I hear my country weep,
It asks for no more young blood,
Yet it aches for the youths who remain,
Scattered, silent, and waiting
Which way, ooh lovely Kenya?
We cry of bad leadership,
We cry unemployment,
We curse a faltering economy,
Yet we do nothing,
Which way, ooh lovely Kenya?
They say youths are tomorrow's leaders,
But must we wait until tomorrow to rise?
and let them loot all there is for tomorrow?
or which way, ooh lovely Kenya?
A learned generation,
Yet divided and still,
Can we not unite and rebuild?
Rise ooh Kenyan Youth and make a better tomorrow today.
Or which other way, ooh lovely Kenya.
War is a waste of precious young blood
War is a waste of fresh natural resources
War is as bad as a raging and vile flood
War is evil if you understand the sources
The reasoning behind such unnecessary
Aggression and the violence and the vanity
Which are cowardly robbing and destroying
Mankind. War is bad. War is a very bad thing
War is evil and criminal
War is mortal and abnormal.
War is a waste for the perpetrators and the victims
War is a waste for all. But peace comes like dreams
Distant dreams. Peace is more precious than money
Diamond, gold, silver and all other precious metals
Said a very eloquent brother who deserves all medals
Ever invented by famous and powerful institutions
Give us peace, not evil wars dear highly divine Almighty
Help men learn from past errors and nugatory aggressions
War is unnatural and abysmal
War is lethal and inimical.
Copyright © February 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
Step in, step in darling Elizabeth
from this black night, so eerie, dark and still.
You look so pale, as if you're scared to death.
Please come in from the cold and icy chill.
Welcome to our underground lupine den.
I know that your warm young blood will thrill
to know us as when there were no vile men -
ancient times, before your insipid dog
was domesticated or put in a pen.
Forget him, in a charmed, enchanted fog,
as you're welcomed to our society,
outside, just beetles and a hollow log.
My dear - you're losing your anxiety!
Now, hear our lonesome, mournful, moonward howl.
Don't let it jolt you to sobriety,
nor listen to, above, the wise old owl
who warns you of a fate, unkind and foul.
The parade is long and patriotic,
with glottic marching band~
with pipe, with drum, we demand
more young blood from our heartland.
Old school is no longer appreciated,
been made redundant,
is anticipated.
Youngblood’s heart is always on fire,
he wishes that old school,
would soon retire.
Youngblood expects to be a leader,
to take the position he’s all eager.
Old school's retirement,
is not yet expected,
for all his achievements,
he is highly respected.
Young blood is anxiously waiting his turn,
old schools position he needs to earn.
By Saleh Ben Saleh
I look around and frown
to see eighty-plus-year-old clowns
stuttering and stumbling around
the corridors of power...
From Slow-Joe Biden to Unelectable Mahmoud Abbas*
from Black-out Mitch McConnell to Fragile Francis, the Pope
They all refuse to step down
to give youthful leaders hope...
Corporations keep the young blood flowing
their ideas and vigor keep the profits growing
But the world's nations prize creeping senility
over youthful ability
_____________________________________
*Mahmoud Abbas, 88 years old, has been the
President of the Palestinian National Authority
since 2005. Through a series of political mach-
inations, no elections have been held for Pres-
ident since. He has also been the chairman of
the PLO since 2004.
Outside in the garden an acrylic blue dragonfly takes my breath away,
she is pinned on treated wood, a reminder of my mother's skillful hands
Many a morning I played with my tea set on a dew filled grass,
young blood racing through my veins, as I carefully poured us tea for two.
"The cycle of nature is all about change and shifts," my mother said
placing a touch of electric blue on a dragonfly wing.
Then she would add, "may you find balance and kinship in all living things"
She would take me to the water's edge, through weeds and twigs we'd go
by early morning, for she had checked her flight time calendar
and she was sure, this was the time for them to fly.
I am old and gray now and my mother is in heaven painting
fireflies with Angel wings of robin egg blue, I'm sure.
Though my memory goes hazy every now and then, I can always recall
at will those blessed mornings when I poured out tea for two and watched
my mother add a touch of golden brown upon a dragonfly, of every hue.
The sun tugs young hours,
Wrings the day. Flowers spring,
Pupils play,
Waitlessness on one youngling.
Longing eyes cashed the calendar,
But father’s clock ticks.
Abysmal seconds cool son’s glare
Oak floor boards catch salty drips.
Minutes and months and now.-
Minutes-
and minutes-
and minutes-
Young blood flow still warm’s sign
Th’at least… young years are yet to give.
Naïve nowadays deprived of
First father’s lessons never lived.
Don’t you see! What is a man?
-Somehow boy did pursue,
Though, t’will never return those lessons,
Thrill’s seeking soul spurs no such blessings;
Mirages o’ dreams: a slew.
Upon composure: supple closure,
Baker’s dozen years gone over.
One son’s frozen dreams adjourned,
By mother’s smother, slack heli-hover,
Manhood grasped, not graven: learned.
