Being bad when we should be good
grew up as kids playing childish games
running round the neighbourhood
calling each other silly names
having fun in my beat up car
went out as teens dating weekend nights
driving down the boulevards
looking at the bright city lights
must have been blind and didn't know
who it was I was looking for
'til I went all around the whole wide world
to find you the girl next door
way back when
we were the best of friends
and now
childhood sweethearts is what we are
after all we've come so far
childhood sweethearts mi amor
together now and for ever more
All inhabitants of the world are immigrants
We came with nothing and we will leave with nothing
We are all passing by for a few happy or sad moments
We don’t get it: we are nothing and we own nothing.
When the bells ring, tell me what are you taking with you
When the roosters sing, which flotilla will protect you
The streets are full of dirty snow and clear ice, and the residents
Are protesting against injustice, hatred and countless rodents.
Trash bags cans are served as barricades, the streets are dirty and filthy
The corners and boulevards are on fire, gas canisters are smoking hot
The crowds are cursing and running back and forth. The melting pot
Is on fire. We dream of more peaceful days and nights in the country.
We probably belong to the first, second or third generation of a country
Yet, we forget that we are all immigrants of this world which nobody
Owns. We still don’t get it: we are nothing and we own nothing
Yet, we can make something out of nothing to be somebody or something.
Copyright © January 2026 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
It’s caught up, always, in those little things:
street corners, half-familiar: shop facades:
it’s not so much expansive boulevards
as rain-worn roofs which pluck the silvery strings
of sorrow. Part of my subconscious clings
to remnants – ruined fragments, broken sherds.
They say the brain’s an organ which discards,
not hoards. Why, then, these cruel rememberings?
A tranquil helmsman, plotting perfect vectors,
is how I see myself. Wretched delusion!
We’re buffeted by failure and exclusion,
divided into Hectors or defectors.
The only shred of dignity it brings
is when we learn to love our sunderings.
Neon’s radioactive glow in a window,
offers the cheap promise of pleasure.
Like a hypnotic, fluorescent serpent,
It flashes, blinks and winks - “Welcome”
It fairly slithers on rain-slicked boulevards,
it warms like moonlight on cold unfriendly nights,
It signals cool, ready fun in the summertime.
We dress our vices in silky, pastel colors,
gamblers choices of Disney flavored whiskies.
It’s the soft, velvet glove that hides brass knuckles,
oh, you’ll feel those bruises in the morning.
The world’s a dark alleyway with an electric blush,
whose color flatters the lonely, desperate,
and makes sin look like something you could fall for.
Neon is perfume for the optical senses.
In that light, everything seems possible.
Isn’t that girl smiling at you? You see,
beauty is easier to trust than the truth.
Neon imperviously reflects off regrets,
and glitters brightest on broken dreams.
Of course daylight is harsh, but honest.
Didn’t we come in here to escape it?
.
.
Songs for this:
The Ballad of Mac the Knife by Sting & Dominic Muldowney
Any Old Thing by Swing Republic
November, month of bohemian melancholy, when leaves fall like rose petals
On empty boulevards, and the wind carries the scent of nostalgia,
Some memories settle like a veil on the keys of a forgotten piano,
Others linger, vibrating in the air like an evening waltz of shadows.
You, pillar of illusions and unrestrained dreams, bear burdens with an ironic smile,
In you, I pour my longings and reveries, like a poet singing his solitude,
You are like an old café, full of whispers and cigarette smoke,
In your month, I find the lost footsteps on the paths where love dances.
I rewrite constellations in the sky of a love-struck night, searching for stars of yore,
Drawing paths through the city that carries its mysteries under pale lanterns,
The scene is vibrant, and my heart beats like a clock measuring moments of yearning,
A thousand reasons tie me to gratitude, but also to a sweet illusion.
Reflection awakens echoes of passion and regret, of love and dreaming,
I am bathed in the light of a hope dressed in elegant attire,
November, you are more than a season, you are a romantic poem,
You are the anchor, the mirror reflecting the ephemeral and the eternity of dreams.
I'll whisk you off to Paris
I'll even fly the plane
There'll only be one passenger
And that one has your name
You'll sit right beside me
I'll show you how it's done
High above the ocean
Towards the rising sun
And then as we approach her
Awakening from the night
Drowsy streets and boulevards
That glorious City of Light!
Bon jour amour, good morning
Parlez vous Francais?
Don't worry, I don't either
We'll take a class one day
A quick nap then we'll get up
Walk to Arc de Triomphe
Arm in arm, boutiquing
For anything you want
May I please have the pleasure
Of taking you by hand?
A touch that I would treasure
My lady, you're so grand
And when day one is over
A toast of Veuve Clicquot
To you my precious sweetheart
Forever I'll you know
Paris has two nicknames
The one I wrote before
It's true, the lights are glorious
But the next one I like more
This name suits it better
It fits us like a glove
Beautiful together
In the City of Love
Little Yellow Bus
First day of school yellow bus stopping at the mailbox,
Bouncing down country roads - pausing next to city sidewalks.
Nothing seems to stop you not autumn rain nor sleet
Morning and by afternoon you travel busy roads and streets.
Traffic never phases you - you just motor on,
Following appointed routes - this your daily marathon.
Girls with pompoms, boys with bats, runners from a track meet,
Students ride of every age filling up your empty seats.
Stopping at the bus stop, not all cars stop too
Speeding past your warning, they haven’t got a clue.
