Best Cent Poems
There isn’t much value to the cent today.
It is still one-hundredth of a dollar.
Inflation has eroded its value away.
It is enough to make me cry and holler.
It is still one-hundredth of a dollar.
One won’t put anything in your shopping cart.
It is enough to make me cry and holler.
It has been mistaken for its British counterpart.
One won’t put anything in your shopping cart.
It takes a whole bunch to buy anything.
It has been mistaken for its British counterpart.
It is easy to feel inflation’s sting.
It takes a whole bunch to buy anything.
There isn’t much value to the cent today.
It is easy to feel inflation’s sting.
Inflation has eroded its value away.
A Three Cent Poem (And A Table)
This table is as cluttered as I
As it struggles to stand on it’s legs
The fast food bag smells of rotten eggs
There’s half full fountain drinks from work
And a receipt from a grocery store clerk
Telling me to take a survey for a chance to win cash
It now sits under an empty Fat Tire full of cigarette ash
The penciled sheet of paper with a three cent poem on it sobs
Underneath bitten pay stubs from familiar restaurant jobs
There’s two cereal bowls who tell me they want a bath
And a bottle of all purpose cleaner to clear the path
But what’s the point of clearing all the weight off the table,
If it will just build up again when I feel unstable?
Life is meant to question why
I picked up a cent
Not worth a dime
Enough to buy a peanut
Not worth my time
Twelve months without rest
Trying to feed
The many mouths in my nest
To satisfy their greed
I picked up a cent
It burned a hole
Through my hand and foot
And through my sole
Porous to money
Trying to reach
The pie in the sky
Dying to be rich
I picked up a cent
Not worth a penny
It had a dull tint
But still it was money
Mining fool’s gold
To build pyramid schemes
Like Egyptians of old
Raiding tombs
I picked up a cent
Then found another
So made it a habit
Like a coin collector
Bit hard on one
And dropped it at once
Because I remembered gran’
I had picked up a curse
Old Western movies in black and white,
with the use of sepia to color night.
Our hero rides in with his trusty sidekick,
able to tame the wild town right quick.
But not without his sidekicks comic relief
and a big shoot out, with a cattle thief.
They speed up the film for the chase scenes.
There's always the love triangle it seems.
Will our hero choose the bawdy saloon singer?
Or the ranchers daughter, harassed by the gunslinger?
It really doesn't matter, because we all know,
in the end our hero rides off into the sunset alone.
They say you are not worth much these days.
However, in monetary transactions, your presence stays.
In stores and banks, you can always be found,
even though some folks will not pick you up from the ground.
You have been given a misnomer by many.
They have mistaken you for a British counterpart, the penny.
“A penny saved is a penny earned” is what Ben Franklin said.
That saying persists even though the man is now dead.
There have been many piggy banks you have been in.
You carry the profile of Abraham Lincoln.
It does not take a very bright scholar
to know you are one-hundredth of a dollar.
More people should get into the habit of saving you each day.
You are still considered money, and should never go away.
i guess it depends on the resonance the amplification
when i sang in the bedroom my father shrieked
put a sock in it and i remember reaching for
the pants drawer to find a pair, but i once did
turn away carol singers, but only after they'd
finished their warbling did i thank them and
slam it in their faces, i once called my
mother's friend, feigning to be the fire
brigade, and was aghast when she answered
i told her we were probing into fire alarms
the selling of them, if she was interested
at the school gates, she enumerated the
anecdote to my mother, who glared down
at me as i felt my face go ruby, but no matter
because i didn't succeed in selling a fire alarm
or selling anything, but my mother looked
perturbed when i waved and addressed the
postman, as he actually wasn't our postman
but his route took him to an aligned location
and it stopped just at our street, but no matter
because it would be the socialist workers party
at our door next, asking for subs and my dad
hit the roof, but amends was made when i
returned home without my mother's knowledge
surprised her as she began to weep behind the glass
our parents, all paths lead back to them
He put ten years on her eyes in a single morning.
He didn’t do much to her except walk away.
He never raised a hand and he never raised too damned much money.
But he left her fifty-per cent of his final pay.
She’s holding two jobs and she’s holding her little heart together
The children make their own beds and breakfast, too.
The women’s magazines provide advice—and coupons.
And her Mama and her sister drop by, to see her through.
There’s no hard feelings, they’re the best of friends, still.
He takes the children on Sunday afternoon.
She’s liberated from love, she’s her own person.
And no one sees her cry except the moon.
She’s taking two classes down at the local college,
A book-keeping course and volleyball 101.
She’s twenty-eight, she’s changed her hair, she’s jogging!
And her friends down at work say her life has just begun!
But you know, fifty-per cent of the American dreams get broken.
One-half of the brides and grooms pay lawyer’s fees.
And fifty-per cent of the couples are coming uncoupled.
But the precise percentage of tears nobody sees.
I am something of a logophile,
painting with words makes me smile;
An old phrase may not be used often,
past it's prime it rests inside a coffin;
Now and then a zombie may rise
revived by a trend without surprise;
There's nothing like enduring spirit,
you laugh when it has a brand new fit;
Some inside jokes will include them;
Pop culture sometimes creates a gem;
I am something of a logophile,
changing linguistics with my style;
Timeless or gone in a flash who knows?
