Acorns and crab apples drop in a minor key;
plink, plonk, and plunk, they scatter around me.
Cool air replaces stagnant breath in my breast,
affecting composure with pangs in my chest.
Cold legs walk quickly to avoid getting numb.
Tree leaves fall and forest litter become.
Larvae and beetles curb their activities,
straggle and snuggle into tree cavities.
Safe and secure, they begin a winter-tide sleep.
I saw, split, and stack cords of firewood to keep.
Primitive instincts to survive prevail,
as winter prepares to descend and assail.
In the hush where summer
has already surrendered,
autumn flowers unfurl with
a defiant, molten grace.
Chrysanthemum burn in
burnished amber and saffron,
petals layered like antique
parchment catching the late
light.
Dahlias deepen into
oxblood and plum, velvet
crowns that hold the dusk
inside them.
Asters tremble in lavender
mist and violet dusk, small
constellations against the
cooling air.
Marigolds flare in carnelian
and gilded gold, stubborn
suns refusing to dim.
And the last roses- oh, the
last roses- blush in
russet, claret, and
copper,
their edges kissed with the
melancholy of frost.
They do not mourn the
shortening days.
They incandescent.
They are the earth's final,
extravagant exhale-
a chromatic elegy written in
pigment and perfume.
Crisp wind combs through
them, and they answer
with color so rich it feels like
a benediction:
ochre, bronze, burgundy,
mahogany, and sunset coral.
Every stem a small rebellion
against fading.
Every bloom a reminder that
endings can be opulent.
Autumn doesn't take the
garden quietly.
It dresses it in jewels, and
sets it on fire with beauty,
before letting it go.
It seems obvious to me
That we’ve been here before
But don’t ask me if I see
Who we were so long ago
I think many feel the same
Though they make of it a joke
Once I had a different name
Different tongue I spoke
Once you came down, dressed in satin
We went walking in the park
You bombarded me with Latin
Quoting Horace and Plutarch
You were laughing your head off
In the pouring rain
We were happy, weren’t we, love?
Bring it back again…
Great poets need not worry.
Self-written dissertations or poems
Always lack heart, soul and harmony.
Self-written lyrics or poems
Are the products of raw science,
Not fine arts and literature.
Great poets, with wit, humor, and nature,
Have a divine style and an astute common sense.
Self-written poems lack the zeal and the spirit
That only human beings can display or exhibit.
Great poems come from the core of the heart,
Great poems come from the deep abyss of the soul.
Believe it or not, a machine can play a major part,
However, a masterpiece can only be conceived by the role
That a genius-artist and a scientist can play to end-up at an evolution.
Self-written poems lack the beauty and the innate composition.
P.S. This poem was written and revised before A.I.
Copyright © January 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry books.
deny darkly courtship fluctuating could be grammatically sham slobber their peculiarity !
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • September 28–October 4, 2026)
For my PaPa, Whom I love very much.
I hold your heavy, calloused hand,
The one that shaped a thousand beams,
That built a life on solid land
And held together young men's dreams.
You're quiet now, your hammer still,
The stubborn strength at last at rest.
You fought the world with quiet will,
And gave us every day your best.
I smell the ghost of pine and cedar,
I see the dust upon your boots,
The faithful man, the steady leader,
Who gave this family sturdy roots.
At Tipton, you showed broken boys
How rough-cut timber learns to stand.
You built through patience, not through noise,
And led them with a craftsman's hand.
It's okay now to drop the rule,
To lay the heavy apron down.
You've finished every task and tool,
And earned your quiet, golden crown.
The Master Builder waits for you,
His workbench ready in the light.
Go find your Jewel, sweet and true—
Go rest, Papa. I Love You!
Goodnight.
I remember little of my childhood.
Or perhaps I remember too much, but all of it in fragments.
Marabá Paulista would wake up before God lit the sun.
First came the smell of packed lunches being prepared—mingling scents
that slipped uninvited through the cracks in the houses' weathered wood.
Then, the diesel fumes and the red dust.
Old trucks, like monsters, rumbled through the streets,
swallowing up the adults and vanishing down the dirt road.
During the day, the town belonged to the children and the elderly.
We thought that was freedom.
