a photo moment for the pretty blonde singer
she is hustled into a tent with soldiers who pretend to be happy
this is Viet Nam 1969
They have seen many young men killed and maimed
But at this moment they paste on smiles
pretending all is well
incase their loved ones see this photo
knowing it might be the last time they might see them in any photo
the pretty blonde singer stands sassily in her white gogo boots
knowing nothing of the horrors these men have seen
she is hustled out as fast as she was hustled in
a five-minute photo op
propaganda to try to pretend it was not as bad as it was
There is always something
unspeakable in what remains—
a fractured spectrum of what once was,
scattered in the leftover bits:
half-maimed, dismembered,
and quietly rejected,
in what we scrape into the compost bin.
Every spick and speck reeks
of the aftertaste of endings —
with our recycled grief and rejection
dissolving in the detritus
of what we could not finish.
He walks alone through the hush of morning,
dew balancing like prayers on blades of grass.
above him, a red kite wheels as geometry drawn
and for a moment,he forgets what we’ve done.
the earth is still kind,still spills blossom from trees
we’ve maimed all that is good with our distain
let rivers write sermons through concrete and spillage.
yet even now,she forgives us, the mother can be kind.
As he stands beneath a birch that grows despite the plastic
coiled at its roots his hand touches the bark there’s warmth.
Its life refusing to retreat from it greatest enemy homoerectus
the weight and menace of opposable thumbs.
Written: June 18, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "The lamps are different, but the Light is the same." By Rumi
********************
The shame I bear yearns to be set free,
Fantasies conceal what people must foresee.
A whirlwind of visualization—eerie, untamed,
Imagination dares where rules are disclaimed.
How I savor the reverie of zeal embrace,
A peculiar whimsy in a captivating place.
And I must admit, my mayhem is deep,
I roamed in a dream no one could leap.
I discuss virtue when the timing is right,
Hallucination sprouts in the depths of night.
Love and exhaustion long for glitter untamed,
I crave the superb, so easily maimed.
I remain anonymous to forestall disgrace,
My dignity is protected by historical lace.
But truths linger, and mine stands confined,
Ambition reveals the power of my mind.
Hearing apologies is beyond my reach,
Inwardly sustained as emotions beseech.
Each buried object holds a mystery tale,
A single sail has recognized its scale.
I wandered through the forest felled.
Its stumps arrayed as scars.
Its bird song larks forever quelled,
to axed-silent memoirs.
Remnants of trees are now a maze,
traced by entrails of mists.
Curling up as veils between leaves,
that once held memories.
The moon's face shunned, shamed.
The wind scurried all around,
the graves of trees blatantly maimed,
along paths no feet had ground.
The forest of trees, lost its leaves.
Lost its old trunks of dreams.
Lost all its shade and shadows cast,
to vast bright white clearings.
I saw the ancient remnant dells,
spared of incumbent trees,
get crowded out by death-neath spells,
of clearings, felled down to knees.
All of a sudden
The stars have stopped shining
Blimming sadness in Heaven
Too many babies are maimed and hurt
Too many infants are starving and suffering
Too many women are crying and mourning
And too many men are being sought
For summary executions
Where countless elders of the sad nations
Have disappeared without a trace
The pain is excruciating. What a disgrace!
All of a sudden
The sky has become extremely dark
Bloody chaos in Heaven
The cemetery is in the park
The buildings are bombed and bulldozed
For heaven’s sake, too many soldiers are overdosed
Where ships, vessels, yachts, boats and canoes are sunk
Somewhere is buried a dead skunk
Where everything is comatose and decomposed
No one can honestly envision a bright future
Where nobody can dry the tears of Mother Nature.
The stars have stopped shining
The moon is visibly absent
The sun is on strike and fasting
And the weather is eerily aberrant.
Copyright © June 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
The seamless sky called life shined with cloudless ecstasy,
as in the rhapsody of zephyr rippling with rhythm of love
floated my butterfly mind with the motif of my heart.
On its wings I painted in colors the lattice of my identity,
for flowers in my valley bloomed in all seasons for you.
The dawning horizon splashed the spectrum of rapture
to blossom the buds of dreams in my craving course to you,
where I flew on the fervent wings of butterfly with my heart.
Virtual euphoria took me to the realm of fathomless fantasy,
your charm entranced me, didn’t perceive what was coming.
Charcoal clouds turned the sky into a slate rampart
that fell with fury when the thunder split the sky.
Sparked by your betrayal I burst asunder in dire dejection,
as my dreams were demolished by the ripping rumble,
releasing the pent-up anguish designed by the ruined time.
The flushing vale turned into rusted wreckage of torment,
the wilted flowers didn’t see the new sun rise with colors.
Torrent of tear drowned the past in the storm surge,
the maimed melody of the broken wings of the butterfly
crashed at the brink of somber horizon along with the thunder.
It started as a whisper, faint,
A voice that slithered through my brain.
Not my own, but just as clear,
A presence lurking ever near.
At first, a shudder down my spine,
A fleeting thought that wasn’t mine.
