Witnessing the blood baths, the bombings, the massacre
Of God’s people, children’s bodies everywhere,
And octogenarians expire slowly and quietly in horror.
The undistorted and the vivid images of terror,
The ugly realities of life for millions; what a rancor!
The large plumes of gray phosphorus smoke! There is nowhere
To hide. Showers of shrapnel, unprecedented heavy shelling,
White clouds of death and discriminating lynching
Of everything that breathes, walks, runs and flies;
This is war, this is sheer terrorism! The God-flies;
Where are they when they are needed?
Our world should not be so muted,
So insensitive toward so many.
This is a shameful disaster, a pity…
To do nothing and hope for the awakening of the gods;
The worms, the flies, the rats and the tods
Must be happy. What an inhumane feast!
In this young century, we cannot find Peace.
The photos are real, and dying is not a joke.
The lenses of the camera recorded the blood soaked
Pregnant women, their babies shredded
By the wrecked fires of the big guns.
No one is spared: fathers, mothers, sons,
And even young girls are arrested,
Humiliated, stepped on and eventually annihilated.
This is the state of our human family.
Centuries old victims are now the perpetrated
Beasts that devour nymphs, angels and dignity.
The moon can only helplessly weep,
The gods and the geese are high by the burning bodies.
Terrorism is your vocation; falling asleep,
Amid this, is criminal, we should unequivocally denounce the bullies.
Big gun shipped helicopters can only destroy; they don’t make Peace,
H bombs only create more activists, more militants and more beasts.

Copyright © 2009, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.

Once,
they played in yards,
stick swords and plastic guns,
mud-streaked faces,
laughing in the sun —
their joy alive, their hearts still warm.
they built forts from blankets,
imagined war as a game,
their laughter ringing bright —

But now —
Helmets cage hollow skulls,
dead eyes made of cold glass,
stone faces locked in a grimace,
marching in perfect sync,
a death-walk of men who forgot how to live,
boots crunching dreams into dust.

This is not a game.

Their hands now, hideous hands,
clench steel that tears mothers open,
splits children’s laughter into screams,
fingers like claws on triggers,
twitching with mechanical precision.

They sow death like seeds,
but nothing blooms —
only fields of twisted bodies,
limbs splayed like broken dolls,
smoke spiralling into the sky,
a sky that they pretend not to see.

This is not a game.

A little girl clutches a doll’s arm,
her brother’s blood still warm on her cheeks,
while the soldiers, these shattered souls,
paint walls with terror —
a grotesque mural of hate and ruin.

They move like zombies,
flesh wrapped in cold commands,
feet dragging through ashes of innocence,
mouths silent, eyes empty,
the light inside them
long since extinguished.

Flesh burns.
Buildings crumble.
Old mothers wail, their voices
splitting the sky —
cries of grief-torn ghosts,
pleas unheard by machines,
hearts replaced by circuits,
thoughts reduced to orders.

I see them.
I hate them.

Machines wrapped in flesh,
monsters programmed to ****.

They were children once —
soft, human, whole —
but they chose this path.

Now, they trudge through fields of ruin,
crushing love beneath their heels,
dragging the stench of death behind them.

A world devoured by horror.
Glass eyes blink,
and with each blink,
another life shatters.

It’s blood on their hands,
it’s death in the air.

This is not a game anymore.

his heart flourishing,
while hers' wilting.
his feelings were a lie,
yet hers was real to get core.
he couldn't care less,
couldn't love unless,
she stripped off her clothes;
offering her body,
for a terrible man like him.
she took it as a whim,
thought it was normal;
then he fell for another,
leaving her in the dust.
she thought it's a must,
that in order to love;
you need to give, and give,
until he's satisfied.
she was never justified,
and passed away,
with a broken heart.