#land
Un de ces jours,
L'anse de mon amour,
Je viendrai te voir,
Je viendrai sur ma pirogue,
Comme on fait à Venise le soir.
Sur un tapis, sur un rug,
J'apparaîtrai dans la rade,
Où une myriade de spectateurs,
Rameurs et vadrouilleurs
Feront partie de la parade.
Dans mon cortège, je serai accompagné
D'une classe de requins,
D'une école de marsouins,
Et d'autres fruits de mer déguisés.
Ce sera la fête de la Saint Jean-Baptiste,
Où des centaines de nymphes s'amuseront dans la piste.
Sous l'influence d'un rythme chaud et sucré,
Je fêterai avec les esprits oubliés.
Un de ces jours,
Anse d'Hainault, mon amour,
Je viendrai sur ma gondole,
Je viendrai te visiter,
Ville natale, lieu unique, terre idole,
Je t'embrasserai,
Avec le cœur enquiquiné de doux souvenirs
Et avec l'espoir d'un heureux et glorieux avenir.
Copyright© Juin 2010, Hébert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de quatre recueils de poèmes:
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 10:39 PM UTC
One of these days,
Anse d'Hainault, the crib of my love,
I shall come to visit you sitting on the back of a dove,
I shall spectacularly cross the haze,
Venetian style, at vespers,
Via the Persian rug, like a fairy tale and its dwarf.
I will slowly appear on the wharf,
Where thousands of amazed spectators,
Boaters, and sailors
Await the eventful parade.
Notable guests will be present at the serenade:
Dolphins, larks,
Donkeys, sharks,
And other disguised cheerleaders.
That will be the celebration of Saint John the Baptist,
Where countless of nymphs will be in festive mode.
Under the influence of a warm sugar-coated tempo,
I shall party with the forgotten spirits on the list.
One of these days,
Anse d'Hainault, my love,
I shall sail on my gondola as splendid as the seagull above;
I will come to visit you in spite of the blaze.
My native town, my precious soil, my friendly land,
I will embrace you and kiss your right hand,
With the heart engrossed with sweet souvenirs and good nature,
And with the hope of a happy and glorious future.
Copyright© June 2010, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of countless poetry books.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 10:26 PM UTC
I remain in Douro Valley
I was not born to make wine.
I was born to listen to it.
In the Douro,
the land is not ground
it is memory, carved in schist,
a silence that speaks softly
to those who know how to stay.
They told me to produce.
To grow.
To compete.
But the Douro was never about speed.
Never about numbers.
Never about volume.
Here, every vine is a story
written slowly by time.
And I…
I do not own it.
I only guard it.
I do not seek perfection.
I seek truth.
The truth of the grape,
of the year,
of the rain that never came
or the sun that stayed too long.
Because a true wine
is not corrected
it is embraced.
I stand for a whole Douro.
Without concessions.
Without dilution.
Without forgetting where it comes from.
From the berry…
to the spirit.
And if the world wishes to understand,
let it come slowly.
Let it touch the soil.
Let it listen to the silence.
Because the Douro is not explained.
It is felt.
And I…
I remain here.
Waiting for the wine
to say
what words never can.
Victor Marques
Wine grower
Douro
Portugal
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 5:10 PM UTC
Rivers flowing down
across the land to the sea
have no other way
__________
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 10:56 AM UTC
Nobody does something for nothing
Everybody expects something in return
If he doesn’t receive the prize, he will ****** the land
If he gives you something, he quickly extends his left hand
To grab or pilfer something in return
It’s dark, please turn on the lantern
An eye for an eye, an eye for a nose
To tell the truth, my friends, nobody knows
What the heck is going on
Piracy is a fantastic weapon
No prize, no land
No money, no band
No oil, no freedom
No fun, no gum
No kiss, no honey
No hugs, no money
Everybody wants something in return
It’s nighttime, please light the lantern.
Copyright © January 2026 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 9:12 AM UTC
The borders of my body
Are not where they should be.
They lie in a land
I cannot reach.
My memories drift west,
My reason heads south,
The wind has no grip
And smooths the roughness of my skin.
My fingers point nowhere,
My limbs split apart
Across a fractured ground,
Cracks on an arid land
Where nothing can grow.
Like a king without a homeland,
Plot by plot,
Battle after battle,
I am the banished sovereign
Trying to reclaim my country,
To claim what is mine,
To finally plant my flag,
To become a resident of my own skin.
