MANIFOLD ECLECTICS
deadpan
newfound
possibilities
rippling
mind-scrambling
over-lays
a
panoply
alludes
to
exhilarating
yet
muted
& imbued
response
a
cerebral
tension
undergoing
needless
unruly
elongation
touching
personality
in
a
exquisite
ravishing
unfinished
but potent
revolving
brilliant
encounter
with virtuosity
tradition
a
glinting
shimmering
spontaneous
nonchalance
glimpsed
a feint
reworking
transparent
& benighted
radically
sardinic
matter
of
sophisticated
qualities
of empathy
Adjectival expansion:
describing the resident
of the Executive Mansion:
I give you, the President …
mean, obscene,
rotten, misbegotten,
rough-hewn, jejune,
numb, dumb,
rude, lewd,
sadistic, hubristic,
orange-dyed, red-tied,
frightful, spiteful,
greedy, weedy,
grim, dim,
crabby, flabby,
freely-swearing, diaper-wearing,
furious, incurious,
sallow, shallow,
benighted, indicted,
painted, tainted,
addicted, convicted.
Line 2: "she reassured me with an unfamiliar line"
she's but an alluring, poisonous spider
that wields her sexiness like a weapon.
come what may, she gets what she wants;
an opportunist; her target, malleable men
uninterested in relationships, she's all about
grifting. she once tried to lure me into her web.
she reassured me with an unfamiliar line...
"don't worry, I don't bite!"...but I knew better.
she's an effortlessly seductive temptress
with intoxicating charms tough to resist;
she enjoys dangling her feminine wiles
like a carrot for benighted men to nibble.
she's left a trail of broken men in her wake.
be careful, my guy! do not let her suck you
into the vortex of her magnetism, for she'll be
the author of your destruction.
“Holding on is believing that there's only a past; letting go is knowing that there's another future.” Author unknown.
Make no bones about it. I shall never want you,
Don't waste your love on someone worthless like me.
All is lost like a fat candle lit in bright sunlight,
Wasted as a dewdrop falling in the sea;
It's as pointless as a cold snowflake
Settling on freezing Mount Everest.
I'm deaf and dumb to your spirit,
Perhaps I'm stone blind or have a rock instead of a heart.
Don't blame yourself; my soul is ravished by tempests past
That rage was like a tornado inside me.
I try to dredge the ancient hates.
That left me stubborn and blind,
Swept by the hurricanes of old loves,
An anger whirling like a rushing wind,
I weave a shade dark and benighted
To smother all that's bad.
Alas, the end result is that I cannot love.
I'm just indifferent. Do I make myself clear?
Placed 1
From beneath a veil,
A shroud itself hidden,
Anonymity It's masquerade.
Tired secrets languish,
Benighted by nature,
Emerald, to pale green and white, from jade.
A sough in the head,
Of their tepid maker,
Whispers nothing, wholly unaware.
Crafty camouflage,
For the crafter of secrets,
Who never knew they were there.
The irony aroma,
Stagnant blood without pressure,
Metallic, unmoved, unaffected.
Averse to sense,
Illusory marionette's,
Clear strings, turbid skeins undetected.
And the irony lies,
With an off thirst disguised,
By the growing pines of set minds thought unique.
And as trite as the urges,
Desperate purges,
Like mewls of the sheep seeking shade from critique.
It is sunny
It is raining, it is thundering
It is autumn
From waking up to sleeping.
The leaves are dry and passive
And the flowers are dead and inactive
Later, it is snowing
The neighbors of the inn
See the deer pass by
All the holy day long
And during the whole evening
We feel the change of the nerves
To welcome the new season
Where we are far from the harvest.
We can hear from very far away
The wind humming in the hay
The vibrations are not monotonous
Since the hummingbirds of the hills
Make their spectacular presence felt
And the poets in the imaginary gardens
Describe everything that happens
In the country where the mass
Remains insensitive, benighted and glaikit
And where the elected corruptors boast.
It is sunny
It is raining, it is thundering
It is autumn
From waking up to sleeping.
P.S. Translation Of ‘Les Cantiques Antiques De L’Automne’.
Copyright © November 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
The House of Light
Bountiful stacks
Showcasing illuminating scripts
Spiraling out shapes and forms
Churning myths and facts
All bounded in suited attires
Now a budding epiphany
Enticing enlightenment
Consuming the benighted phase
Cultural version
Bountiful stacks
Showcasing illuminating scripts
Spiraling out shapes and forms
Churning myths and facts
All bounded in suited attires
Ile Sanmi ti di nkan mi
Ile Sanmi ti tobi
Sanmi ti ga
Now a budding epiphany
Enticing enlightenment
Consuming the benighted phase
Avalanching in this benighted place.
Hollow noise like the roar of an angry bull.
Emotionally desolate, importune of answers.
Feeling castigated, in bleak. Veer not from me oh dear God.
