Long Young blood Poems
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I hear my country weep,
It asks for no more young blood,
Yet it aches for the youths who remain,
Scattered, silent, and waiting
Which way, ooh lovely Kenya?
We cry of bad leadership,
We cry unemployment,
We curse a faltering economy,
Yet we do nothing,
Which way, ooh lovely Kenya?
They say youths are tomorrow's leaders,
But must we wait until tomorrow to rise?
and let them loot all there is for tomorrow?
or which way, ooh lovely Kenya?
A learned generation,
Yet divided and still,
Can we not unite and rebuild?
Rise ooh Kenyan Youth and make a better tomorrow today.
Or which other way, ooh lovely Kenya.
The board- flat, immovable, sterile, arranged for a fun, friendly, relaxing battle till the ultimate death but a few aristocrats. The warzone landscape always unblemished, dry and warm. No rain, no freeze. Often the Generals joke whilst there is slaughter- sipping wine with cheese, distracted by trivialities. And still the battle rages. People of rank die in silence. Yet there is no sign of the carnage like Ypres or Pozieres. Youths, kids, young naïve minds are instructed of best ways to kill, strategies of war. Show no mercy and chuckle, encouraged to obliterate. Bang!
One, two, three… no… four dead, an excellent sacrifice for our side, we killed one royal. Yes, we are further in their land.
Aha, choose which soldier you want to die. Oops, I didn’t see that coming. Hmmmmmm clever.
Check mate!
Immediately the enemy is decimated, there are two fit, healthy, fully mobile armies facing off once again for a deadly duel. Both Generals happy to face off and continue the murderous rampage.
Young and naive,
we laugh under the melancholy,
chat spilling into tears,
learning the tides of life
aren’t meant to break us,
but to forge our minds and hearts.
They speak in endless semantics,
rhetoric designed to trap us
between the parting moon
and the awakening sun.
We will not be them.
We will take their forms
only to bend them to our own.
We will not close our eyes
to the pleas of the lonely,
nor ignore the burdens
of the weary.
Young blood, young dreamers—
stakes are high, odds crippling,
yet we move forward,
through the “what ifs” and the “what nots.”
We take our time,
unsheathing our gifts
for the good of all.
Music and poetry spill
from our fingers,
light flickers in our eyes,
twinkles born of eagerness
we never felt before.
So we dance
to senseless rhythms,
through misgivings and missed chances.
We chant hymns and whisper aphorisms,
and in everything, give thanks.
In nothing, we tremble.
Our moods alter
with fanciful thoughts
until the city is drenched
in our youthful voices.
We serve with love,
hate touches none.
We paint our visions
on the vast daylight sky—
imaginary, illusory,
but pure, undivided, unyielding.
Into the sea we cast indecision,
urging forward until the last embers of the day die.
The ill woman lying silent in the steel wheelchair
was a lady if elegance living in exuberant riches,
who vividly remembers her as happy, generous, and fair?
Somebody should honor her with hugs and kisses!
Her fuzzy mind recreates wonderful images of adored faces,
of the ones who stood at her side and exulted her kindness;
why have they now abandoned her to a detrimental state?
Have they suddenly forgotten that they shared her full plate?
Meghan was the bold nurse who tended to wounded soldiers,
her white uniform was often stained with their young blood;
shouldn't we remember her now, not when she'll be under the sod?
Keep her constant company and she'll talk about the cannons' blasts.
Holidays come and go, she only hears Christmas carols...
spiritual comfort is what Meghan needs in her profound loneliness;
go visit her and bring her your friendship and prayer,
they will be the best gifts she'll ever receive to ease her despair.
Behold the cold village watchtower fog
and holiday summer fields bundlin' hay,
the Officers Club back door buyin' grog
till all our money slowly pissed away!
Up the back roads hoonin' in the hot seat
and down Sparkin Hill runnin' on fumes,
or ride that city bus into Queen Street
after school up in the snooker rooms.
And lock and load shoot to kill in dead fall
the winged corpse of blackbird and pheasant,
when fools, tricksters and gamblers staked all
in the gamin’ rooms of Hitchcock Crescent.
Oh youthful crimes and misdemeanours
in Hillmans, Zephyrs and Cortinas.
And when the sins of youth had lost its thrill
I would walk to the house up on the hill.
In the bright burnin’ lights of the prison
runnin' like a fugitive in the night,
and as the last beer and hormones kicked in
so did crimes of passion in the moonlight.
In rush of young blood in curves and curls
between the sweaty bales of Percy’s barn,
where tales of turgid boys and bare-arsed girls
spread like the clap village rumour and yarn.
Oh youthful crimes and misdemeanours
in Hillmans, Zephyrs and Cortinas.
And when the sins of youth had lost its thrill
I would walk to the house up on the hill.