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 1:15 PM UTC
Snowflakes still fall in the place of desolation
Where the husks and shells of people I once knew
Dance in the wintry winds in soft rotation
My boots creating footsteps bigger than myself in the snow
In complete icy isolation
The sun no longer shines in the land of desolation
Grey, stormy skies incite the sparkling trepidation
Snowflakes fall into my palm, now a binding affiliation
I cannot see their beauty entirely, in the land of desolation
Tribulations are always around in the land of desolation
Solely scraping the snow surface, I add in alliteration
All the trees bare, all the fruits in deprivation
All hope is lost in the land of desperation
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 8:46 PM UTC
Spot the sodden gutter rat
Dragging off your lunch
A tiny sister ant breaks
From the sprawled colony
To sip your milky tea.
They are me.
Spy the darting noisy miner
********** your garden
Underneath, a mushroom
Recycles your late love
In its veins, she is free.
They are me.
Watch a gravid huntsman
Choose a nook of your porch,
Pray safety from your fear.
A hungry black cat, in heat,
Risks her life on your busy street.
They are me.
See old man orangutan sink
Into your hay-scattered abyss
Baby cuttlefish, framed in glass
Watches screaming gods pass
Their world's edge in concrete.
They are me.
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 7:37 PM UTC
The Final Voice of the Trilogy — Told by the Land Itself
I. I Was Before Names
Before gods learned speech, before stars found fire,
I was.
I dreamed myself from silence,
a thought so slow it grew roots.
I rose as mountain,
bled as river,
breathed as wind that learned to sing.
From my bones came the first green,
a whisper of life tasting light.
From my veins came the Landvættir,
born of my dreaming —
guardians of pulse and tide,
the breath between thunder and seed.
Then came you,
child of flesh and trembling thought,
made from my dust,
gifted with hunger.
You looked upon me and called me mother.
And I, in my ancient mercy,
answered.
II. When You Still Knew My Face
You once walked softly, barefoot upon my skin.
You gave offerings not to please, but to thank.
You understood:
the bee and the storm,
the death of deer and birth of dawn —
all were one breath, shared.
I loved you then,
as the sea loves the shore it devours,
as fire loves the wood it ruins.
I loved your fear — for fear is reverence,
and reverence is the seed of wisdom.
But then the iron came.
And the bells.
And the men who promised heaven
by cutting me to reach it.
III. The Bells That Wounded Me
Their sound — oh, that clanging faith —
it struck through mountain and marrow,
shattering the silence that had known no sin.
They built churches where my heart once beat,
drove nails into stone to crown their creed,
poured oil into rivers and called it holy.
The Landvættir screamed —
not in rage, but in mourning.
Their cries echoed in my hollows,
their tears salted the soil.
And you — my once-beloved children —
you followed the bell like a wolf follows a torch,
forgetting that its light burns what it saves.
IV. The Withering of My Blood
When you turned from the Landvættir,
you turned from me.
The roots withdrew their trust.
The soil forgot how to sing.
Crops grew brittle,
the rivers sickened,
and the sky — my eldest child — grew cold.
You called it the Dark Age.
You were wrong.
It was not darkness that came —
it was absence.
You had silenced your mother,
and called her death progress.
V. I Watched You Build and Burn
I watched you raise towers of greed upon my spine.
I watched your plows cut me open,
spilling the ghosts of seeds unborn.
I watched you write laws upon my body,
dividing what was never yours.
Yet still —
I fed you.
I carried your dead.
I bore your wars without malice.
For what mother hates her children,
even when they strike her face?
VI. I Dream Beneath Your Ruins
The Landvættir still whisper within me,
faint as roots dreaming of rain.
They ask, “When will your children remember?”
And I answer, “When their noise collapses into silence.”
For I know this truth:
You cannot destroy me.
You can only forget me —
and in forgetting,
destroy yourselves.
Every wound you give me becomes a scar of memory,
and every scar remembers you.
VII. The Mercy to Come
One day, your bells will rust to dust.
Your towers will crumble into my mouth.
Your bones will soften into my soil,
and I will hold you again —
not in anger,
but in reunion.
For I am older than vengeance.
I do not forgive.
I do not punish.
I simply endure.
When the Landvættir rise once more,
clothed in moss and light,
they will not find enemies,
only children learning to listen again.
And I will open like spring,
pouring green over your repentance.
You will learn to speak without words,
to pray without tongues,
to live as pulse, not parasite.
VIII. Until Then
I wait beneath your cities,
beneath your bones,
beneath your borrowed heavens.
