Hoeing there and
trying to
make the fake food
stuff grow i
found inside a
cracked line some
specimens of
unarmed rat fish
that had
futon sponges
glued to
them along with
all the other odd sermons
about
blundering humility
and how
the thin react to knights in
white sat-
in sheets when the weak end bend-
ers play to come dribbling out
their un-
locked crates and great granny nook
holes.
Flickering, gentle light,
that comes and chains itself to the ground,
slips through the forest like a trespasser
to lick the pond that consoles itself.
The trees step aside, modest,
lifting their heads toward the sky
so they won’t interrupt the picnic
that the light offers to its beloved.
But the light leaves.
You cannot fall asleep,
so the forest tightens around you
to keep you from suffering.
I search for my heart, unarmed,
a clearing to tame,
a pond where my tears may drown,
far from everything, far from harm, where joy is remade.
Joël Charvillat
To be loved,
Is to be confused.
It’s receiving roses without thorns,
And looks without scorn.
The feeling of melting in someone’s arms,
While being unarmed.
It’s being afraid of the dark,
But knowing the moon shines afar.
The wind that brushes hair from your face,
Making your life suffice.
The moth that’s usually drawn to the flame,
Waits by the porch light to hear you say its name.
The glitter on the floor you can’t get rid of,
The thread in the cloth that you stitch.
The one you get to keep secret,
Safely tucked away in your pocket.
Even if their mention never leaves your tongue,
They still make you think you’re enough.
Because they’re job is to confuse you,
And to never leave you.
Because even after they’re gone,
They still linger on.
In the perfume that they wear,
And in the roses that they share.
You have lethal weapons, yet I'm unarmed,
Sweet venomous words, yet I'm uncharmed,
Convinced of delusion I become a shelter of myself,
Yet you only seem to grow, fueled by your malicious malintent,
You interpret my frustration as my weakness and therefore your victory,
Although the crucial part you are missing is that nobody else like a women can handle that much resiliency.
Words are intangible when thought or spoken
But take shape on paper or screen
A promise that’s made that in life may be broken
For words can be harsh or serene
Words strung together may feel like a hug
Might warm you like coffee that’s sipped from a mug
Others may hurt or offend the unarmed
Toss a coin… and be charmed… or alarmed
But use the wrong word where it shouldn’t be heard
In some lands they’ll put you on ice
But, in the west, words can be free as a bird
Though we’re all free to say something nice
Words can paint pictures, the pallet is vast
To let us envisage the future, the past
Words can transport us, in need of no fuel
Yet words can be loving and words can be cruel
So words are intangible?… Who told you that?
If words can lift spirits or leave spirits flat
If words can tell stories and make peace… or war
Intangible? PHOOEY… won’t say that no more!
Forgiveness — is the quiet Choice —
To lay the Thorn aside —
Not saying — “It did not wound” —
But again — “I have survived” —
It does not crown the Injurer —
Nor whiten what was done —
It frees the Hand that carried Pain--
When Vengeance weighed a ton —
Forgiveness — is a soft Release —
A Door unlatched — at last —
Where Memory may still reside —
But Chains — are in the Past —
It asks no Pardon of the Scar —
Nor haste — to make amends —
It simply lets the Sufferer
Step forward — not pretend —
Forgiveness — is the brave Consent
To live — unarmed — yet whole —
And trust that Light — however late —
Still recognize— the Soul —
This beauty, unlike any of her time,
A wonder unmatched, sovereign and rare;
Remarkable, unique in form sublime,
Too vast for mortal souls to yet compare.
Perfectly poisonous to hearts unarmed,
She snares the ill-prepared with silent grace;
Yet by her presence is my spirit charmed,
Renewed the moment I behold her face.
So moved am I by all she doth endow
That reverence stirs where trembling vows allow. Thus, in her light, I dare to greet her now- And offer her my most devoted bow.
Truth is a dagger—painful,
yet healing when it cuts deep.
History does not lie:
the Imperial Japanese Army,
once a beast of discipline and fire,
marched on arrogance,
believing steel could bend the world.
But time betrayed them.
China, unarmed, hungry,
with no advanced weapons,
stood in defiance,
its discipline sharper than any blade.
And when the dust settled,
it was China, scarred yet unbroken,
who rose from the ashes of war.
Now, eighty years hence,
the drums resound again.
Parade of steel,
columns of might—
Putin watches, Kim nods,
and the world is forced to witness:
“The China of yesterday is no more.
The China of today rules the century.”
