There are rebels in my head.
First there's the anarchist;
There to break things and push steel until it bends.
And of course the logicist,
Willful to calculate things and plan around things that we can’t rend.
Then there’s the gravedigger;
There for my friends,
When we get into fights or can’t make amends,
He’s there to fight for my memory.
A shovel in one hand,
And an epitaph in his left.
There is the artist,
A brush in his whittled fingers,
He comes around after the gravedigger to paint the picture of people we loved and lost into my memory.
He stays around for the ones we still have; at least for now.
Painting pictures the second someone sticks in our head.
They always turn out younger than they are in person.
A snapshot to the simplest time I have of them.
The final one, is the leader.
The realist.
The one who sees the train at the end of the tunnels.
The one who pulls us out of miscalculated situations.
The one who rights the bent bars of our prison cells.
The one who sets up funerals for the friends we miss.
The one who paints over portraits once the pastels fade in time.
The one who fixes me.
a rebel always drudge those unquietly ~ but not nefarious
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • July 13–19, 2026)
The Poets are our quintessential rebellious, rebels
The Maroons, the Braves, and the Daredevils
There is a ton of biases even in simple poetry
The Poets are known to be born freedom fighters
The unafraidheroes of hell, the sweet bees
Which can sing and sting, and deliver honey
Even in Poetry, we encounter weird free-loaders
Sick unabashed orators and pusillanimous braggers.
The Poets are born to be different, legally liberal
Awkwardly conservative, strong ass-kickers
Blunt truth seekers, and not obedient ass-kissers
Call the generals, the Police, and bring the arsenal
Of bloated words, and epithets; dumb or foolish attributes
Write verses and elegiac poems to pay countless tributes
To the sorry plagiarists, and to the ill-polished writers
Nobody cares anymore about the well-versed truth tellers.
Copyright © November 2017, Hebert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
It was hitomebore —
florette splintering my heart
until it pulverized
victorious eyes
burning into mine, poppyseeds
bursting into coquelicot corolla
Je ne change point
I fell through the somnolent
stone dais with cinnabar charms,
faithful but blind,
my fears mounting but muted
victims of mise en abyme
as I transition to hedone’s unknown
Je ne change point
Rebels hang off
haught Victorian lips,
their ineffable limerence shimmers
in Andromeda's chocolate cosmos,
promising one day they’ll be found
The chicks around here are really
Tough and mean
So mean they'd spit in your eye
Steal a babbies ice cream
And make them cry
Dressed in leathers
Riding their noisy roaring motorcycles
At speed
Terrorising the neighbourhood
With their wicked deeds
Their birds of a feather
Rebels without a cause
That stick together
Lock all your windows
And lock all your doors
People run for their lives
The outlaws frighten people all the time
I daren't tell you
What they did to my friend
It was really bad
And really sad
They may only be a mere few inches tall
And should be kept in a pen
So says their mother
Hen
Peter Dome©2024
Tak oor grund from beneath oor hurdies
Burn oor birches aside the lough,
Besmirch hard fecht fur freedom,
Dictating oor days tae come,
No from the pint o a gun,
Fae laws an promises broken.
Lees an lees spout forth like watter
Lives expended as if they dinnae matter,
Feel the Jacobite spirit again,
Ready tae fecht like scotsmen again,
Like warrior poets risen from the glen,
Fae the mists o the past remember,
Oor freedom wis wun sending Edward hame,
Yon wis the past a new war begun noo,
No wi claymores ,targes an guns,
This time its ideals an Eton buffers,
Those who wid sell oor birthrights
Tae mak us slaves an servile peasants,
Using stealth ,treachery an unco ither weys
Rogues they be crooks ,cheats and thieves
Seeming beyond reproach wi things hidden
Frae us puir mortals aye they wull dae us doon,
Sic a time as this tae fecht fur whit is oors
Naw mair begging fur aa few scraps
Fae a table fu wi guid things ,
Scraps urny fur us we ur free loons
Burthit free an deeing we wull be free,
Ur ye ready tae rise yince agin?
Andrew P mcintyre 14/09/2020
Kids are creative, made in God's image;
we parents are just coaches on this earth.
God has prepared for them lines of scrimmage;
kids are creative.
Kids demonstrate a great challenge at birth.
We take pride; their "great"ness we envisage
forgetting their Creator grants them girth.