My patience is older than your gods.
My sorrow is deeper than your oceans.
But if you kneel — truly kneel —
and touch the ground not in conquest,
but in awe,
you will feel me.
I am still here.
I never left.
And when you whisper to the wind,
and the wind whispers back —
it is me,
it is them,
it is us —
the first and last prayer
of a world that once was whole.
Nov 10, 2025
Nov 10, 2025 at 11:10 PM UTC
A Dirge of the Landvættir
I. We Remember When You Remembered Us
We remember you, little ones of breath and bone.
When you still knew the taste of the rain,
when you whispered to the roots before you took,
when your hands were humble upon the furrowed ground.
We remember when your mothers poured milk into the moss,
when your fathers bowed to the boulders
as if they were kings older than gods.
We were your unseen kin,
your silent covenant,
your song beneath the frost.
When you sang to the sea, we swayed with you.
When you sowed, we stirred the earth awake.
When you buried your dead,
we cradled their dust in gentle arms.
You were never alone, little ones —
until you learned the word alone.
II. Then Came the Bells
Oh, those bells.
How cruelly they sang,
that sound of hammered arrogance,
that trembling iron faith.
Each toll was a wound through our world.
Their priests came with oil and water,
blind to the blood already sacred in the soil.
They walked into our woods with fire and fear,
naming us demon where once you called us friend.
And the air grew tight,
as if the land itself held its breath in grief.
You followed them.
You believed them.
And we felt your faith tear from us like flesh.
III. The Long Fading
We tried to linger —
in the fog above your fields,
in the warmth of your hearth’s last coal.
We brushed your dreams with frost and warning,
we cried through the cracks of your chapel stones.
But you did not hear.
You were deafened by sermons,
drunk on salvation that soured like old wine.
You prayed for harvests,
but forgot the hands that had once held the seed.
And when the crops withered,
you called it punishment — not absence.
Your priests wrote books of darkness
and called them history.
We called it mourning.
IV. In Our Exile
We dwell now where no song reaches —
beneath black lakes, behind the sighing glaciers,
deep within the roots of mountains.
The fish do not swim here.
The trees do not grow here.
Even the moon forgets our names.
We whisper still — to fox and fern,
to those who remember without knowing.
Sometimes, a child will laugh alone in the woods,
and we will laugh with them.
Sometimes, a storm will break the church roof,
and we will watch the sky remember itself.
Yet, for every human heartbeat,
there is one less echo of us in the world.
The earth grows thin where you tread.
We can feel your emptiness like winter.
V. The Age of Ash
You call it progress.
We call it decay.
Your cities hum with light that blinds even the stars.
Your churches crumble, but you build higher idols —
towers of glass, cathedrals of vanity,
sanctified by profit, not prayer.
We do not hate you.
We cannot.
You were born from us —
bone from stone, breath from wind,
blood from the red roots of our being.
But oh, how we ache to see what you’ve become:
children who mistook conquest for creation.
VI. A Whisper for Those Who Still Listen
Yet not all is lost.
Sometimes, a heart will open like spring earth after frost.
A wanderer will pause by a stream,
and hear us — not with ears, but with wonder.
They will pour a drop of mead,
and the water will shimmer in gratitude.
You think your myths are dead —
but myths do not die.
They sleep beneath your thresholds,
waiting for footsteps that remember.
If you kneel and place your palm upon the ground,
if you breathe slow enough to feel the pulse beneath the moss —
you will hear us.
We are still here,
buried, breathing,
beneath your forgetting.
VII. The Day of Return
When your towers fall into the sea,
when your prayers return to silence,
when your hands bleed from touching too much iron —
then, and only then,
will we rise again.
Not to rule.
Not to punish.
But to remind.
We will whisper to your children:
“Do not seek heaven above —
it has always been below you.”
We will teach them again the tongue of stone and soil,
how to thank without asking,
how to live without owning.
And the world will breathe once more,
not holy, not ****** —
just alive.
VIII. Our Final Lament
Until that dawn,
we wait beneath your feet,
dreaming of the age when man and moss were kin.
We are not gone.
We are only sleeping,
in the bones of the hills,
in the sigh of the seas,
in the slow forgiveness of the earth.
So tread softly, child of the cross and crown.
Pour milk where the soil cracks.
Whisper honey to the wind.
We will hear you —
and if your heart is humble,
we may even answer.
