Long Worms Poems
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Witnessing the blood baths, the massacre
Of God’s people, children’s bodies everywhere,
And octogenarians expire slowly and quietly in horror.
The undistorted and the vivid images of terror,
The ugly realities of life for millions; what a rancor!
The large plumes of gray phosphorus smoke! There is nowhere
To hide. Showers of shrapnel, unprecedented heavy shellings,
White clouds of death and discriminating lynchings
Of everything that breathes, walks, runs and flies;
This is war, this is sheer terrorism! The God-flies;
Where are they when they are needed?
Our world should not be so muted,
So insensitive toward so many.
This is a shameful disaster, a pity…
To do nothing and hope for the awakening of the gods;
The worms, the flies, the rats and the tods
Must be happy. What an inhumane feast!
In this young century, we cannot find Peace.
The photos are real, and dying is not a joke.
The lenses of the camera recorded the blood soaked
Pregnant women, their babies shredded
By the wrecked fires of the big guns.
No one is spared: fathers, mothers, sons,
And even young girls are arrested,
Humiliated, stepped on and eventually annihilated.
This is the state of our human family.
Centuries old victims are now the perpetrated
Beasts that devour nymphs, angels and dignity.
The moon can only helplessly weep,
The gods and the geese are high by the burning bodies.
Terrorism is your vocation; falling asleep,
Amid this, is criminal, we should unequivocally denounce the bullies.
Big gun shipped helicopters can only destroy; they don’t make Peace,
H bombs only create more activists, more militants and more beasts.
Copyright@ January 2009, Hebert Logerie All Rights Reserved
They ride the good dragon-cloud towards warm light
While wistful wind was a wrongdoer on the hollow hill
Wrapped woven from the wounds and wrath`s night,
The wood will wear white woolly witness of the windmill.
Hoarfrost hitch-hikes and hoists with hoarse hood,
Drumming beat of hobble of the army`s fatal feet,
Far away from the glow-worms of their childhood;
Friends fumble the glassware where they might meet.
Falteringly frogs of fancy jump towards the lake’s glass;
Orphan souls sit on the steps of hope in winter`s time
They scrutinize the frozen sky of hope to find the rhyme
Of the verse from the other side they want to happily pass.
I seldom look in
the mirror anymore,
my razor-blade with an
edge of jagged rust –
gave up “Creature features”
with my early need to scare
a girl into my arms at the theater
a shower a day takes care of
most else – but when hairs, none
left on the head, become the
household's main blight, an old
barber's scissor in my wife's
scepter-ed hand, make my beard
a bit less~ the unkempt sight.
The best of me has long been
my dabbling in art and altruism;
Ila and I, two of a kind in these
respects – likeness ending there
for she has always been the Fashion
Plate, while unkind neighbors
have often whispered, why on earth
did she choose such a common
looking mate?!
Poetry is a religion I think,
priest and priestess of words:
like the tunnels of worms and
the wings of birds our spans
high and low, depending on
the inspiration, composing both
gems and turds.
Though my body has
slowed – the downward inclining
normal senior trend – my spirit
seems yet, most times, to be rising,
though audibly creaking its upward
arching positive bend; myself long of the
opinion that the sun is a bit more concentrated
when in an old poet's/poetess's experienced
capable hands, expressed in his/hers well seasoned
perhaps overly cured, highly distilled flatulent
eyes, with just minor joint-less joint-sighs,
I dutifully pen heartfelt lights –
writing new, lustrous dawns over all
my frequented restroom, therefore only
somewhat restful golden nights
I'm told the universe is 14 billion years old.
Expanding at the speed of light.
If we're lucky...or unlucky
We'll live to be a hundred years or so.
Just a flash of time to dance our dance.
Sing our song -scribble a rhyme.
Be a garnish on the plate of the living or spit on our beloved star time.
Who is this grand being or thing that made everything?
A loving God or sadistic magician?
Did living just seed from the soil of nothingness?
Are we singled out, each one of us, to be part of the script?
To add to or take away from the collage of living and dying.
What's in the next life, a giant reflection of this one.
Magnified by infinity under the lenses of an /absolute /
To bake forever into the echoes of our lies and truths.
Until the universe shrinks onto the head of a pin.
Then what!
Hell is a place of eternal torture
With restlessness’ angst and despair-puncture
Sealing the faithless in their doomed future
Midst cruel hatred’s defiant gesture.
Hell is a prison of endless darkness
Where misery’s gloom prevails in blackness
Due to sufferings, despair, hopelessness
Leaving the convicts in their guilt’s fierceness.
Hell* is a cell of everlasting torment
Expressing death's wailing every moment
As sorrows, anguish, woe wildly lament
With constant gnashing of teeth engagement.
Hell is a dungeon where there’s no exit
And each one slides toward bottomless pit
Struggling to reach foot stool summit
Yet never to taste freedom’s air a bit.
Hell is lake of fire** where God’s wrath abides
Unreached by His mercy, while His grace hides
There, worms die not, with pleas’ screams at all sides
Along unheard prayers … deserving chides.
Hell awaits everyone who’s a sinner
Bearing “You’re forever condemned” banner
No one can flee from punishment runner
While Satan and cohorts serve cursed dinner.
