissed
For Peace
It's shameful and despicable that no one wants
To live by the rules. Where is the common sense?
Copyright © March 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
...“For two years we tried, but ambushes came,
they hit and run, would not stand up and fight,
the meadows were deadly, the forests were hell,
wherever we went, we were in their sights.
“Imagine one hundred million peasants
as well armed as a soldier of the line…
add to that an army not defeated,
shelling their own cities, time after time.
“Just so that they could deny them to us,
leave us with no conquests but the rubble,
our losses were heavy, reinforcements far,
even True Man knew we were in trouble.
“Some say that he was planning to retreat,
but his intentions were never realized,
because one day a damn peasant postal clerk
put a fifty cal round right through his eye.
“I was quite young, but I remember well
scrambling back to our remaining ships,
retreating across the cold Atlantic,
most of our own men not believing it.
“They were to try America twice more,
and each time it just became a bloodbath.
Their southern neighbors copied them quickly,
you won’t find a house there where guns are lacked.
“The horror of savage, armed peasantry…
I hope that you never know such despair,
there is a reason we keep ours helpless,
a reason why we don’t go over there.”
Kaahbli stopped there, he could not go one,
since Sabati was not even a teen,
couldn’t tell the boy that without peasants
the Americans relied on machines.
That with those machines, they’d took to the stars,
spread to every planet around the sun,
that they could carpet the Earth in fire,
that it was so much worse than just their guns.
For all his strength, his breeding, his brain,
for everything that he’d been evolved to,
Betters were trapped on just three continents,
and with a flip-switch they all could be nuked.
But those words were for when he was older,
a young Better had to be raised just right,
he’d seen young minds learn too much truth too quick,
anger like that was not a pretty sight.
So he just turned back to his young grandson,
said, “Enough of that boy, come, listen here,
you want them to work, whip them once a month,
and kill at least one peasant every year.
“It helps a lot to make them live in fear…”
………....
On act two, my handkerchief dropped down on
my weakening feet, escaping the wipe of tears
from my sullen lids: by this time children
too young to make their own milk burst into
deafening cheers shouting for more blood…
the matador in graceful sways of his cape derailed
his prey again---a wounded bull pierced by stabs
on the neck and shoulders: but this was not enough.
Wincing in pain, the sword dug into its lungs
as the shock in my throat creaked like dried
sandpaper raking with the quivering thud of an
exhausted animal roused into a public arena for a play,
disturbed, confused… and the fiesta music played with
such passion of slaughter until the stag rolled on
the floor, crowned with spears on the head, and
finally unto its heart. I could not breathe in the
sound of victory swaggering women’s ruffled
skirts and male hats flipping off on an aching sky.
Before the dying beast was dragged back into its
den and the bullfighter bowed to the echoing
adulation of the crowd smelling of death and glory,
I run out, dazed---finding solace from shelling some
pesetas for a laced fan so delicate in the elegance
of its design--- my cheeks wanting to catch a wisp of fresh air.
The game of bull and man tasted sour on my pagan tongue.
………..
* my first bullfight experience in Madrid, Spain
For Joe Flach’s Contest Contest
by nette onclaud
(September 2014)
While rage of war surrounds this special man
he, driver of an ambulance, remains
to help his wounded townsmen heal, survive-
men downed by civil war in Syria.
The shelling dealt by forces pro-Assad
caused families to flee from streets and homes
to fields or mountains many miles away-
compelled to leave their household cats behind.
Now on their own left to survive, this man,
when not attending wounded friends, he would
become a savior to these orphaned pets-
enrich their lives in such a giving way.
“Cat man of Aleppo” became his name;
he took the time to care for them each day.
The money from his savings purchased meat
for cats that gathered near his home to feast.
One-hundred fifty plus became his charge;
for many months, he did this wondrous deed.
Good news amid the tragic world events-
“Man shares his heart with cats and humankind.”
(March 2019)
Two-thousand sixteen- bombs forced him away;
when healed, returned- compassion multiplied.
Not just for cats- for kids formed havens for
an orphanage and kindergarten school.
Sandra M. Haight
~2nd Place~
Contest: Compassion
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Judged: 06/12/2019
~1st Place~
Contest: The Good News Paper
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
Judged 11/17/2014
True story, featured on many Internet news sites- September 2014
Current 2019 update- how his compassion grew to further help humankind.
https://www.bbc.com/news/stories-47473772
Since you are here,
You might as well make yourself useful.
Pull up a chair and start shelling some peas for me,
I can make use of you to stack those chairs,
I could use your help today,
Are you any good at icing cakes?
Can you put that in the boot for me?
What are you doing on Monday?
Can you teach me how to do that
We are short of volunteers to visit those in hospital,
Can we borrow your ladder?
These are just some of the opportunities that have been offered to me,
How about yourself?
Remember time is running out as those doing the asking,
Are getting thinner on the ground,
And those things stuck in your ear,
Plus, that gadget in your hand is blocking the incoming invitations,
To be useful,
Before the opportunity no longer exists,
And you find yourself alone
With a receding hairline,
Poor health,
And a distinct lack of goodwill to anyone who knocks on your door,
In a last-ditch attempt to offer the milk of human kindness,
And a chance to do something useful,
Before that hope too fades forever.