Embedded in avalanche.
I bellow for luminosity.
Seeking comfort in coldness
Heart shattered, sighs echoing. Forgive me for my sins oh dear God.
Broached in a new world of wretchedness I never knew existed.
My visage turning into the seven seas.
Far offshore
As I ebb away with the tides. I fix my eyes onto you oh dear God.
A silent prayer,
Cloak my tribulations.
Let there be oblivion.
And this gloom a phase. Make me whole again oh dear God.
Gestation period
A grotesque routine
Queasiness
Excruciating. Give me strength oh dear God.
Avalanching in this benighted place.
Feeling castigated, in bleak.
Importune of answers.
Why me? Hear my cry oh dear God.
Watch out!
She plays the seduction game
too well, my friend.
Be careful now!
Just the flick of her eyelid
hypnotizes
benighted meek men.
Her come-hither wink,
enough to reel in
fishes big and small.
Tread with caution!
Don't fall for her charms.
She's a dangerous spider
luring unsuspecting prey
into her sticky, intricate web
with an enticing bait.
Beware!
She's led legions of men
to utter destruction
like a film noir femme fatale.
Now she's trying
to add me
to her sizeable collection of fools;
casting in her fishing reel,
waiting for me
to rise to the bait,
but little does she know,
I'm neither fish nor fool.
I stay out of the water,
because I can't swim!
The chosen
tone deaf
to their fortune
Musicians
their heads
in the sand
The roadies
eat pizza
still frozen
While Angels
play bass
in the band
Indulgence
the pick
on their fretboard
Entranced
by the lure
of the bong
Benighted
the riffs
play without them
Not going
or coming
— just gone
(The New Room: March, 2024)
The distant echo
of my lost awareness
rings the canyon walls
No clear way out
one final shout
—benighted to recall
(Dreamsleep: September, 2023)
A PRIVILEGED EDUCATION
Just within reach of a soft whisper,
I swear I can hear the small voice,
Weeping, of an innocent boy,
Held in limbo out of an ice-bound past,
As I stare at black and white photos,
Framed within a dust-covered album.
The dispersing fog from sealed up years
Is swept away, as insidious grief
Rolls out as a vast tsunami of
Memories, all set in stone.
I remember the dull uniform
Of conformity in the fresh-cut faces
Of newly-pressed recruits
To the collective madness
Of benighted generations.
As craven sheep within the exclusive fold,
They never break fraternal chains
Which bind them close to the smothering
Of elongated cradles where a
Parent’s loving care holds no sway.
Emerging as lifelong, hardened victims
To catastrophic nightmares
Where endless is their perfect failure
To be set free from the sharp embrace
Of nanny’s tightened apron strings,
They are driven on to become
The finest crop of future leaders.
Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of the daughter of a caliphate
Is come, a rose is come to me.
Blow out the candles of your cake.
They will not leave you in the dark,
Who round with grace this dusky arc
Of the grand tour which souls must take.
You who have sounded Maria Flakes,
And the still pool, to Plato’s mark,
Blow out the candles of your cake.
They will not leave you in the dark.
Yet, for your friends’ benighted sake,
Detain your upward-flying spark;
Get us that wish, though like the lark
You whet your wings till dawn shall break:
Blow out the candles of your cake
WEASELS IN MY HEAD
I've had the weasels in my head.
I've lived with the storm in my shoe.
But if I say this to you,
something so unspeakably true,
will you listen?
Will you deliver me from the land of the lone?
Tonight we sup on sympathy and shame,
tonight we learn I was always to blame.
Once we choose to play that game
you and I know I can never win,
because you can never sin.
Denied my day in the sun,
forever to lurk beyond the horizon,
you tease me with your love, dazzling spun.
But you forget, I've seen paradise:
That hell-hole of wishes, promises, and dreams.
So excuse me now.
I will break our date.
You must dine alone.
So no, I need no rescue.
I only thought bursting forth from your private Eden,
answering my call for help,
just maybe, maybe you would see
the ugly beauty of things coming to be.
But no.
Go back to your fine lines and hypnotic geometry.
I'll make do with my averages.
Having said this,
having spoken the unspeakable truth,
does that shining guilt inside you
make you fear for my benighted soul?
Pray not for my epiphany.
Pray that I, unlike you, will never be blessed
with your perfect serenity.
Clothed in robes of shining light,
That billow in the wind,
She flies across benighted skies,
From even to night's end.
Sometimes silver, blue or gold,
Sometimes rainbow hues,
Always glorious to see,
She leaves me so enthused.
Her hair a mane of silver,
Flowing wild about,
With streaks of gold and sparkles,
Surpass without a doubt,
All the beauties sung about,
Of goddesses of old.
She's Autumn's princess, Winter's queen,
Seen when the air grows cold.
Floating just below the clouds,
She sips from God's own chalice,
Crystal nectar pure and sweet,
Aurora Borealis.
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