Jack 177 26 Jun 2025
A room in my head called emotion
Controlled by various means
A thermometer reacting to the room temperature of others
The cold shoulder of silent indifference
Could turn the blood in my veins, to frozen streams
Other times, blood starts to boil with internal rage
The mercury of overreaction, starts to rise
The volatile instability, damages perception
I work hard on a solution for my personal climate control
I do, have a choice
Reactive thermometer or self-regulating thermostat
Someone else’s winter can be my thawing spring
Heated summer anger, can be a pleasant autumn day
That room in my head, needs comfortable stability
Self-awareness becomes the barometer of my emotions
Overcast skies bring me down
I need my fix of sunshine
to get me through the day
otherwise my blood is like molasses
and nothing courses through my veins
my mood always in direct relation
to my sunshine exposure
it's high when sunny
blue when it’s not
i hate to be so dependent
when i should have control
but there’s not much i can do
besides what's plainly obvious
in the meantime like a cat
i pounce on sunny days
go outdoors soak in the sun
recharge revitalize renew
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Questions may often arise,
As to just how far they can reach?
Where the bonds between two may
Be tested, before they are able to teach.
Early on, it's seen through our childhood,
When we endlessly search for that elusive best friend.
While we playfully mimic our adult mentors,
Only to eventually see it all as pretend.
Delving deeper, there's a constant barometer,
Piercing to gauge one's level of loyalty.
And regardless of commitment or integrity,
It's easy to think that they confused it with royalty.
What is known about these binding influences,
Relies heavily upon the truth in between.
Such that these ties can be strengthened or weakened,
By what's believed and trusted pristine.
A darker gray pours over the horizon,
Cold and wet with a wind to subdue.
Yet with it comes a shade of discomfort,
As if energy must begin a search for a clue.
The changes we all see have been so gradual,
Where to some, it's more like no change at all.
So while the weather slowly reaches new extremes,
Our carbon footprint is seen climbing the wall.
Now it appears most of the planet is cooperative,
Attempting to alter & curtail this unwanted event.
But there's always those few who stand defiantly,
Since their belief is, there's nothing to prevent.
The saddest part of this story is unyielding,
As status and greed are the glue to hold fast.
And as long as some can keep a vise-grip on the last
Oil well, they'll just happily reminisce of days past.
In spite of this, the rest of us know the day is coming,
When our future is defined by this remarkable change.
Giving pause to our legacy and survival,
If we're unable to create a fair exchange.
September sun setting low,
Fall in all its golden glow;
Anticyclones hold transient sway
As mist forms ,at the close of day.
Dogwood,jasmine,marram grass
In flower ,as pressure fills the barometer glass;
Evening primrose in scented bloom
Fill Autumn with pungent perfume.
Winter migrants with welcome calls
As the Indian Summer falters,and falls;
Nature's tempo tarries,then slows
As all creation begins to doze.
A storm just swept through my mind
Its wind just took me away
The world is about to find
My sanity lost today
Do you hear the thunder roll
It echoes loud with sadness
My life has taken its toll
And all that's left is madness
To conceive a master plan
I wait for the rains to fall
The enemy now of man
I'll be the death of you all
The barometer has dropped
My mind is finally gone
The rain has finally stopped
But the storm still rages on
Occasionally
We see
Phenomenal matters of love
With our heart
But not with our eyes
At first, we find ourselves happy
Where we unearth in the yard
At the bottom of the gravel
Gold or diamond
Inadvertently
By sheer luck
Or by accident
The great misfortune
Or happiness
Not far from the hourglass.
Love walks with the season and time
As the clock tells the tone and time
The barometer measures the pressure
Of love with patience and passion.
Periodically
We see
Unprecedented matters of love
With resentment
We ask for forgiveness and help
Since our heart
Is blind, swinish, emotional and sensitive
In the face of irreversible decisions.
P.S. Translation Of ‘Les Matières D’Amour’ by Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © June 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
The wind seems a song of placidity
As it passes through the meadow near
But I know it’s a harbinger of treachery
Soon, from sudden blasts of Arctic air.
They say a snowstorm is imminent
We must quickly prepare for the worst
A drop in the barometer is prominent,
And folks in our area are well-versed.
The grocer’s shelves are nearly bare
Of staples like bread, milk, and cheese,
The wind has begun to pick up there
In the meadow and through the trees.
written January 16, 2022
Dogwood,jasmine,marram grass
In flower ,as pressure fills the barometer glass;
Evening primrose in scented bloom
Fill Autumn with pungent perfume.
Sycamore seeds twirl and twist
Onto a fairy-ring fungus tryst;
Stink horn capped with slime,
As carrion beetles pass the time.
Bramblings feast on bountiful mast ,
As the Autumnal harvest dwindles fast;
Yellowed leaves drift and decompose
Into next year's cellulose.