At dusk, the trucks returned,
spitting out bodies that were barely alive;
my parents would arrive—worn out, stooped, and weary.
As a boy, I didn't yet know
how to put a name to it.
Today I know:
the trucks didn't just carry workers.
They carried away pieces of childhood.
With first one or ones to claim
Peak's or pole's extreme
Chilled high point or low
For the self or all mankind
That heard exhaled as
Triumph's trumpet blow?
Ramble and inner monologue
Won’t do on the floor no more,
This is my new poem,
Feel it or don’t, though.
Monday was for me a day when I felt blue.
Tuesday was not much better, I would say.
Wednesday meant work for the week was half through.
Thursday saw the weekend coming. Hip hip Hooray.
Friday was when I’d collect my pay.
Saturday more fun – if the cash was not all spent.
Sunday I would go to church and hopefully repent.
Walking down a lane, strewn with withered leaves,
I watch as they twirl and pirouette in Autumn's chill wind
leading them in a rhythmic dance that it skillfully weaves
as they plummet, leaving branches naked and chagrinned.
There's a true spark of vigor in the breeze of Autumn's call.
One I am quite happy to answer in poetic verses composed
about a family trip to the pumpkin patch, amid hues of Fall
when Nature's boldest color palette is so vibrantly exposed.
It's time for gathering together, and offer words of thanks
for the bountiful food and the beauty of a harvest moon,
and children Trick-or-Treating; scary Halloween pranks.
There's a crispness in the air and firewood to be hewn.
I get so excited when my favorite season approaches
and foliage gloriously blazes in shades of rust and gold.
Too quickly the coldest season of the year encroaches.
I'm not enamored by Winter when shivering with cold.
From this lane, I watch geese flying to a warmer clime,
their vee formation clear to see as to the South they go.
But before Winter takes command there's enough time
to enjoy these golden days of Fall, before the first snow.
My heart waits again,
Hands sweating with familiarity,
When peace is present... What's next?
Wondering and knowing of readiness,
Shifts knocking on the door,
Will I hold my own hand... Be my own friend?
Of course I'm capable,
Bending realities at will,
Will I finally fathom it never ends?
Wondering if I'll embrace it,
Catching myself before I leave my lane,
Will I again be shocked by coming pain?
Hoping I will balance it now,
The mind and the fire inside,
I'll speak to myself in a week, again.
A quiet period,
Noticing myself again,
A new is coming.
Another cycle completed,
Doors closed quietly,
Monsters left behind.
Hands slipping silently,
Goodbyes necessary,
A young bird again gains flight.
A small clearing,
Understanding my fractals,
Which part of me is next?
A quiet period,
Challenges festering...
A badge of honour on my chest.
(Inspired by the painting La Victoire by René Magritte)
A giant door has opened
upon a yellow shore
No rooms contain it
This huge high door
stands with blue water
on its opposite side
Between the blue
of firmament and sea
is a grayish background
A cloud has settled
at the top
left portion
of the peculiar door
Strangely, the cloud
is suspended
mid-air
inside the open space
that faces away from
the water
I stand before the door
pondering its purpose there . . .
I ponder MY purpose there
If I should pass through it,
will I find myself
walking toward water -
to immerse myself
in the cool of its blue?
Then it dawns on me
What if I can somehow
reach the cloud suspended
in the open doorway?
What if I could
grab hold of that
nearly unreachable cloud?
Envisioning this -
I become one with the cloud,
and I’m d r i f t i n g
inside
my own
imagination
The parakeet stands at the microphone,
white and yellow feathers lit
as though morning itself
has perched beside him.
He leans forward slightly,
a small body holding
a large intention.
He has not made a sound.
Yet the room feels tuned~
a pause rising like a curtain,
waiting for whatever note
he is gathering in his chest.
Even the air seems to pause,
as if anticipation were
a kind of music,
a bright, trembling thread
drawn taut between
what is and what might be.
He lifts one foot,
then the other,
a tiny choreography
of readiness.
The microphone gleams,
patient, expectant,
as though it knows
the first note
will change the day.
And when he finally opens his beak,
the world draws closer~
not for the song itself,
but for the miracle
of the moment
just before it.
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