In Grandma's house it was always fun and gay,
It always was a sunny day,
Going through that old front door,
Grandma calling do you want some more,
Come and have a cup of tea,
Have a biscuit, no take three.
Grandpa is out by his pond.
Watching his goldfish of who he is very fond,
Auntie is there shelling peas,
And Grandma's made a cup of tea.
The Children are playing out the front,
Over in the woods there is a leopard hunt,
Uncle is watching from the step,
The coalman is due, but he's not here yet,
On Sunday Amy is due at three,
And Grandma's made a cup of tea.
Grandpa takes the dog for a walk,
Come on in Amy we can have a talk,
Come and sit down and we will light the fire,
And then we'll have a cup of tea.
In that home where we all were born,
It was always happy and never forlorn,
Now it has gone but in our minds we see,
All the family sitting and having tea.
Suburbia sprawls around the front porch.
Shy deer peep out of front windows
then whisk out of sight.
The groundhog is delivering news of the day,
he thumps his paws, morse coding headlines
only to run back
into his one bedroom apartment under
the roof of his green hideaway.
I could be shelling peas or whittling a piece of wood
with a Buck knife, should be rocking back and forth
on an old hickory rocker
but here in suburbia such things
are recalled
through peepholes in narrowing horizons.
This morning I aim my seeking mind
at the house chipmunk,
who for a while
rests in the morning sunlight;
all night he has been chiseling away
at the concrete step,
perhaps tunnelling out of here into a wilderness
he has never seen.
We all must find a new story for old paths,
why not here in the heart of these urban tracts
where strips of green
imagine wide open spaces?
We were born to travel here and there
every day a new frontier.
This place can be an uncharted map also
snugged as it is into a small glow globe
of back and front yard denizens
a glass that if shaken
reveals new backwoods views.
Uncomfortable Truths About Wars
Lethal Thermobaric Bombs
Also known as vacuum bombs
Sucking the oxygen out of the air
For many miles. Nuclear and cluster bombs
And the worst of the sickest bombs
Of all: obvious racism at the borders
Life is never, never, never fair
Even in war, for many brothers and sisters
The shelling will not stop
Too many explosives are being popped
Innocent and young people are dying
And the hypocrites, the racists
The charlatans, the backstabbers
The murderers, the war-mongers
The cowards, the propagandists
The fakers, the sinners and the liars
Are on the very top of their games
What a shame! They shoot all blames
Toward the victims and the innocents
Remember the shameful wars
Remember the shattered lives
Remember the blaring sirens
Remember the supersonic sounds
Remember the deafening cries
Remember the powerful roars
The constant shelling makes no sense
Because children are being killed
That’s a lethal and deceptive ploy
Real humans should build
Not bomb, not destroy
I am pissed
For Peace
It’s shameful and despicable that no one wants
To live by the rules. Where is the common sense?
Copyright © March 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Sand dollars covers the crusted sandy shores
after the tides roll in and back the sea turtles
scurry across tiny crabs while sea urchins lie
on their backs herons scratch their long legs
sleeping wood storks perch alongside drift wood
while the pecking egrets whistle tiny hints
of sullen chatter cunning pelicans quickly dive
for their lunch while pink flamingos wildly dances
as the colorful peacocks shows off their new hats
the shelling begins with bronzed star fish nesting
upon the calm edges of tomorrow carving deep
sand dunes watching crawling sea horses gallop
while the sun peeks in around noon sun showers
sprinkles giant rain drops creating tiny hues of private
rainbows my bicycle bell chimes nearby the boat house
calling to Joe's crab shack in time for Izzy's to serve
fresh stuffed flounder to go with the blue berry scone
from Pete's Ice cream shop while craving clam chowder
I began to whisper lyrical tropical tunes with such ease
while simply embracing this sensual soft Caribbean breeze
"The Auditing"
We are all numbers
aren’t we? continually,
we are audited daily,
we audit each other
regularly
but we aren't regular
we are the noun
that rhymes with
britches
too big
for political
correctness
you could burn us
like a word that
rhymes with stitches
but do that,
you're not born,
you're non-existent
caught up
in the net
God's apron shelling
green peas
a small war waiting
for the lucky pot
like
judgement waiting
the torrid asizes
can't live
can't live without
counting beans
like eggs
in a basket
your first bedroom
the noun that
rhymes
with room
we, the fairer,
are never just
numbers on a page
to be
flipped
casually
you sit there
counting birds
sitting on a wire
ovens for baking
blackbirds baked
in a pie,
the pie
eventually cracks
canals
split wide open
blackbirds
now are flying ... out
we think about
it all
believe you me
we remember
the first number
and last number
on call
how many years
together
how many years
apart
how many hours
until tomorrow
how many seconds
until we part
it is amazing
what can and can’t
buy life and love
inconsequentially
like art
We are all numbers
every book
has its pages
One book
has its numbers
and even then,
we aren’t long enough
to entertain the concept
of what is and what is not
large or
small
revelation
...
the auditing,
like a black ball
drops
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"When the pie was opened,
the birds began to sing.
Now wasn't that
a dainty dish
to set before a king?"