Built strong just like that fifty cent prose.
A penny placed with charming grace
upon a rail of steel with haste
spreads copper bright between the space
A penny placed with charming grace
becomes a treasured resting place
for earth bound angels sitting chaste
A penny placed with charming grace
upon a rail of steel with haste.
Two children come to this reveal
and wish upon the coppered rail
with pointed stick they try to steal
Two children come to this reveal
their first love with kiss to seal
such innocence a holy grail
Two children come to this reveal
and wish upon the copper rail.
Poet: D. Guzzi
Contest: In the After Glow
When I was a kid and school was out, I'd rush home for milk and cookies.
And mom would give me a note and some money to run an errand for her.
But first I'd bike down this long steep ill behind the house where we lived,
down I'd go lickety split, free as a bird on the wing, faster, faster, faster still,
never thinking of using the brakes, a childhood thrill, I fearlessly plunged
down to the road below.
I'd fly through the streets to the grocery store to see what they had to offer,
sometimes flour, sometimes shortening and sometimes my favorite, SUGAR.
I'd hide them among the brooms and mops for no one would ever look there
and after work, with his ration book, dad would rescue my hidden treasures.
It was wartime, you see, in America. Everything worth having was rationed.
From the grocery store to the drug store, mom's note and money in hand,
imagine this, with a note to the druggist and no questions asked of me, I was handed a carton of Old Golds and matches concealed in a brown paper bag.
Then came my reward, at the soda fountain, I'd sip on a large cherry coke
and on the way out, with two pennies left, buy a pack of caramels to go.
Free as a breeze, I'd ride happily home just make it in time for our dinner.
Then out to hopscotch with neighborhood friends or roller skate down the
street. We'd play until dark and time to go home, no need to ever call us
cause the Lone Ranger was about to come on and we had to be there in time
to sit transfixed by the radio as our hero saved the West.
Former friend, I remember that today
Is your beautiful birthday
But I am not going to call you
Because you never answered my calls
Life is made of ups, downs and falls
Sometimes, the sky is gray, white and blue
I understand that things change
And nothing stays the same
I’m fine. I’m not the one to blame
I’ll pray for you in exchange
In fine, I won’t call you anymore
From afar, I wish you many birthdays
And the best in everything. The best days
Are usually ahead of us. No need to bore
Our readers. I’m moving on too with my life
The sky is at times gray, white and blue
Don’t worry. I stopped calling you too
Dear ex-friend, I no longer need to hear your fife
I have realized that you were a fake friend
Not a real one. You are now a cent in the sand.
Copyright © January 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous books of poetry.
He put ten years on her eyes in a single morning.
He didn’t do much to her except walk away.
He never raised a hand and he never raised too damned much money.
But he left her fifty-per cent of his final pay.
She’s holding two jobs and she’s holding her little heart together
The children make their own beds and breakfast, too.
The women’s magazines provide advice—and coupons.
And her Mama and her sister drop by, to see her through.
There’s no hard feelings, they’re the best of friends, still.
He takes the children on Sunday afternoon.
She’s liberated from love, she’s her own person.
And no one sees her cry except the moon.
She’s taking two classes down at the local college,
A book-keeping course and volleyball 101.
She’s twenty-eight, she’s changed her hair, she’s jogging!
And her friends down at work say her life has just begun!
But you know, fifty-per cent of the American dreams get broken.
One-half of the brides and grooms pay lawyer’s fees.
And fifty-per cent of the couples are coming uncoupled.
But the precise percentage of tears nobody sees.
1981
A red cent was just a cent,
Good old days,
Now it's bought at 110 dollars,
A scorpion was poisonous,
Good old days,
Now it's sold at 110 dollars in business,
A scorpion no worth a cent,
Good old days,like our now economy!
One day an ancient barrel decided it had truly had enough as it tripped over a bale of hay on the staircase. ENOUGH he shouted ENOUGH. But the only thing to hear this cry was the walls and floors who looked on in hasty disregard. All they were concerned about was mind ingestion through liquid contact. Scrubbing swashbuckling swaddling striped silky sunbathers. And a mystical glow from a block of cheese was placed on a cracker then consumed for consumers carry cars carefully and a marriage between a fork and a knife can often result in many a ladle being born. Uncharacteristically of an unchartered flight with no pilot. And no stewards either. Just one acorn shaped passenger with a parachute. Jumping. Nose to tail. And a little wobbling plate of moose was often a multicoloured mess. Splat. And spoke to spokes on a three wheeled bike so easily as if it had known them all its life. Wow. Fragrant fashionable fickle fortresses. And a large bang of a bongo booming. Time to chop an eel then. Isnt it? Polling pools picture pollination play. And a diagram of a citrus tree is about as useful as a map of a jam jar. Haha palatable patted patterns pointing hahaha triangular key swiping a door. And a spotted eel and snake in jumpers are far more sensible than a worm in a leotard Xxxxx palatalization z z z z z
Form:
A tongue can lick
And a foot can kick ~
Whence cometh yon vapors