And in my rum soaked body and soul
hungover in my DTs and detox I lay.
Smokin' doobies of Acapulco Gold
sorely truly fu*ked on my bed of hay.
Through all my changes I was a dreamer
and lived a trepidation and a ruse,
but when she lay bare and I between her
I lived the dream in my puberty blues.
Oh youthful crimes and misdemeanours
in Hillmans, Zephyrs and Cortinas.
And when the lusts of youth had lost its thrill
I would walk to the house up on the hill.
Written: April 2000
I am but an outcast member
Misfortune led my reputation astray
Fake people led me to nowhere
So it's futile to prolong my days
If only I were more rich in hope?
I am a lion missing from its pride
Predatory dominance expelled me
Roars of strife that cut to the inside
Casted me out to the open where I'm free
I am more fierce than the break of dawn
I am an exemplary rebel of the millennium
Integrity, honour, and bravery is what I live by
To see conformists act as wrongdoers,
When it's total hypocrisy, for the time is nigh
A dawn of a new age awaits
Now I am a man more rich in hope
Pride and self-confidence absorbs me
So if you ever want to start a riot
And you want to be free
Better call King Pariah who will help you see
Track: Fall Out Boy - The Young Blood Chronicles
Outside in the garden an acrylic blue dragonfly takes my breath away,
she is pinned on treated wood, a reminder of my mother's skillful hands
Many a morning I played with my tea set on a dew filled grass,
young blood racing through my veins, as I carefully poured us tea for two.
"The cycle of nature is all about change and shifts," my mother said
placing a touch of electric blue on a dragonfly wing.
Then she would add, "may you find balance and kinship in all living things"
She would take me to the water's edge, through weeds and twigs we'd go
by early morning, for she had checked her flight time calendar
and she was sure, this was the time for them to fly.
I am old and gray now and my mother is in heaven painting
fireflies with Angel wings of robin egg blue, I'm sure.
Though my memory goes hazy every now and then, I can always recall
at will those blessed mornings when I poured out tea for two and watched
my mother add a touch of golden brown upon a dragonfly, of every hue.
War is a waste of precious young blood
War is a waste of fresh natural resources
War is as bad as a raging and vile flood
War is evil if you understand the sources
The reasoning behind such unnecessary
Aggression and the violence and the vanity
Which are cowardly robbing and destroying
Mankind. War is bad. War is a very bad thing
War is evil and criminal
War is mortal and abnormal.
War is a waste for the perpetrators and the victims
War is a waste for all. But peace comes like dreams
Distant dreams. Peace is more precious than money
Diamond, gold, silver and all other precious metals
Said a very eloquent brother who deserves all medals
Ever invented by famous and powerful institutions
Give us peace, not evil wars dear highly divine Almighty
Help men learn from past errors and nugatory aggressions
War is unnatural and abysmal
War is lethal and inimical.
Copyright © February 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
A word to the youth
You are not reinventing the wheel
Everything you read on a search engine
Was placed there by those old people
You treat like fossils from a distant past
Contempt has to he learnt
And what you see before you as withered and burnt
What you take for granted
Was paid for and paved by old age and experience
There life has been banked and spent
A 1000 lifetime's over
And you will never know it
Until you 2 grow into it
So act like you know it all
You won't be young forever
And you will only realize you were never that clever
And that age stings
And the only thing worth discovering
Can't be taught it has to be bought
And the cost is lines and wrinkles
Not teenage pimples
Mirabella had a big garden of pretty Azaleas
and towards moon she started a tap dance,
showing her ballerina dress made by Chris;
young boys came around and stole a glance!
What was the secret that made
her so glamorous and famous?
What did Mirabella have to deserve
admiration and hundreds of claps?
Follow me and I'll tell you a great story,
her incredible beauty charmed tall
and handsome Harry instantly;
they met on the breezy Amalfi Bay;
he wasn't very young, a friendly guy
with a head full of aging grey...
and he came from Montreal!
No woman was lovelier than Mirabella when she was laughing;
it must been the Neapolitan sunshine on her sun-tanned cheeks,
it must have been the mandolin's hard trap beats
that raised her young blood as she began singing!
And Harry couldn't help smiling and throwing another flower,
she became the undying flame of a true soldier's heart;
and that flame burned until the war was finally over:
would he forget her and let their feelings turn into dust?
He took one step forward and whispered with the firmest voice,
" I've made a promise more truthful than I've made to any girl,
wait for me and don't count days, or nights, not even once:
have faith in me: because tomorrow is a wish I can fulfill! "
And Mirabella remembers her sweetheart who's too far away
and cries by the dull garden of withered flowers looking over
the foaming sea where dreams are created; do they soar faster
than the boldest eagles, or do they end in misery before midday?