Long Talk of Poems
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All over the TV News
Talk of War
Reality of war that could really happen
Night sleep
I thought I was dreaming
Suddenly bombs dropped and destruction was surrounding everywhere
The building shook as if it was an Earthquake
It was truly conflict full of devastation and dead bodies
Buildings upon Buildings were torn down from their foundations
Everything now was rubble
War cries in anguish
War had taken its place
The enemy and the world on alert
I wanted to run, but to where?
Sirens sounded for everyone to head for the bunker shelters underground
Would those still living survive?
Unrest put to the test
Tomorrow seems unseen
Moment being a question
Night will always be remembered like a “NIGHT STALKER”
Will we rise from the ashes in the sunrise
Families and Children in their despair woes
Observing war planes flying over makes everyone nervous
A country I once knew could be no more
Hands of ammunition and peace nowhere to be found
War fare
It’s all right.
The eye, inner cheek, thumb, knee, and leg.
Begging for relief.
The trigger thumb should be released today at one.
Hip-hip-hurray! Let’s not talk of the hip again…shh!
Perhaps, next week some news, some talk
about the knee…too long it seems, it was lumped
in, with lower leg sciatica pain.
Aye yi yi, the eye, I read,
is chronic (say what?!)
Yep, nurse practitioner did not tell all.
No one dumps the aging news on us
until we’re knee deep in the “stuff.”
Oh the pain…the pain…the pain!
No wonder sitcoms came to be.
We needed to lighten up.
Laugh it up, millennials -
I bet you see the light.
On the fifth of April 2024, about 10:23 a.m., we all felt a shake
It wasn’t the midnight train; it wasn’t a jack hammer
It wasn’t children hopping; it wasn’t the roaring of a tiger
It wasn’t a 747 emergency landing; it was an earthquake
It was God smiling at us to see how we would have reacted
People had panicked miserably; it was the talk of the town
Imagine how we would behave on the eventual day of the frown
We’d probably be crying, grimacing and feeling deserted
No, that wasn’t a plane
No, that wasn’t a train
No, that wasn’t the lake
Yes, that was a 4.8 Earthquake
In the Northeast
Disturbing our peace
Everybody is now scared, talking about it
Everybody is now stressed, having a fit.
Copyright © April 2024, Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Hace Unos Instantes, La Visita De Un Terremoto De Magnitud 4,8
El cinco de abril de 2024, alrededor de las 10:23 horas, todos sentimos un temblor
No era el tren de medianoche; no fue un martillo neumático
No eran niños saltando; no fue el rugido de un tigre
No fue un aterrizaje de emergencia del 747; fue un terremoto
Era Dios sonriéndonos para ver cómo hubiésemos reaccionado
La gente había entrado en pánico miserablemente; era la comidilla de la ciudad
Imagínense cómo nos comportaríamos el eventual día del ceño fruncido
Probablemente estaríamos llorando, haciendo muecas y sintiéndonos abandonados
No, eso no era un avión
No, eso no era un tren
No, ese no era el lago
Sí, ese fue un terremoto de 4,8
En el noreste
Perturbando nuestra paz
Ahora todo el mundo tiene miedo y habla de ello
Ahora todo el mundo está estresado y tiene un ataque.
Copyright © abril de 2024, Hébert Logerie, todos los derechos reservados.
Hébert Logerie es autor de varias colecciones de poemas.
White marble stones
Stand proud in the sun
To remember my colleagues
The heroic fallen ones
Many a battle
Many a campaign
Some did return
For some never the same
On the green grass i stand
Blue sky above
The souls of my comrade's
Like peaceful sitting doves
The name on this stone
Reminds me of the day
My best friend and brother
Was taken away
An offensive was launched
Brothers at war
Bunker to take
At the top of a tor
Smoke screen exhausts the view to the hill
As we wind our way through
Zipping bullets, blood spill
Noises of lead, as they rip through the flesh
As we hit the barbed wire
Now a scarlet stained mesh
Objective in sight as we approach our aim
As i hear the groan of the injured
Many dead and maimed
Grenade pin pulled
Bunker window we lob
Hands sweating
How many lives will we rob
Explosion flash with shouts of pain
As the smoke lifts on this bloody terrain
We enter the Bunker
To witness our task
The enemy lie distorted
Faces grimace, death mask
I turn to my brother, to signal its safe
As a shot rings out, in this theatre place
He stands still for a moment
Eyes glazing and cold
The death of my sibling
At 19 years old
As i open my eyes, and turn to my son
I see what i had, as he holds my grandson
Family values, love and a bond
As i remember my brother
Of whom, i was so fond
I proudly walk past, salute as i go
The white stones standing proud
Peaceful doves in a row
I find my self fortunate to stand here and tell
To talk of my brother, and the fallen as well
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php
"Run! Run along and play, Baby T!"
