~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wittenberg whispers in winter’s hush,
where Martin Luther’s voice once burned the air:
A winter walk, the frostbitten air~
Martin Luther walked beneath the pines,
his breath a ghost in winter’s teeth.
He witnessed a net of light flung everywhere~
stars, like nails, pinned heaven
to the evergreen boughs~
unfurling his sermon:
How shall the weary heart be warmed?
The question hung in the pews like frosted breath.
Jesus’ hands reached out to lift the darkness, the storm,
and so shall you~
crown the evergreen boughs
with tongues of flame.
Each slender candle, small but bold,
shall be a fragile army in the darkness.
No fortress stands, no sword shall be swung,
just wax and wick~
representing Jesus’ endless light
brought into your homes.
Centuries have turned; yet, still they gleam~
glass bulbs and twinkling lights flicker,
retelling of that night.
Christmas trees stand where darkness descends~
not to outshine the star’s old beam,
but to whisper:
Here the darkness ends.
Old death makes everybody dry and sad
Death even makes kings who are grumpy and mad
Absolutely powerless, helpless and useless
Death makes us mute, motionless, lifeless and deaf
In the darkest, hottest part of the crater
And deep within the brightest cell or cache of the chamber
Where too much light
Blinds the retinas and this is never right
Death makes everybody lifeless, powerless and useless
Death, death! Nobody can get used to you
Death, death! You are a fool too
For stealing life which is vitally precious
Death, death! You are backward and too ambitious
Nobody can get used to your ways
Because you make us part ways
Old death! You never show compassion and pity
You are wicked, greedy, sick and crazy
Old death, will you leave us alone?
Please use a different style and tone
Death, death, Oh! Old Death
Old death, you make everybody weak and mad
Old death, you make us worthless, lifeless and sad
Death, death, old death, please go away
Go, go away, please go, go find your way.
Copyright © April 25, 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
The Stumble and Rise Poetry Contest
Back in my military days I was at chapel one Sunday morning and the Chaplain was really getting into his sermon, true story.
THE SERMON
The preacher preached with such passion,
his words he just didn't ration,
he exclaimed that's no s***,
upon realizing it,
recovered in clerical fashion!
It is quite common to kiss injuries on those wee.
At three, my son asked to have bath autonomy.
I tossed a washcloth, then stood where he could not see.
Soon, he called out words that amusingly shook me,
"Mom, it washed sore, come kiss ouchy on my pee-pee."
Shopping, strolling him down the grocery store aisle
where female hygiene products are sorted in piles,
my son, age four, earnestly said, "When I'm grown, I'll
buy all these things with flowers on them for my wife."
His words styled a smile in me that would last for life.
I used mild-applied wooden spoons for mood anchors.
This set me up for disgust from food cart flankers
when my son yelled, "Look Mom, a hole bag of spankers."
My child, four, eyed that, not the shelved Power Rangers?
I hoped no one would report child welfare dangers.
Once, when a minister summed up his sermon's span
asking "Who's the greatest force in the universe?",
my son, at five, stood up with some dramatic plan.
Lifting his toy hero as high as small ones can,
he enthusiastically declared, "Batman!"
Thoughts of vacation, developed my fav word pearl,
"How many times do I wake up before Disney World?"
Gloomy old Gus sure ain't my claim to fame
Upbeat and happy, they're both my middle names
There sure ain't no future in promoting ill will
Every morning the sun still peeks over the hill
There's enough negativity in the world to go round
So let's not encourage this scourge with a frown
You've only got one life to live then it's done
So let's be remembered for promoting good fun
It may seem quite difficult at times to achieve
But it's never too late if we all still believe
Things will be better for our kids and their kids
If we just put our trust in the joy in our midst
In this happiness sermon I'm trying my best
Some say you'll never succeed in your quest
But I say to these nay sayers, listen my friends
No one's invincible so laugh till the end
If he exists or not is not the point
It is faith that keeps us on
Words from pops, words of soul
So every Sunday is church day
But the preacher has me in knots
He assumes he exists and that's the point
My suspension of disbelief is needed most
The narratives are wise, the stories tight
But I met God and I don't think he is him
My sermon at my funeral
I am lying in the funeral home, oh lovely home!
I am saying the homily in front of my dead body
I am the priest, the mourners are my past lives.
Oh, my sins!