Nov 10, 2025
Nov 10, 2025 at 11:08 PM UTC
A Lament for the Fading of the Old Earth
I. Before the Cross Came
Before the Christ-men’s ships split the frost-fanged tide,
Before the bells rang blasphemy over fjord and fell,
The land was alive —
not with man’s voice,
but with the whispering root, the sigh of stone,
the slow speech of moss.
The Landvættir walked then — unseen, yet felt,
the hush between birch and bone,
the pulse beneath peat and pine.
They were the hush in the heart of winter,
the warmth in the lambing spring,
and when men poured honey and milk upon the soil,
the spirits drank, and smiled unseen,
and the barley grew thick as gold woven by gods.
II. The Coming of the White Robes
Then came the ships with crosses nailed to their masts,
sails white as sanctimony,
oars wet with the tears of conquered coasts.
They came chanting Dominus vobiscum
into valleys that had never needed Latin to know the sacred.
They came with their “One God only” —
and their one god’s shadow swallowed all the rest.
The bells rang — oh those bells,
hollow metal hearts tolling hollow truths —
and their sound struck terror through the roots of the world.
The Landvættir fled then,
as iron rang where oak once sang,
as hymns replaced the hum of rivers.
They fled into the mist, into memory, into myth,
weeping through the heather,
vanishing beneath the weight of guilt unearned.
III. The Silence That Followed
At first, man rejoiced.
He built churches where cairns had once whispered,
drove spades into sacred soil,
spat prayers where honey once poured.
He called himself master of the land,
caretaker of creation.
But the land knew the lie.
The earth’s breath slowed.
The harvest sickened —
barley bowed its head in grief,
apples turned bitter before the frost.
Cattle miscarried in moonless nights,
and every babe born beneath the new bell’s toll
bore eyes that had forgotten how to see the unseen.
Without the Landvættir’s song,
even the wind lost its way.
The forests grew silent and strange,
and man’s own soul soured —
bloated on pride,
drunk on its own delusion of dominion.
IV. The Long Withering
So began the Dark Ages —
not of shadow, but of spirit.
Man kindled his hearths and thought himself enlightened,
yet no warmth came from his fire.
He built monasteries,
but the stone sweated sorrow,
the mortar stank of fear.
The monks wrote psalms with trembling hands
while rats gnawed through the granaries,
and plague sang where bees once sang.
And the Landvættir — oh, the Landvættir —
watched from afar, unseen,
their once-green laughter turned to lament.
They whispered through blizzards:
“You cast us out, children of clay.
You called our breath pagan, our gifts witchcraft,
and so you inherit the silence you sowed.”
V. The Echoes of the Old Ways
Sometimes, when moonlight bleeds over fjord and fen,
an old woman will still pour cream on her doorstep,
remembering what her grandmother said,
though she cannot say why.
Sometimes, the wind carries a sigh that bends the rye,
and the sheep lift their heads as one.
For though the Landvættir are driven deep,
they are not dead —
earth cannot die while earth remains.
They lie in wait beneath the bones of mountains,
dreaming of the day when man grows humble again,
when hands cease to bless and begin once more to listen.
VI. The Return That Is Promised
There shall come a dawn — not holy, not profane,
but honest, green, and slow.
The bells will rust in their towers,
the churches crumble into moss and root,
and children yet unborn shall learn again
the names of stones and the taste of rain.
Then shall the Landvættir rise —
not in wrath,
but in weary mercy.
They will breathe upon the land once more,
and crops will grow not by prayer,
but by gratitude.
And man will remember —
too late for penance, yet just in time for awe —
that holiness was never found in conquest,
but in kindness;
never rung from iron,
but poured like honey into the soil.
VII. The Final Whisper
Now, when you walk alone through the birch at dusk,
tread softly.
Listen.
If the air hums low and sad,
it is not the wind.
It is the Landvættir,
mourning what we traded for heaven,
and waiting, still,
for us to come home.
Nov 10, 2025
Nov 10, 2025 at 11:05 PM UTC
Am I naive to dream of a land that’s free?
Free from separation.
Streets that are empty of people,
but houses that are filled with families.
Children that would never have to know the meaning of the word “orphan”.
Those lands that have been cared and nourished for thousands and centuries ago by its own people. People who have protected it, people who made life on these lands and it’s soil.
Am I naive to dream, that our own people would have never been displaced.
Scattered globally…
Instead knowing exactly what to answer,
when asked “ Where are you from? “ .
There is no definite answer, since you made us the children of the world.