Mama Rex told her little one, as she pitter-patted from the cave.
"Wait! Did you brush your ... teeth?" she trailed off,
Realizing Baby T was now out of earshot.
She was a good mama, and knew the importance of oral hygiene,
Especially for a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
She thought to follow and call Baby T back, but no,
Her wee one was diligent about such things.
Today was a special play day, and she'd let nothing interfere ...
On the morrow came Dino School, and a new life!
She smiled, remembering HER school, now for Baby T -
Hunting, hiding, fossil prevention, and her own favorite, ROARING!
Oh, Baby T would love it all, especially play hunts with her dino-mates,
But, as formidable as a T-Rex can be, they had to be safe ...
There were many species much larger and stronger than hers,
And she needed to learn the ways to protect herself.
Roaring was an important defense, and Baby T had practiced, long ...
Since early hatchhood Mama Rex had taught her,
And not only could she roar like an adult, but she, little Baby T, could SING!
She had been the talk of the clan for a long time,
But 'morrow was the day when she would prove her special talent,
For when she sang - when she showed those dazzled teeth and crooned,
Even the most ferocious of beasts would turn tail,
For dear, sweet, tiny Baby T, was NEVER ... on key!
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Dinosaur(s) - For Children" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
It is the ultimate in Irony,
And it is everything short of funny,
As people give up the chance of honest money,
To sour streets to the point where they are no longer sunny.
Risking friendships,
Working relationships,
Breaking up partnerships,
Truly believing they are sailing their own ships,
As words cherry picked from pirated ships,
Captained by those with doubtful fellowships,
Who refuse to divulge who owns the ships,
Are passed on to to a growing membership,
Who refuse to believe they are sailing in doomed ships.
Oh the Irony of it all,
As they have the gall,
To go to a mall,
And talk of freedom for all,
When once home into a chair they fall,
Unable to turn off the switch on the wall,
Connected to a screen that increases their zeal,
For what is unreal,
In a time when our backs are against the wall,
With covid in it for the long haul.
Let us write something now
About the Kings before which we bow
Of the things we say as we vow
In those large mansions of lights
As we sell off our life rights
In submission to freedom of pain
That mounts day after day; again and again.
Let us speak out our mind
These always shall remind
Us of,
The insults we tolerated
When,with assaulters we cooperated
Covering up for their wrong
That our stay in their custody we would prolong.
Talk of how we left our jobs to be wives
Yet we struggled to escape from knives
Sat on the cold floor, trying to wipe away our tears
While the nourishment of our weakness thrived into our fears
We gave birth to children that became baits
That kept us wrapped round our husband's fingers.
Even so,we never got our respect
We waited for a new beginning while they slept
We tried to talk to them and were trashed
And the remains of our love were splashed
Like the thin soils onto which rainwater drips
Like the pain a hurt leg bears as it leaps
Through the thorns and pins
With the pain cutting deep through our skins.
The church rules we complied with
We walked the walks of old Smith
By bending low to culture
To keep our dreams from the cruel rapture
When the chiefs would disregard us
And send us off the village with just one ass
To a land they named elsewhere,
Where our power would be claimed by Blaire
Till we ceased to exist in actual sense
Like you even ever did.
Through writing it here on paper,
We are not condemning them
But bringing to their understanding how it hurts
To be yelled at, ignored,battered;
And enslaved or hurt in summary.
How unfair it is to live in a monopoly
With only our men making rules for us to follow
And calling us wicked and aduleters when we say anything.
We've been silent from the day of our vows
Because not even our inlaws or parents believed us.
That's why we have to pen it here
That our darling sunshines can read it
As they grow and look towards our seats
Which are ablaze and not pleasant to take rest on.
To our dear men,
We want you to change and
Handle us like your promises said
Ts all we ask of you
For the tears are drying us up
And our words no longer count
Because you have deprived us of our courage.
He is dead, many confirmed.