Hands that moved without command,
Footsteps shifting in the sand.
My mouth would form a stranger’s sound,
Words escaping, unprofound.
My mirror’s face, though still my own,
Reflected something not alone.
I fought with will, with endless dread,
A war inside my weary head.
Yet every day, it took its claim,
My mind was dark, my soul felt maimed.
And then one night, no battle came,
No voice, no force, no phantom’s name.
Just silence where the echo stayed—
Was I the one who’d been betrayed?
Had I fought, or had I fled?
Was I me… or was I dead?
Motorcyclists terrify me
I fear they will fly off the road
Who will stop to help?
Will we all keep whizzing by?
Every motorcyclist is someone’s baby
Someone’s grandchild, someone’s love
On the interstate where no one is careful, I cringe.
Terrified the rider is going to be maimed or killed
I say a prayer when I see a motorcyclist heading my way.
I try never to pass him or her.
Hoping not to see them again
Lying next to the road or worse.
IRON MAIDEN - A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH:
The Legacy [Gers / Harris]
-----------------------------------------------------
Tell my family
I am not coming back
I am sent off to war
I signed up for this
I am trained to fight
I fight nobody
Tell them truth
I am well off among
The dead and the dying
I can’t be maimed
I can’t be idle
I am trained to die
Tell them, I prayed
To give y’ll strength
To bear my loss
For I am sent to war
To bear the cross of
Someone’s ego and lies
Tell my mother
Birth is cheap
Death is cheaper
Son of soil, they call me
I fight for soil, yet
I yearn for peace
Tell my brother
Fear not death
I die for other, just like the other
Tell my sister
Not to pray for me
But to pray for peace
Let peace be bought
Not by blood, not by money
But by His Divine Grace
A person's mind, Life, body, is intended/
For the person it was given to/
Not to be messed with in any ways/
In sacred gifts, we find our own/
The mind and life, a body's throne/
By God's design, our vessel created for us alone/
To tarnish such, our souls are maimed/
Life is too precious to seize and bind/
Sadistic ploys, deceit so bare/
To harvest trust, a hollow snare/
Unmask the face, let truth alight/
Reveal the self in honesty/
Never play with heart's intent/
For actions hold divine lament/
On judgement day, our deeds unfold/
The weight of a black heart, it's story told/
Respect life, the love, the core/
For Paradise awaits/
Beyond the door/
Eternal screams
I beg for peace
In my darkness I found silence
In my sleep I did preach
Under moon light I saw sorrow
With the dawn I was given light
Chained to shadows
Only weeping
Maimed and beaten
Only preaching
Through my darkness
I gained solace
In my solitude
I gained hope
Only darkness
Led me deeper
Only absence
Let me free
Under the stars
I saw your shadow
Behind the rock
Your presence preserved me
In your darkness I found safety
Shine your face upon my spirit
Send me deeper into union
Unite my presence with your peace
Salvation given freely
In my darkness I saw your light
marauding foxes
mutilating fruit
minutemen mischief-makers
marching upon us
pick our pockets
laugh at our loss
“No mangoes for sale”
maimed, mangled, mashed
sweetness shamed
to death
ants and gnats feasting
off illicit mango chutney
sly scamps
evade
like Bolt-pace
their intake
of fruit sugars
insufficient for catching
robust diabetes
enfeebling the fiends
abducting limbs, or a pedactyl
soulful eyes stare with jeers
sailing
mimicking
bold breezes
through the trees
as I could never
in the canopy of my Caribbean youth
under mother's God-eye
girls outclimbed me
wearing puffy petticoats
and cumbersome cornrows
to perpetrate petite thefts
of mangoes
Wars Folly
Since you are there and I am here,
have yourself an ice-cold beer.
Raise your glass and sing with cheer,
for all you love is standing near.
This is not the way for me,
I’m on a deck across the sea.
The rolling deck as engines roar,
as in the sky fighter’s soar.
Barely adult’s young soldiers die,
as their loved ones at home cry.
On the land the sea or air,
loved one’s bleeding over there.
With hat in hand their families wait,
for soldiers to come home they anticipate.
The touch of their skin and smiling eyes,
to give hope to their heart and spirits rise.
This is not for all that go,
say the crosses row on row.
For at the point of a gun,
dreams are destroyed and come undone.
Hundreds dead or maimed for life,
filled with sorrow, pain, and strife.
Their mothers look at us and say,
why do our children have to pay?
It matters not to them we won,
their lives are shattered and undone.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
“There is a charm about the forbidden
that makes it unspeakably desirable,”
Mark Twain
Hark!
does not the exclaim
of pain reign
the winds’ swallow?
skyward clouds of rain
are hollow.
untrammel’d, is it heard
promptly,
by the maimed;
airin’ of songman’s floggin’
for ne’er shalt again
the Queen’s ear be tamed
by lyrics of him, him who sing
courtship ballads.
nor thief nor baron
opt for the Queen’s favor,
in land of Holland,
forbid by King’s order.
erstwhile,
uncouth poet claims
her secret sorrow.
and she?
his verses so hearted
of longin’
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