We focus on our lines of lineage
and give God small credit for their real worth.
Is that why they rebel in alienage?
Kids are creative.
He is the king of the rebels
Keeps things stirred up and unruly
Disruptive, arrogant, an insurrectionist
Other people follow his lead and are jailed.
He is protected by a political party that wants to win
Trading integrity, honor, and the greater good for possible seat
Disgusting, rebellious, pompous revolutionary.
Caught in a thicket, concrete among the rebels
Hit with hard metal and then showered with shrapnel
Shots fired. Get on the ground
But I'm brick dry and the ground is my foundation
So I am in no position to be taking such action
I'm grounded. Man, I feel surrounded
Disarmed and hung out to dry, a sitting duck
Caught in a thicket, concrete among the rebels
Cause lost and found, but found in tatters
This isn't cause for celebration but all the same
Loser takes all; lost all but emerged a sage
I had stepped out of the scene for a shut eye
Came back to find the scene completely rearranged
And there hardly time to marvel at how strange
I drowning man will catch at straw, and I'm flailing
Trying hard but failing to grab my bearings
You know how you can get a concussion
In a freak accident and come back completely different?
Yeah, that's the report I'm filing
Celebrated is the freedom of youth,
But paralyzed I was by every move,
In my young mind I agonized,
Is this what my peers will approve?
In a suit and tie I was persistent,
By a taste of success made confident,
Yet hardly any doubt there was,
Blending in still paid a high dividend.
By and by, the children had grown,
After the coop they have duly flown,
In my soul soon began to stir
Seeds of discontent by duty sown.
I’ve done my part, I’d hear me say,
By the rules I will no longer play,
In every sunset is a reminder,
I can ill afford to wait another day.
Now wherever I stop I raise my tent,
With my better half I rove every land,
Under canopies of stars we sleep,
Asking each morn, if not now, when?
"REBELS" WAS THEIR NAME
Judge not, that ye be not judged.
Matthew 7:1-3 KJV
----------------------------------------------
Each fair familiar feature of their face
aglows with the dim lit day's assistance,
rests upon strong shoulders reminiscent
of roses bloom, see their trust and proud grace.
Before those same red cheeks were flags of shame;
tearing at their hearts, rebels they were named.
Who knows, are they friends, sisters, or lovers?
They don't look alike but but they live strong,
telling their own truth stopped rumor's hover,
truth clears the blind eyes, errs are not lifelong.
While the shrinking sun delights in its role,
can they sustain falsehood, forgive such ways?
They chose to stand strong, still in mute dismay
but in their bosoms dwell two holy souls.
__________________________________________________________
~~Inspired by the painting: Twilight Confidances
by Cecilia Beaux 1888~~
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
4:30 pm; January 17, 2015
When
raindrops
fall
upon
unwary
trembling
leaves
summer
shakes his head
and wonders why
rebels dare
defy
his
patient
lenient mood;
time to
turn
on the
heat.
----------------------------
15th June 2015
Contest: Shall We Waltz?
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Placed 2nd
All we are is our broken past
Threw everything we weren’t supposed to last
Our hearts like broken glass
Proof that our souls died very fast
Cold metal, our best friends
With these blades we will meet our ends
Self hate is the song we sing
The fallen angels take wing
Gash\scratch doesn’t matter
We are dead inside and shall be revived by the pain
We are the rebels of fate
The ones that everyone hate
So ripped off
So stepped on
A Rebels Stance
As we stand talking face to face
Upholding the laws of social grace
You may see me timidly holding my stance
Chained to the bond of my circumstance.
But under charades of fancied beguile
Merrily skips a loose denial
And tearing the ropes encircling me
Is a mind that goes running, running free.
You look at me now and see an acceptance
Of all that’s been told despite an objection
But I am no prisoner of all that conforms
You’re looking at posturing tuned with the norm.
Deep inside this material prison
Defiance dances in passionate rhythm
Ignoring the shackles binding me
Is a mind that goes running, running free.
Within this mysterious essence
Disguised in such typical form
Are fields that wildly span the horizon,
And a voice singing on in a storm.
When the land of the self is examined
Its truth is a beauty to see
Neath the dust of its blanketing body
Lies treasure you cannot perceive.
Ignoring the choke that silences my voice
Dances a body with powerful choice
Unmindful of myths you've heard about me
Is a mind that goes running, running free.
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