I am sad for the people who knew him,
though I never did.
to me he will always be 'what's his name.'
He died peacefully in the eye of a tornado,
he died on a bus to the City of Angels.
it was so sudden
a shock to all our systems
caught us all off-guard
minds reeling
as we contemplated the loss.
May his wig be kept embalmed in aspic.
May his chin and its infamous dimple
be cast in Plaster of Paris
a template for a million molds.
May the print of his feet
be tattooed upon
the lower back of all middle aged
starlets
a tragic headline be embossed
on the backside of the moon.
Ring the grave church bell
walk a mournful walk as well,
respectfully talk of a life;
its celebrated grace, its unexpected fall
one we never knew or now recall at all.
I remember the night of our anniversary so vividly.
Cyril, who locals call 'Cyril the Squirrel' because he's such a miser,
had just taken a seat at the next table with his date Muriel, the local gossip.
Muriel was clutching a wilted red rose that Cyril must have given her
I could clearly see a half price sticker on the wrapper
He really is so darn cheap!
Cyril sat drumming his fingers on the table whilst Muriel perused the menu.
"Hurry up and order, Muriel.
It's buy one, get one free if we order in the next five minutes," he barked!
The waitress arrived to take their order.
She didn't have a chance to say a word before Cyril declared,
“You certainly took your time.
Muriel tell the girl what you want and make it snappy or I’ll miss out on the special offer.”
Muriel ordered tomato soup followed by roast chicken.
“I’ll have the same," said Cyril.
“It will save on the cost if we both have identical meals.”
I was feeling sorry for Muriel when the soup arrived and I could hear Cyril twittering on.
“Hurry up and eat your soup, Muriel .
We can go dancing at the Palais ….
It’s free if we get in before seven o’clock.”
“OH I LOVE DANCING!
BUT NOT WITH A PENNY PINCHING SCROOGE LIKE YOU!" she screamed in annoyance.
The restaurant fell silent; all eyes turned to their table.
Muriel stood, tipped the bowl of soup in his lap,
and whacked him across the face with the limp rose.
"First and last date, Cyril, …
and it didn’t cost you a cent, after all MY meal was free!"
She turned on her heels and stormed out of the restaurant.
Cyril’s face went puce as he looked like he was going to explode.
I'm sure Muriel would head straight for the bingo hall to tell everyone about her first date with "the squirrel."
And by tomorrow, her disastrous date would be the talk of the town.
"Happy Anniversary, Honey,"
my husband whispered to me.
He looked at his watch and exclaimed, "Oh dear!
“We were so busy watching the floor show that we’ve missed the special offer!"
08-16-17
First Date Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues
Elixir of life
How do you live your life?
Had you say, I live for myself
You are like big baby
Whose baby took to the sea bay
To drink from the long life pot
Whose seaside was it point
To live hundred years a year
Two hundred years two years
Big baby was becoming infant
When he walked, his back faced the firmament
His mouth wanted to kiss the ground
His legs were robust as though rotten wood
Big baby stood facing the long life jar
Told small kid to say at the rear
In respected distance
Not wanted him to have the experience
Of this mysterious and wonderful jar
Also not aware to the big kid
That it had never happened
Infant like him who had twice become newborn
Could not fetch water in the long life muddy pan
Small baby stood by the seaside
Just as he was told
Watching swooping and chirping of seabirds
Sea wave stooped and stood
Measuring it height with small kid
The sea was emitting pleasant cold
Caressing the soul of small kid
And now small kid was in another world
Relishing fondling and kissing of the sea cold:
So big baby was neglected
Like abandoned goal, which however
Would be embraced in the future
Big baby dipped hands in the pot
And then he pulled it out
But his hands were dried just as before
No traced of water
Yet the pot was full of water
He wondered
And again he dipped his hands
More and more and more
But his hands were dried just as before
No traced of water
Yet the pot was full of water
He wondered perhaps his hands
Could not fetch the water, but his rubbery lips
‘I shall dip my head in to this pot
I shall swig the water and empty the pot
I shall live long past Noah
History shall talk of me above Noah:
He had lived one fifty years
Before he started afresh-new youth-hood years
Maybe I shall live long
Long and long.
Perhaps I might not defunct
After emptying this long life pot
My boy shall die while I'm exist
I shall place him beneath soil of gold in zealot’
The rest will be posted latter. Thank you for reading me.