Winter migrants with welcome calls
As the Indian Summer falters,and falls;
Nature's tempo tarries,then slows
As all creation begins to doze.
&fog forms ,at the close of day.
Simple enough to trust that the Lord will provide each crumb of
Individual nutrient to each and everyone of us. In a world of
Move over and let me, we need to make God our confider and
Personal friend. We are all rich in spirit and we need not worry
Love with always reside in our hearts if we realize the value of
Empathy and courage. Both are necessary in this world of ours.
Abundance differs in accordance to the eyes of a beholder, so does
Beauty. Do not mistake material riches with spiritual riches, and never
Underestimate the power of persuasion. Be your own barometer and
Nurture yourself. Grow a garden, read a book, even better write one.
Don't accept the truths of others but rather find your own truth....
Analytical thinking is great by mystical experience is even greater
Nestle close to heaven and talk to the angels they know what they know
Care for the poor, the lonely, the sick, but don't neglect yourself.
End with a smile begin with a smile, send strawberry kisses to all...
I hear music. It's quite blusic, whining sax's that won't betray. I hear drumming, guitar's strumming, as my body begins to sway. It's my thermometer, my musical barometer, the pulsating rhythms that begin each day. I hear music. It's quite blusic and I pray that it's here to stay
The Candlemaker’s Office
was sparsely filled.
The worn brass door knob —
a patina
countless hands
slipping over its surface,
polished and discolored
by each touch.
That oak door —
turning my wrist
lean into it
fighting the rub
door against frame
hearing single pane glass
rattle —
I’d pushed through.
His wall —
dirty darkened oak
framed a wall of glass
allowing The Candlemaker
to gaze
upon
people
machine
if he chose —
yet his view
on equal footing
not elevated
a humble oversight.
Flooring —
off-white asbestos
set in squares
dark from factory dirt
moved by the feet of workers.
A lone green metal desk —
flanked by a single gray file cabinet:
adding machine,
rotary phone,
worn desk blotter,
barometer,
a nameplate
should you not know who he was.
Similar version previously published by Ink, Sweat and Tears 2019
P.T.S.D FOR ME
Fragile feelings,
Where ghosts of past intrude,
Overwhelming of soul,
A comprehension felt and noted
It never goes away,
Mostly stays in background
And in inappropriate times
Steals and raises its ugly head,
A timely reminder for me
To never take for granted,
When wellness walks the pathe with me,
Mental health most take no notice of
But for me mental health is my constant companion,
And barometer of how I feel on any given day,
When well – celebrate!
When fragile – realize I have trod a well-worn track
Of many ups and downs,
And many tears welling up and spilling out uncontrolled,
And circumstances of no jurisdiction over
And when down in dumps with vulnerability,
Reach out,
Talk,
Engage,
Realize I have a team,
A team that I trust,
A team engaged for me,
To help steer this olde warrior to a personal glory
And a victory of my day,
And never forget fragile feelings
When ghosts of past intrude.
Francis Cooper – Mac © 01-Jul-20
Speechless and lost,
A *****, uncomfortable perplexity began to invade me,
Seated here all day, I've been thinking,
And feeling a stifling sensation of pain and suspense,
Life becoming more meaningless.
I'm choked by the thorns and brambles of life's cruelty,
Fighting without knowing how to win,
And a tear like silver, glistened in the corners of my eyes,
As ruthlessly as the hoof of a horse tramples on a rose,
I'm bruised and the scars scattered all over my worthless body like ant-hills.
Despondency clung to me like a garment that is wet,
I'm drying and dying from within me,
My voice like mournful bells crying in the wind are mute,
Suicidal thoughts descends and clenched perfect, sudden, like a curse from heaven,
I'm now as insensitive as a damaged barometer.
These are my old and new wounds,
Bleeding profusely and dwarfing my hopes,
In the last days when my pen will run dry,
And my name and poems forgotten,
Kindly take these lines to remember and feel my pains.
Monday means rise and shine,
get out of bed and be at work on time,
it's a day some consider makes them blue
when full of stress and crying too.
Tuesday gives us our second wind,
makes up for the tiring day before
as we hustle our bustle throughout the day,
relieved when we are headed home as we pray.
Wednesday is over-the-hump part of the week,
catching up with thoughts that were filed
within the cobwebs of our busy minds galore,
remembering to pick up a frozen pizza at the store.
Thursday is inching closer to the weekend,
a wormy sort of day taking forever to end,
as it progresses on the clock of slow motion
wanting to give it a shot of magic potion.
Friday is the barometer measuring the week,
working each day makes some feel in the pink,
watching the clock until closing time
knowing we earned every dime.
Saturday means sleeping in late,
alarms are not set to get us out of bed,
eating a leisurely breakfast is a treat,
pancakes and coffee can't be beat.
Sunday is the end of the week,
a day of worship and singing hymns,
afterward a dinner at home sweet home,
then a nap to end this very long poem.
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