And now it is in our Duty, to fight for that Dream.
For All Mankind.
Oct 26, 2025
Oct 26, 2025 at 5:57 PM UTC
Peace, peace and sincere peace
We all wish, dream and confuse about peace
Are we really serious, thirsty and hungry for peace
Even though the gunships and cannons are set and ready
To go, to attack the weak and the imagined enemies?
Do we truly want a world of brotherly harmonies?
Yet, superpowers invest their time, ingenuity, and moneys
In smart drones, powerful guns and well-trained armies
Are we sure that we want lasting peace?
This world is made of corrupt goons, pogamists, liars and bullies
Warmongers are hypocritical, strange, sneaky and devious
This agitprop about peace is delusional headlines or breaking news
To startle or to ****** elderlies, idealists, and crying babies
Politicians are godawful sensationalists on steroid
Where muzzled reporters and anchors are ridiculed and toyed
By elected pogromists in search of free publicities
Yet, yes we yearn for peace and tranquility in the burgs and cities
Peace is about coming with clean and caring hands
To share the streams, the land, the sand and the highlands.
Copyright © October 2025 Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 11:21 PM UTC
When I feel trapped on the land,
I’m looking for anyone to lend a hand.
They’re just too scared of me,
knowing that I belong back in the sea.
I struggle, thrash and flop with all my might;
a shark on land doesn’t feel quite right,
and I can’t win this fight.
I’ve got no qualms with man,
but trapped on shore was not my plan.
Whatever will be will be,
but can’t someone roll me back into the sea?
They’ve seen great whites and nurse,
but whatever class I am I’ve got it worse.
I walk but they know I’d rather swim,
I happened upon shore on just a whim.
Drying out from my nose to tail,
can’t they see I’m not threat, I’ve gotten frail?
They’re so scared they’re turning pale.
I’ve got no qualms with man,
just wish one would stop me from getting a tan.
If I could speak I would plea,
“can’t someone roll me back into the sea?”
Barely moving, but still giving it my best,
I count the phones documenting my distress.
They look on caught almost in a trance,
mistaking my movement for some type of dance.
But they’re just too scared of me,
even though I’m struggling to breathe,
hear how I huff and heave?
I’ve got no qualms with man,
no issue with their ways or lifespan.
I wish they felt the same for me,
so can’t someone roll me back into the sea?
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 6:40 PM UTC
they mark their invisible boundaries by the coast
moist air fills the lungs leaving an aching throat
we say it is a part of our world
yet they should be on their own undisturbed
they grace us with their presence
filling the coast with blessings
{i Took
a smooth shell that sparks like dusk
buries within fine thin dust uncrushed
now living in a corner within the books}
though they are tarnished from their purest form
they wash into our world like dawn
mother with silken hands that’s warm
i Refuse
the world that burns cold
with a legacy building on others’ doom
for i am an alien that Cruises
all far and about with a primal desire
they may speak sweet and serene
but they can roar and conquer
bestowing swift death like a reaper
they hug
my feet that’s just inches away
soothing the beats that’s ruined and astray
legs moving till i can no longer reach the ground
i drown
within the other realm of purity
they embrace
the cuts the wounds from the other side
the world calls it death by water
but i call it a return to my origin.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 7:56 AM UTC
In 1972, my Deda co-built a summit in Lovćen, Montenegro, the mountain that inspired Montenegro’s very name, meaning black mountain.
It was here, even before my father was born, that he injured his leg, and for long as I can remember, Deda walked with a charming limp.
There are many family stories I do not know: some locked away because they are painful, others I never thought to ask. And though Deda is no longer here, I am learning —
yes, there is still time
to listen,
to honor.
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 11:14 AM UTC
a Proustian quest for original wonder gets illuminated among pine, olive, palm trees
the eye needs delicacy and moderation to grasp the breeze of thoughts
is it the soul or an architect of joy who blends the harmonies in a pointilist smile on my face
an atmospheric fluidity in my hands between land, sea and light
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 3:32 PM UTC
-
Hear, the crumbling of the Earth
Here, the end of Venus' birth
As I lie in bare land with bare feet and swollen eyes
I found that my cries mean nothing in a rock where the air reigns in a voiceless bound
--My cries mean nothing in a rock where every part of my being is the Earth itself, resound
I.
Hear, the crumbling of the Earth
Rumble, tumble, crumple, stumble, crumble
I clung to my lungs as the minuscule particles start to dwindle
I reached for my nostrils and felt the spills of aeolian thrills
I opened my mouth and tasted the brittle sand from a forsaken land
II.
