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Michael Shave Jun 26
Part one
Caesar cries. An anguish riven home
By news that through the city has been spread
Of Varus and his legions who now lie dead
In far off Gaul. Those men they stare
With sightless eyes. Yearning souls bereft of home.
Poor, ****** souls; yet once the pride of Rome.

How, might you ask, those eagles lost and on that mound
In sacrifice laid out before the sacred Oak?
There, where Wotan took the spear and spoke
Foretelling and demanding ****** slaughter.
Who was it listened, then with cruel, deliberate treachery found
‘Midst Teutorburg, that frenzied, ****** killing ground?

Where Ash and Oak, where Beech and Thorn
Loom from the mist which lingers there.
Where shadowed places, dark and cold
Hide sphagnum bog; the wolf, the bear
Which pad and snuffle through the threatening gloom.
Fool Varus listening to advice
Gave up his men for sacrifice.

Arminius, the Roman name they gave him.
Taken hostage when a child.
Taught Roman ways, imbued the culture.
Disciplined life, not growing wild,
Why though was it no one saw
His worship still of Wotan, Lord of Frenzy, and of War.

This the man who Varus sponsored,
This the man, his friend, his guide.
He knew the tribesmen, spoke their language,
Cherusci by birth, by pride.
Arminius, whom the Romans fostered.
Arminius, he was why they died.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Two)

Now that Oak, that shattered Oak;
Lightning struck, it ancient stands
With branches blood stained, ground now littered;
Iron rusted that once glittered,
Lethal weapons cast aside,
And bones, bleached bones, of those who died.

From Vetera, march away,
Not thinking of their fate that day.
Proud columns, eagles high, they leave;
(Unseen the loom the Parcae weave.)
The Seventeenth, Eighteenth, Nineteenth, all
Destined by spear and axe to fall.

They march ‘neath Ash and ‘neath the Oak,
‘Neath Beech, through tangled Thorn.
And splash a muddied, puddled trail,
A trail that’s not been worn.
By chanted cadence they keep step
These men all Roman sworn.

For Varus has received the news
Of tribal rebels to his North.
Arminius, questioned for his views,
Suggests a detour, then to sally forth.
And so, with Cherusci their guide
The legions march. Not knowing that their friend has lied.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Three)

Nighttime now doth through darkening woodland creep.
The bear and wolf unsheathe sharp claw.
While those in ambush take their turn to sleep
And from cruel sky the unrelenting rain doth pour.
The Romans, unaware, in camp they curse and try
To keep their slingshots and their bowstrings dry.

This while Varus tosses, uneasy in the night,
Kept awake by screaming echoes from his past?
Does Arminius going missing mean there’s going to be a fight?
And will the coming morning be his last?
Who knows the fate of man, or men.
Have omina been ignored? If so why, and when.

And now ‘tween wood and bog marsh, over heathland
March those legions, eagles high;
Cadence calling, stumbling, splashing,
Rain, it pours from lowering sky.
Heavens rumble, lightning flickers.
Spears are launched, and thus men die.

Closely formed, penned in tight,
No room to ******, no room to fight.
The writhing wounded, *****, blood;
Trampled entrails and the mud.
Thor’s rumbling thunder, drenching rain;
Lightning flashing then the pain.

Beneath locked shields they curse, the dying;
Contorted, Romans, screaming, crying.
Hurtling spears, the butcher’s list
Writ large in terror, Wotan’s fist.
And Mjolnir, loved, caressed by Thor,
Beloved of Aesir, God of War.

Deprived of bow, the use of sling;
Constrained twixt hillside and a marshy bog;
Unfocused and unable thus to bring
To bear their usual clarity of pressure, it’s just fog - a fog
Of mindless terror; which is why they scream.
And for Arminius this, a culmination of his dream.

And so in frenzied lust it ends, the killing;
Vengeful hatred why they fought.
The tribes involved - Arminius willing -,
Cherusci, Chatti, Marsi, they all sought
From ambush and by spear and axe
To end the hated Roman’s rule, the hated Roman’s tax.

—————
Teutorburger Wald
(Part four) German vengeance

And thus in Wotan’s sacred grove
In wicker baskets freshly wove,
Sullen, proud but anguished men
Are jeered at, taunted, howled at, then
Disbelieving of the savage ire
Die shrieking, screaming, in the fire.

This while warriors roar their boast;
To Odin, Frey and Njord make toast;
And those surrendered by their chiefs:
Now naked, Kneeling, dull of eye;
Rank on rank, axes swinging;
Rank on rank the legions die.

Then, Varus has been found, the cry.
His severed head, it’s held up high.
The tribesmen gloat, they gather round
The spot where Varus, dead, was found.
The body though, to rot  it’s kicked aside,
Deceived, defeated, fated thus his suicide?