Is this victory,
or a warning written in banners of red?
The West whispers,
“If you cannot beat them, join them.”
But Japan, silent,
remembers the shadow of its past.
Nations bow not to friendship,
but to power.
And power, once attained,
rules the stage like an emperor.
So I ask—
when the dragon leads the march,
who dares to stand against its fire?
HEART SINKS, EYES WEEP
BRAIN EXPLODES, CAN’T SLEEP
DON’T UNDERSTAND, I NEVER WILL
SWEET CHILDREN WHY DO THE COPS KILL?
CHILDREN WITH DARK SKIN
HARDLY LET THEIR LIVES BEGIN
INNOCENT, UNARMED, SIXTEEN AND UNDER
COPS CALL IT A BLUNDER
MISTAKE THEY SAY
CHILDREN BEATEN OR SHOT TO DEATH IN USA
There will come a time
when your reflection feels like home again.
You’ll open the door
to what you've been avoiding for years—
and it will be you, standing there,
unarmed, unashamed.
You will take out the old stories
you tucked away
and read them with new eyes,
not the ones who loved you then,
but through the quiet voice that has always seen you
and held you through the silence.
This time, you’ll sit
not to fill the space,
but to be present with the truth
you’ve been swallowing whole.
Receive. Settle.
Let the hunger finally rest.
Mr. Glock committed a crime
Its accomplice got away
It could not speak for itself
The defense attorney
entered a plea of innocence
by reason of no limbs.
The judge set bail in bullets.
I had an extra magazine and chipped in.
Mr. Glock was released with an ankle monitor
that it wore around its stock.
It was told to stay a barrel's length away from the victim
with which it easily complied.
After sentencing, it was melted down.
Into a modern age relief.
Then put on display... "public enemy number 1," it said.
Soon after, Mr. Wesson
committed a similar crime, with the very same accomplice.
He was arrested; the accomplice smiled at the security camera
and is still on the lam.
He's considered temporarily unarmed and always dangerous.
My fragmented heart defied my mind's authority
A gloomy transformation carved from sorrow's blood
Dopamine disappears while endorphins are the minority
The down feeling crashes in like an uncontrolled flood
An unwelcomed intruder colonizing my obedient body
I routinely succumb to your callous commands
An old foe by the former name of melancholy
Like a sponge you absorb my joy unarmed
Your fourth unsolicited visit in fourteen years
The voice of my normality fades in your shadow
Familiar with your punishment I become immune to fears
The heat of your rule coerces my heart to feel mellow
I forbade hopelessness to assert its voice in my head
Through gruntled teeth I allow my pride to fall instead
Antidepressants forces a ceasefire in our internal war
Tranquility pushes you out through my heart's aluminium door
I embrace peace knowing It too visits but does not stay
For I know you will return again in a few years from this day
It's always at dawn
It's always in the shadows
That the criminals rob
The innocent as well as the guilty
It's deep in the dark night
That we forget on the table
The suppers of the werewolves in disguise
And the unarmed gendarmes
For the carnival, for the feast
When blood turns to wine
Where we imitate the wedding feast of Canaan
Oh! Poor, we see the wicked pass by
And the assassins under the bridges
Who flee and flow like rascals
Oh! Poor, he's dead
The dead, are they always wrong
At dawn?
What a disgrace
For the month of October
Oh! Tis the season when we change our robe
Oh! Poor, he's dead
The dead, are they always wrong?
P.S. Translation of ‘ Toujours À L'Aube' by Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © July 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Under the Palestinian Olive Trees
They cut down the trees and shoot the farmers, unarmed, in the belly in plain view of IDF soldiers relishing the moment. Here in the West Bank, human rights is exiled and devoured by the fury of Torah-toting violent settlers spewing venom.
How sweet it is to die under the shades of their olive trees,
Binding them to their tortured history, and the wind that blows the branches dancing, oblivious to the daily terror, beating their conspiracy.
The olive trees whisper stories of love,
the hills sing ancient hymns,
witness to a message of hate planted by the separation walls,
thinking they would sink the farmers into submission.
But, the farmers watch, children keep playing, and the ghosts of centuries
past are guardians of the land.
Some choose to wear a soldier’s camouflage
And take their country’s coin
all to defend a Politian’s ideology
While ordinary civilians die
Sisters without brothers
Mothers without sons
Children sent to foster homes
If the bombs have left them homes unarmed
Your deity will not help or take the pain away
His mortal representative will just stand over your grave and pray
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