Hell can be missed by trusting the great Lord
In placing faith in God upon His Word
He vanquished hell’s might with His divine sword
For those who are in Christ in sweet accord.
Hell is indeed closed to the redeemed soul
Assured by the Almighty's loving goal
Granting eternal life**, forever whole
Through Jesus Christ in His great Saviour's role.
*Luke16:23And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments...
**Revelation 20:14 - And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death. Revelation 21:8 - But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.
***Romans 6:23 For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.
October 5, 2018
Edited on March 5, 2023
2nd place, "Hell" Poetry Writing Premiere Contest
Sponsored by Robert James Liguori; judged on 3/10/2023.
If you wish to be a Lord of the Apes,
grow money as if it were ambition,
grow ambition as if it were money,
be as carefree as a leach,
as gentle as a sledgehammer.
Then an entourage of other apes
will applaud you, shower you
with golden bananas.
You will be the Emperor of Emptiness.
As time ripens
in the light where you are so not,
moths will be growing their milky teeth,
worms will be working-out,
dung beetles will be rolling pebbles
up hills, preparing for the big day.
On that day
the ground will open just for you,
and out of it will rise
your sad, wilting member.
It will be the last you see of it
and it of you.
All across the webbed wide esse Scott's wold
emerald green Trifolium
carpets harbor untold
burrows of tiny Leprechauns clover
(leaf) ways grant trifold
wishes if captured might
divulge pot of gold
at rainbow's end, and e'en mend
yar shoes, whence re: souled,
thence tread softly beneath subthreshold
of audibility, cuz unseen universe
hapts tubby microscopically rolled
with subterranean inhabited by Lilliputian
mischievous beings (about bajillion holed
up could fill the Taj Mahal) even donned with
heavy coat protecting them
(usually men) against cold
yet frolic with reel delight jiggling
with inborn instinct exhibit twofold
talent to dance with modesty
downplaying (while fiddling)
averse tubby extolled,
nonetheless, their popular
doth soar, and grievously scold
persistent myth anchored with toehold,
and thus do not indulge
pruriently with pixies considerably dulled,
since libido practically nonexistent told
me (under oath of
confidentiality), one Grunwald
trusted yours truly, the secrete
will not leak out,
nor spread like slime mold,
this descendant of Lemuel Gulliver
(ironically my height
only about threefold
larger than full grown imp possible
to see non elfish (pressed) lee ping auld
timers cavorting with
itty bitty whippersnappers,
averse to any outliers, whether hirsute or bald
an honest to goodness painstaking effort
initially stymied friendship proffered, a cold
reception eventually (while sharing diet of worms)
deep under verdantly festooned knolls of Eire land.
Drawing out
from the spirit of Steve
Crowing each morning
singing to the light
Six million
dollar rooster
In bionic terms
I would lift him
up all proud
Aged about nine
at the time
He was the champion
Lifting stones
Feeding him worms
Followed us like a dog
He was the top rooster
in the yard
given to me
as a pet
I looked after him
like royalty
One sad day
Home from school
He went missing
Calling for him
in the garden
Nowhere to be seen
Mother shouts
Dinner will be
ready in five
I asked
if she saw Steve
No was the reply
A few minutes later
Called in
Sitting down
at the table
To a leg of chicken
Accompanied with chips
Finished eating
My father began
Roaring laughing
When I asked
about the rooster
He laughed
you just ate
one of his legs
I burst out crying
Trying to get sick
What a monster
Balling out
roaring crying
My mother tried
to put her arms
around me
I pushed
her away
Horrified at what she done
Sure she cooked him
I could not believe it
Thinking she
was always
Very kind to me
I was so sick
could not believe
Just ate
my favorite pet
Went to the bed
Cried myself
to sleep
No more Steve
Food of thought
Watching out the window
Before sleep
As the dogs ate
The last of him
I still
remember fondly
With chips
I see the light
In your darkness
Only now
I crow
In the light
~ ~ ~ ~
Tonight, in dark crescendo, rise the worms
to sniff the dampened crust of fresh thawed earth
bathe under flickering, cloud spaced, moon
aerate the very ground that bids them birth
Mock the darkened sight of “early birds”
wriggle at the touch of spring’s chill breeze
knowing that in half – they still are whole
and these…these single moments…they must seize.
Or be denied the nuances of life
at levels deemed beneath the worth of man
raising eyeless heads they search blind skies
for vision needs not sight in nature’s plan.
Come touch the moistened earth - bask in its scent
embrace, with darkened eyes, nature’s assent.
John G. Lawless
©9/2/2018
Feelings aren’t right or wrong;
A trigger sets them loose
And if we cannot shrug them off,
They tighten like a noose.
Of course, I’m talking negatives –
The hurts that we perceive
Are sent our way by those who should
Support us, we believe.
It’s likely our reaction
Wasn’t anyone’s intent,
But still we feel the same, no matter
What was really meant.
The trick is what we do about
What’s left us feeling low,
For keeping quiet sometimes
Is the safest way to go.
Since confrontation often
Means that everybody squirms,
It might be better keeping closed
That slimy can of worms.