—————

Now green grasses grow there where the slain
Once, muddied, bloodied, lay forlorn.
Whispers soft the gentle rain
On Ash, on Beech on Oak on Thorn.
Three legions once stood side by side,
This tranquil glade was where they died.
Quintili Vare, legiones redde!  9 AD. Three legions, each of roughly 5000 men, were en-route to their winter camp.
marci Jun 18
i want it dead, the wait, the ache
the breath i lose each time i wake
but the hope just rots and curls
and sinks beneath this ******* world

i want the "maybe" set on fire
the silence hung on razor wire
i want the dreams to come to life
the "someday" slaughtered with a knife

i want the future we won't hold
to freeze and crack and die in the cold
i don't want to play pretend
i want it dead. i want the end.

i don't want the wound that distance makes
the soul of us that daylight breaks
i don't want to play pretend
i want it dead. i want the end.
marci Jun 19
maybe the rain is the sky
trying to cry slow enough
for us to call it beautiful.

if it falls too fast,
we drown. it rises.
but sometimes
a light rain is all the sky can cry

the grey streches til it tears
it swells with what it wants to say
thunder never asks permission
it snaps.
cracks.
as if grief.
as if memory.
like sadness that's left
too quiet to scream

we stand under it anyway
our hoods behind the nape
palms to the sky
pretending it's just weather.
Stephanie Jun 19
Hello,
My name is Steph
And I am a domestic violence survivor.

I remember telling a Social Worker
That I was just collecting evidence
For my own ****** trial.

There were too many days
Where I truly expected
To die.

Once upon a time,
Common things like white trucks
And orange safety gear
And every single noise
Sent a shiver of panic
Down my spine.

Now I think about it less,
More like when a student
Tells me about her situation
And that she feels trapped,
Just like I did.

I guess this is what we call
Healing.
irinia Jun 10
I was contemplating the interlude of breathing
the tease of the jasmine perfume
a wind without insight was resting in the hammock
a solitude round like the moon
the song of birds was inviting a blue exuberance  when
I had this dream... I dreamt streets flooded by blood
they seemed so real, like the amnesia of mercy
the intensity of red an amplifier for pain
violence this enclave of the soul hidden in plain sight
we watch wars on tv in the stillness of sofas
newborn tears claim the redemption of dawn
but we turn our back to the questions of time
no body line of thought but raw nerves,
blind tongues: as if our body is a world full of nothing
sometimes I have nowhere to hide from this feeling:
my blood is his/her/their blood
Meggi Jun 8
A man drops on the field
Falls like a rock to the dirt
Raises a shout from the enemy and a shout from his friends
Deadweight to the company
They will haul him back to camp
Bury him like a goat by the main road
The funeral will be quiet
Men gathered around a mound
They will smoke cigarettes and forget which way up they put his head
The man in the passing truck will tell the news they are praying to an anthill
Dear readers will scoff and throw their hands up and proclaim
We knew it all along! Lunatics the whole lot a’them!
The boys around the man-mound-anthill will not cry in public
Violence has toughened them into men
Violence has killed their friend
They will cry later
After dinner when the sun sets over the field and they think they won’t be seen
Is it man’s nature to turn boys into mounds
To hide tears from friends
To smoke cigarettes by the dead
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
The boy under the anthill
Under the raging sun
Under the cruel eye of god
Man’s nature to wonder
Ashes to ashes
Dust to deadweight
Anmweyyy, anmweyyy
Everybody is destroying Haiti
Please stop, stop, quit. At last, give the country
A break, a rich season. There are too many bandits, vandals
Too many lootings, thefts, too many crises and scandals
On this impoverished and exploited island
Give Hayti a chance to live better. Give our land
A break with too much violence and injustice
Ayiti needs peace, love and real justice
Why all of you are hurting Haiti so bad?
This is sickening
Haytians, please stop being so sad and mad
Haiti needs everybody's love and compassion
This is damning
Please help Haiti in this time of destruction
Or leave Hayti alone, to breathe
Hate only knows how to burn, **** and destroy
The truck is about to kiss the rugged cliff
Stop the rancor, put out the fire and bring joy
Haitians, Haytians, wake-up to a new beginning and era
Get rid of the bad seeds and unite with the Diaspora
Unite to fight against corruption and waste of the aids
Be positive! Be ready to get rid of all sorts of plagues
Please stop the violence and use sheer common sense
Hayti needs a new and better season
Haitians, help our nation be an oasis, a starry beacon
Let's understand each other
Unite to be better! Unite to help each other and to dance
Let's love each other to be better
Unite in this time of crisis; and reject death and violence
Anmweyyy, anmweyyy.

Copyright © 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Hold me like a weapon,
bite me like a sin,
and watch me burn—
because I’m yours,
wild and wanting,
and I want it—
every savage, filthy second.
cleo Jun 4
victim
car crash
bodies colliding
in violence
crying out
to no one
(again)
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