At one point in time, there's was one country
As there's one earth, one rainbow and one human race
The wind, rain, smoke, and snow don't recognize
Borders or tiny plots of land that greedy leaders
Think they possess. They will always make errors
Nobody owns a country, tower, a location or a place
As one can only palaver. We can scuttlebutt and dramatize
All we want. Earth or this land is owned by nobody
This land belongs to all. We are passing by as tourists
We are all migrants or immigrants, even the racists
Or the wannabes. We are wayfarers, passengers on a boat
We own nothing. We own no land, no wind and no float
We need to make room for each other. Today is your turn
Tomorrow belongs to no one. This is something we must learn.
Copyright © June 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
I don’t know how we end up in a war,
become the monsters I see on TV,
but I felt sick and so sad when I saw
how it hurts families and kids like me.
I watched the bombs and homes being lost,
how locals were displaced as refugees,
I don’t care what the big wigs say it costs
as our society must help them flee
from the pain and grief, and provide relief
by making a truce and agree not to fight,
help them recover and return to peace,
to all live together with equal rights.
I was just eight when they began this hate,
it’s still not too late to own their mistake.
Citizens, weapons practice,
Refugeees, seeking homes,
Think globally, guys,
Evolving ceasefires---grand.
Citizens, weapons practice,
Refugees, seeking homes,
Think globally, guys,
Evolving ceasefires--grand.
Refugees
I know of a forest where all trees are equally tall
and the distance between them is strangely wide
is so they can get the same amount of sun and
rain will fall evenly on plants and mossy ground.
Trees grow fast here next year, harvested
and a new sling planted.
For the birds, rabbits, and foxes that had made
a home at what can be called a new estate will
have to move or find shelter in the old forest
that is full of thorny bushes in deep shadows and
and vulgar boars that never had a bath unless
caught out in the rain
Nests will be too near others, and there will be squabbling
rabbits and foxes have to make new burrows
and they will be snubbed by the old dwellers who
will call them lazy or even worse, the new rich should
They have shiny fur or colorful feathers and will
not be sent a Christmas card that year.
Physicists speak of entropy
Beatles sing, ‘Let it be’
From war zones, refugees flee
Folks just want to live free
Garands are real scatters dispelled refugees people and they knew
Listen my friends to the bells that tinkle and jankle
The early and spontaneous arrival of autumn,
It is a painful and unusual surprise for the birds,
Which wanted to dawdle among the weak reeds.
Tonight, the sun will disappear surreptitiously sooner.
The schoolboys are unhappy. They refuse to utter a word.
Their parents are elated to see how time is passing
Rapidly, like the short breath of a dying old handyman.
The green leaves begin to alter their postures.
The flowers are rare. They charm Mother Nature less.
No golden sun glare after the Angelus; the air is somber.
And the freshness from the north hypnotizes the refugees.
The old men, in disarray, wonder under the sorry shade.
This year, autumn exudes less warmth and cheerfulness.
Copyright © September 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
This is a translation of the poem: L' Aterrissage De L' Automne by Hebert Logerie
Sunday, September 22, 2019
Years ago bold the Sun
Saffron lands
The waters depths plagued our mind
East was once a golden hue
The winds came gently
The August people steered
their heads converse as one
We were at peace
to the west
West is the best
Gold behests the streets
The Golden crowds
free at last
Eastwards Westwards
we know the direction
Playing tricks with the mind
We thought we knew the best
Down Convents Hill
the stone Angels sing
Desertion is not even an option
open the flanks
play your banjo
In evening we have everything to gain
in the holy calm
the marble passages
past our golden days
The Russian refugees
When the war ended in 1945 and the German army
surrendered when the local Nazis were arrested
the whores had had their hair shorn; peace arrived
with stark poverty and need.
My mother got a newspaper round, and the pay was
negligible, but she got bags of old newspaper, pressed
looking like bricks and warming when autumn came
with cold evenings
On our rounds (I was my mother’s little helper) met
a Russian mother and daughter dressed in old clothes
on the way to a café that gave them leftovers, probably
the only meal for the day.
They were the flotsam of war and had ended up in
the backdoor of Europa, they spoke no local language
but individual people were kind to them and often
brought wood to warm their cold rooms.
When we met them, Mother waved and said hello
with a winning smile, they said hello also I think
this little gesture warmed their starved, lonely hearts
destitute as they were and far from home.
Home! Yes, in the end, it’s the place we all want to go.
The kids are just fine
On this Wednesday eve
Our lives intertwine
Until one takes leave
On this Wednesday eve
We huddle in the waste
Until one takes leave
From this bombed-out place
They’re readied for school
Packed up for the day
Ballet class in tule
Then we hurry away
Packed up for the day
The evacuations begin
Then we hurry away
From the siren’s din
Distraught by expectations
Life’s daily demands
Guiding child’s aspirations
Mold their lives in our hands
Life’s daily demands
From missiles, we flee
Mold lives in our hands
As we dodge the debris
We discuss the whole day
Watch the news, sip our wine
In lands far away
We witness war’s crimes
Huddled in lost places
We assess the whole day
Do they hear us, or see us, or know us
In lands far away?
From the dark arenas of violence,
from the shackles of oppression,
from a land reeking of the smell of blood,
they flee bloodied and bruised.
these scraps of humanity,
alienated from their moorings,
have no possessions
other than the sky above
and some inches of land to curl up
that they carry with them as they move.
before them gapes an abyss of emptiness,
disturbing them like existential absurdity.
they differ, speaking disparate tongues,
like those heard in the tower of Babel.
but they have a single identity.
they are all REFUGEES,
driven by war.
they have a single destination,
a promised land of nowhere!
…………………………………………
Nov.19.2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
As seeds, of a cold windswept hand
Now rooted in your land
What, growing up as wildflowers
Were, too, called foreigners.
Displaced themselves, are not these
For road-blown refugees
Not worth that time-budding chance
Cultured landscapes enhance?
there is long smile hidden in me
the bee that sweetens your honey
wearing a mask
I'm too dark to be seen
and tomorrow awaits the end of my dusk
I am a sad happy person
who life has taught a lifetime best lesson
I stand on my toes
with not fear of a fall
knowing the smooth ground will embrace me even after a throw
I am a son and the light
the bright star that sparks joy to your sight
I am the moon, the beautifies of your night
I am a refugee , a human being with dreams and ambitions
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