Sensual day on the life trip she searches
The walk through broken glass accentuates the rare pleasure of disappointment
She checks the mirror for past reflective glories
Empty cradle tells no lies
Search for man like the rarest fruit
Search for the perfect man, gold lined
The planets look good, aligned
Princess in search of Prince
Admirers fall by her side
But not the right admirer, yet
The enchanted waits
Planets shifting
Time is of the essence
He comes
Pleasure is all his, for a time
Lifeblood flows
The signs are good
Exsanguinated, ecstasy passed
The mirror screams as new life bears fruit
The planets crash
She Sleeps
The empty cradle rocks
The planets lay dormant
A slight flicker
The mirror reflects
Rejuvenated, she seeks
The trip brings gifts bearing
Conquest boasts young blood in thought
Dreamlike fading in sensual pleasure
The cradle rocks
The planets grow angry
The mirror soothes in the night
New journey begins as planets align.
I amuse myself by singing some nonsensical song
utterly ridiculous, but totally satisfying in a young blood way
I know this annoys my husband
which somehow makes the song more delicious to me
My body is making loud juicy farting noises
I love my man who is totally transparent, no poker face
and the way beanie weanies will get him out of the room
faster than a song.
I am but an outcast member
Misfortune led my reputation astray
Fake people led me to nowhere
So it's futile to prolong my days
If only I were more rich in hope?
I am a lion missing from its pride
Predatory dominance expelled me
Roars of strife that cut to the inside
Casted me out to the open where I'm free
I am more fierce than the break of dawn
I am an exemplary rebel of the millennium
Integrity, honour, and bravery is what I live by
To see conformists act as wrongdoers,
When it's total hypocrisy, for the time is nigh
A dawn of a new age awaits
Now I am a man more rich in hope
Pride and self-confidence absorbs me
So if you ever want to start a riot
And you want to be free
Better call King Pariah who will help you see
Track: Fall Out Boy - The Young Blood Chronicles
He could take what most found, in the time of that
Particular incumbent fashion, to be lacking in any
Pleasing or greatly passionate way,
And, after immersing it into low, blue flame,
Repeatedly beat upon this quivering mass as
If it were but a whitened molten lump when
Drawn from violent, torturing heat constrained
Deep within some smith's insatiable forge;
Seen there the blistered face, scorched forearms
Impervious to the fizz and burn of popping sparks;
Blackened hammer wielded by a gnarly hand,
The repeated raising; forceful, downward strikes --
High-pitched ringing chimes of metal on metal;
And him, the better craftsman, bent desperately
To his task, shaping something new and
Disturbingly strange...
While, amassed amid the silent roaring of those
Unremarkable fields,
An idealistic generation, readied, prepared to spill
Its hot, innocent young blood over a sea of
Flowering petals for the valueless ideal of an
Unworthy hour spawned by a vile whoring b***h
Before it slunk back into the lengthening
Shadows of a withering age.
…Cambodia, Rwanda, Syria…
Wars never cease
on the earth. Peace is pulverized.
Each battle drags children into a
vortex of anguish
in the front line or at home. They
lose their butterflies among bombs
and bullets.
Pure rapture curls like mango peel
in tension. Tender lives tarnish.
Lullabies are
lost in the death rattle. Scattered
young blood stains history. The
voice from beneath
the headstone is not an auditory
hallucination, but a doleful echo
from a little soul.
The orphans get food in the refugee
camp, but where will they seek their
lost mom and dad?
Childhood charms are mutilated.
They’re prisoners of trauma. A
platoon of terror marches
through their mental corridors.
First published in "The Humans in the Wild" anthology by Swallow Publishing, US.
The ill woman lying silent in the steel wheelchair
was a lady if elegance living in exuberant riches,
who vividly remembers her as happy, generous, and fair?
Somebody should honor her with hugs and kisses!
Her fuzzy mind recreates wonderful images of adored faces,
of the ones who stood at her side and exulted her kindness;
why have they now abandoned her to a detrimental state?
Have they suddenly forgotten that they shared her full plate?
Meghan was the bold nurse who tended to wounded soldiers,
her white uniform was often stained with their young blood;
shouldn't we remember her now, not when she'll be under the sod?
Keep her constant company and she'll talk about the cannons' blasts.
Holidays come and go, she only hears Christmas carols...
spiritual comfort is what Meghan needs in her profound loneliness;
go visit her and bring her your friendship and prayer,
they will be the best gifts she'll ever receive to ease her despair.
(Old age will teach you)
My cup is filled to the brim
let me pour down for I do not know what life will bring
I never had a futuristic dream,
I knew only now let tomorrow perish,
I am old, I now reap what I sowed
For my young blood days are what I sold;
To what I thought is to enjoy,
And for me among my peers to be enrolled,
For a jew-man not to be my name.
This is where my misery began.
I never listened to the old,
I will tell them that their days are old,
But later to realize that I am cursed,
For not have heeded to my cause
I thought I was strong for me to take the opium,
This is my end even my cloth is stronger than my man,
The best teacher is old age,
Then you will gnash your teeth to if I had known,
Even the gods will laugh at you.
""""""**** It is the end****"""""
If this is true then I will make my future to meet my end,
That the end will be my earn,
That my earn will be my solace,
My solace shall solve my needs.
©Abonyi Hyginus Ebuka
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