Four men carry my coffin out to the cemetery
Last dark and brilliant sermon, mourning crowd
Crying, just crying, everyone mourns my life
My friends and brothers buried me, mourned me
Flowers, tears, nice words. ‘Why? Why he died?’
I was just standing in front of my grave with a cold face
I completed the job. I did the funeral. It’s the end of my life
A cemetery clerk switched off all the projectors
I planned my funeral in my life and I am staying on Earth
… in hologram life
(Dedicated to Sniffers.)
We are All animals, humans too
every One of us, me and you
God breathed life into Adam and Eve,
into each creature. Atoms unperceived
The animal kingdom is the Kingdom of God:
A harmony without heirarchy, below and above
All dogs go to heaven because all of us do,
every Soul returns to the Creator anew
The ring depicts a promise of fidelity.
I smile as you stand in your cloak.
That headgear is the symbol of the tongues of fire.
I smile as you receive that formal mitre,
while that pastoral staff is a shepherd's crook.
I smile as I know that staff will be used
to smite a great oaken door.
I smile as I hear that resonant bong;
I see that ring with its diocesan crest.
You say you will pledge yourself to those who gaze.
A ring on that hand,
that hand holds a staff,
the staff smites a door.
I smile as a non-believer,
though it is a smile of great affection.
(7 May 2024)
Sunday morning sardines
Sing trademarked sermons
No gain, guitars must be clean
To harken out the predetermined
Donation cards in cursive fonts
A prayer for a new patio to
Crosses finished like their countertops
Their fair-weather faith up for review
This is for the poor Diet Coke debutantes
In Burberry scarves with lipstick grins
Money isn’t everything but it's all they got
Life is just so hard for those who always win
Dear heart,
Please take a break
I know this feeling, I have had this feeling before
It soothes at first, beguiling flings
Which shines, too
Sometimes brighter than goddess Theia
I know the comforts, the placidity it yields
And the euphoria!
Dear soul,
Stop the inner monologues
I know them, I have heard them before
With their potent, clean blade of satires
They chop pathos into cruelty, dubiety into actions
Listen to how it urges me into a chance, now or never!
Volition, I can hear the whispers. Volitions!
Dear mind,
Avoid these thoughts
I remember them, they’ve run here before
Scattered into ways of no pattern
Tearing asunder the accords binding the soul and mind
Here, they boast of the utility they bequeath me
Chary, here, I must be, and slow I must tread
Forasmuch I owe the better of me to them
But hey! Avoid these ones regardless.
Dear self,
Collect these fragments and mend them back
For you’ve lost yourself, broken and scattered
Blend symphony from these discords
And for once let you speak as you, dear self!
kindly air
big mouthing every throat
lungs suck until drunk
maggie has gone shopping with alexa
they back and forth with girlish glee
while songbirds listen
to the electronic voice of god
aunty agatha went for a naked moonlit walk
the racoons began to chatter
like old men
it was a fairytale ending for her
and now it is a sunday morning
a day to talk to trees
and not listen to the words they say
as if we were all in church
brown walking boots
already smeared with grassy puke
winter bones are showing up
like fingers they point to a cracked pot
on the surface
of a new
more alien moon
In the crepuscular soothing sunset, bells tolled urging
The aimless audience to attend the sermon of the new pastor.
Despite their cynical sentiments, they dared not absent themselves.
The look of habitual satisfaction on the pastor’s face
was unmistakable. Outside light became penumbra,
Still, men and women trudged towards the chapel,
as the dirge-like bells faded into silence. His audience was silent too.
He spoke in a sonorous voice, in an opulent resonant poetic vein
an exuberant style which was to be his familiar characteristic:
Unbridled jealousy is a sin, he intoned, so speak no evil, my friends.
I Hear the Sermon
I go to church, hear the word
Given by the preacher in his homily:
Retaining a sentence, phrase or word
Only that which finely suits me.
I feel satisfied to have heard
The word, pleasing to my ear,
The rest that marks my faults
Matters not so dear.
I wish to be the Greatest sermon to the multitude
the practical Christian living
I wish people to see the fruits of Christ in me
before I even say a word or act a deed
People just believe and convert to Christ
not that my life matters most in heaven
Them doing their best, taking me as an example
not having to say," Do what I say and not what I do".
Being the salt of earth and light of the world
Hypocrites, doing the opposite of godliness,
when admonished to be the Greatest sermon in the world
By Chipepo Lwele
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