Do you sigh when you rest within the bus brickyard
Or dream the school year yet to come riding lanes and boulevards?
First ride giggles, last ride whispers – all the in between –
Forgotten lunches, mittens, scarves – life’s signature you see.
We wait for your arrival, bus stop routine day-to-day,
Sometimes need to remember, you don’t come on Saturdays! Hooray!
Forget-me-nots share sighs of For-Heaven-sake's,
from boulevards to avenues, the streets -- speak.
City park use strengthens, as the day lengthens.
Doves charming swarms of drakes, tethering the lakes,
while the awesome vision enlightened the crowds,
frequent strolls beneath middays consoling breaks.
Wandering drifts of cloud-swept vistas abroad.
Smooth gushing sounds that the family film takes
of the small falls that meanders down the creek.
As the day lengthens, city park use strengthens.
Silence climbs, Forget-me-not steads mid handshakes.
A sofening touched a light aglow,
as a remote trail took a slight bend,
Saw nature pray o'er a sheet of snow,
twas but a gust of wind, to and fro,
I thought 'twas a hoot if I pretend.
Further down the bend had turned a bit,
now at the bottom of the foothills,
the park's bench, I saw the whole of it,
the stars were fantastic I admit,
to the whole, it was gifts of the wills.
The half-slept town lay barely ahead,
the late farmers market was open,
fresh was sold out, not much on the spread,
since they're closing, all half-priced instead,
I knew of it, I heard it spoken.
So where, with my bag of groceries,
as I walk along the boulevards,
stalks of leafy vegetables and cheese
while shops close, a late-night snack will please,
nice dress, pricey, best give my regards.
At last, my penthouse view of Paris,
a message from Mom who's in Boston,
Mom ... M]why there ... you lived here ... M]I don't miss,
You met Dad here ... M]well, he's on the list
Will I be them ... M]the next Jane Austen?
Genteel parade cascades in white trimmed linked,
though these blues, twenty-meter, inlander
also impressive, broad stretched branch, distinct
crown more stable. The Blue Jacaranda,
has smooth bark, aged scaly, bears enduring
violet flowers, panicles--cluster,
woody seed pods next. Flowers one month Spring,
one month Summer. Considered in danger
likewise, an invasive class, overrun
native class, but, concerned regions vary.
Ornamental tree ranks high, can't be done.
Surroundings and weather techniques, wary.
Streaked down the city's humming boulevards,
or nearby country lanes and quaint front yards.
I went to Europe, not knowing what to expect. I saw people, places and
things; My visit to Europe was like a fairytale come true. There were
palaces,houses,canals, boulevards, and Grand Central Stations.
These places were elegantly designed in European Architecture that
displayed European Culture.
Pictures of yesterday and today's leaders. Houses built right to each
other. Buildings with different colors and designs to match the
heavenly blue skies above. I left my heart in Europe,because everything
in Europe was picturesque.
Paris looked like it was built from Gold and Ivory. Everything extremely
beautiful. The peoples' of their lands seem friendly. I left my heart in
Europe, I do not know what to do. The United States is beautiful, and
special; but Europe is like another world to itself. I guess the best thing
to do is find a special place for Europe in my heart, because I'm in the
United States, and I only have one heart. I left my heart in Europe.
Thought of her is gallivanting
on the boulevards of my brain
like a wild river in spring
roused by the pouring rain.
Thought of her makes me alive
everytime my soul wants to surrender.
She's the reason I survive
the wild storm and raucous thunder.
For even if this mind does not care
whether this wretched body will live or die,
thought of her makes me aware,
and what makes me want to try.
Source Of Our Awareness Poetry Contest
Sponsored By: Unseeking Seeker
the watery tree in between my domestically pale fingers
pulls down the strings
deep silence of an acoustic guitar is melting
can't you resist looking at the haze
could you if you rise from curiousness
one and only wind knows
how to mindly splend doors
then close the same
slippers breath
but the maze
has been forgotten
by the polish fairytale my mother,
my non-word-honest mother
used to whisper
when boulevards were in shadows creep
however scares me no deep
Down distance streets distant days obscured
Visions of idle things resting in the weeds skeletal
Rusted eons have fallen machines dead
In their stance flies flicker and dance strange
Streets stretching off into complex patterns a city
Grid of a dead metropolis alternate realms
Realities a different shade of blue a red deeper
Like blood or a shade of rose a blue the sky clear
Ice on stretching seams leading away into
Unknown distances along strange streets,
Different highways or detonated boulevards the
Tanks roll or the boots match watching the rockets
Fly to war in the distance down different avenues
…of the world within worlds and without!
My dream vacation is to Paris, France,
I want to explore the avenues and hidden streets;
it is a beautiful city full of charm and history,
and at an outdoor café I will have some wine.
(And people watch)
I will gaze at famous monuments,
go to the top of the Eiffel Tower for a great view;
listen to street opera that breaks my heart,
and at a museum I will admire famous art.
(It could take days)
I want to drift down the Seine by boat,
see mossy tombs in cemeteries overflowing;
walk the cobbled boulevards in a raincoat,
go to Parc de Belleville to see the flowers.
(It will be magical)
_______________________
March 09, 2022
Poetry/Imagism/My Dream Vacation
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1437-643-09
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, My Dream Vacation
sponsor, L MILTON HANKINS, Judged 04/01/2022
Tenth Place
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