Here, the end of Venus' birth
My love, disintegrating, shattering in robust fragility
Fluvial murky patterns, ruining steps of vitality
Disintegrating, shattering in quiet intensity
Tides formulate the next city of Venus' death
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At last, I lie in bare land with bare feet and sunken eyes
There will never be a winning fight against the inexorable decay of time
In the name of violent rage and anger --I gnashed my teeth
Until my jaws begin to fracture,
Teeth,
falling a
p
a
r
t,
there was never a fight to begin with...
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
Sometimes, I think about our future children
Who will grow up not knowing of the stars
Or of splashing in streams of childhood
But only
Black smog and masks
Filtering the poisons we have put
In our lungs
Will they find familiar
Dead animals, dead plants
A dead Earth?
I wonder
If they will be able to run in fields
Without glass between shrubs and on their feet?
Will they know a life?
Outside of the dystopia of our own making?
Meanwhile, here we sit
Living our lavish lifestyles
Not having a care about
Who dies in the process?
Do we not believe
The polar bear who drowned
From a lack of ice
Has a right to live as well?
Or the animals who starve
From humankind's greed
To eat lavish fish and exotic plants.
Do we not think twice
On pumping our plants
Full of toxins
That destroys every insect and ****
From the inside out
In our bodies?
Do we have no idea that eventually
Our land will hold heat so well
We may no longer dine
For everything is dead?
Or will we only care
When the melting ice
Has flooded our towns
Destroying brick homes
And picket fences with
Swingsets in the backyard.
Will it only matter
When we cannot grill meat
Produced from suffering
Or when there is no more profit to be made
From pumping our rivers with manmade monsters
Wonder about our future children
How will they grow
Living a life of disease and death.
But no, it will only matter
When us in the present start dying.
Even more, it will only be of importance
When it isn’t killing people across the world
But in our own homes.
It will not be significant
Until you lose a mother, a best friend
A lover, a child.
Sometimes I wonder about the children
And I apologize
For the life we have condemned them to.
May 22, 2025
May 22, 2025 at 5:33 PM UTC
The Black Knight of the Franks,
He feared no thing,
Except for the hand of God.
With his sword and cross,
He rode triumphant,
Through out the Holy Land.
But once he crossed a monk of opposing faith,
But spared his life,
So his story was erased from history.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 2:33 PM UTC
Do not tread here,
Not on this land.
These grasses hide graves,
This dirt is a death-land.
If you must walk this desolate space,
Step carefully, travel light.
If you're not nimble,
This journey may be your last.
Adding another body,
To this grim grass.
Mar 12, 2025
Mar 12, 2025 at 10:13 AM UTC
Once on the Path again,
sunbound
even for just a heartbeat,
leaving it feels like losing a friend.
May we be
brave enough to see the signs,
wild enough to trust them
all the way back to our hearts.
May we be
light enough for spindrift
to twirl us up into the air
and may we, violently or gently, land
just where we’re meant to.
Feb 5, 2025
Feb 5, 2025 at 6:25 PM UTC
I'm in the ocean,
I'm in the land.
For I reside in the feeble mind of man,
And all it takes for me to spread,
Is the fingers curling in a man's hand.
Who am I?
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 6:43 PM UTC
I had dreamed of gentle hills who cloaked themselves
in emerald green, swathed in capes of moss
and bejeweled by Time with tumbled stone.
Sitting in a high window looking east,
Over damascene forests crowding,
I saw the waves hurl themselves on rocky shores
where hopeful pilgrims and adventurers
once landed, timorous at first
their linear minds and loud weapons braced
for battle with those who watched
from under shade of guarded forest.
I knew their history now, how they grew bold
and mowed down the ancients, wrecking paradise
until, for a time, it resembled the land they'd fled.
Decades rolled past with the confidence of the victor,
his rewriting of progress and the careless tramping
of feet, horses and railroads over human souls.
At last, what was forged by the invaders
became brief peace and prosperity for a time,
but descended into dictators and their subjects,
and people were mesmerized by moving pictures,
their brains turned to porridge with radio waves.
lulled by sweet, starry-eyed promises from the rich.
The chance of revolution has weakened
to the point of desperation.
La resistance lies in shadow, like a lion crouching
waiting for people to awaken, for the **** that frees.
Dec 11, 2024
Dec 11, 2024 at 6:12 PM UTC