She stands there in front of the desserts
Like a porcelain doll that’s healthier than a stick
Her dark brown hair straighter than fir with a tiny smile
And a little voice in addition to Barley eyes looking nice in a Chocolate blouse
And blueberry pants
Though I cannot seem to place my proverbial finger on who she reminds me of
And can only guess her actual name which might not have any fame
I can imagine the little lady in a lemon top and cherry skirt dancing during a duet
Resting with a cold glass of pop between songs
It’s curious what the imagination shows us at any one time
Most of the time it’s something good but on rare occasion it isn’t
Even though it may seem like it is-such water that’s not really there
Or tourists on an Island who appear to be buccaneers
Wind whips ocean waves into a frenzy of frightening beauty. ~by Poet
I'm not an aficionado of the ocean,
Pacific Northwest beaches are rainy
and cold or too rainy, cold and foggy
or just plain cold and then just too windy.
Oceans are beautiful when in landscape paintings
and television documentaries,
in romantic stories of letters in bottles
cast into the vast sea by stranded buccaneers.
I prefer the sweet babbling brooks
meandering through green forests
in the foothills of the Cascade mountains,
and calm lakes reflecting Mount Rainier's beauty.
The ocean is both beautiful and strange
here near the mighty Puget Sound;
Orca occasionally wear a salmon hat
and no one really knows why.
The Octopus might be extraterrestrial,
which would explain random sightings of UAPs~
but honestly, in universal algorithms
of beauty, Cape Disappoint never disappoints.
Throughout the years, my kids had
A variety of hats,
Along with all the books and dolls
And games and baseball bats.
A few were parts of costumes
Or vacation souvenirs,
While others served as props
For princesses or buccaneers.
Though most have long been cast away,
Some managed to hang on –
The pirate and top hats are here;
The cowboy hats are gone.
Yet still, I felt a little pang
When throwing out the trash
And there, with all the magazines
Was something from the stash.
A plastic Viking headpiece
With, on either side, a horn.
I have a photo of my son
From when that hat was worn.
It served its purpose and is now
Bashed up and way too small.
Though I felt sad to throw it out,
My son won’t care at all.
My friend - I’ll call her Brandi -
asked where do you get all your candy?
I said you may find this hard to believe,
but I always keep a few Twix up my sleeve.
I read about buccaneers in history books,
And I thought where did pirates get their hooks?
Later, while researching various folklores,
The answer came to me: second hand stores!
My friend, who is a soothsayer,
told me never to date tennis players.
I thought this advice was really a gem,
because love means absolutely nothing to them!
It really is a bummer
when people say age is just a number.
I think it’s totally absurd.
Age is clearly a word!
My ENT specialist, Doctor Jeff,
told me that I was going deaf.
About this - let me be clear -
the news was hard for me to hear.
While living on the shores of Avalon,
I ordered a chicken and an egg on Amazon.
Their delivery, however, was very slow.
Which came first? I’ll let you know.
He’s late-stage Charles Bukowski,
Hunching gnome-like over the bar,
With weary eyes, and scruffy stubble.
It’s sure he must have seen some trouble.
But he’s got plenty of cash in his pockets,
Along with the keys to a stolen car.
He smells of sea air, wet cement, and whiskey.
His tattoos could be urban graffiti,
Just random tags on ghetto limbs,
An ancient, coded treasure map
Charting landmarks through the route of his career.
He eyes a buxom tavern wench,
Who looks wholesome as a menthol cigarette,
And orders up another round for them all.
The Buccaneers’ Union provides him a generous pension.
He’s living his best life ever on a bounty of plundered loot.
Avast ye! Let’s drink to the golden years.
Unique time piece created by master clockmaker
Lying around on a desert isle, ready for a pirate taker
Not easy to move, won’t even budge the buccaneers said.
Wondering if inside it might be a ship full of the dead.
My country is the beautiful sun
My country is not the hard winter
My country is an often green Eden
Always languid and tropical at dawn.
It’s a country where the crowing of roosters
Revives everybody every morning
It’s a country furnished with filthy slush and rocks
Where nature is a vast and miserable garden.
It's a country full of horrid stories
Where slaves and decent people are revolted
Against greedy settlers and bloody buccaneers
It’s where only macabre memories exist.
In this awful and morose atmosphere
Where I banter all that is negative
I will build positive monuments
I will dream and recite fables.
My country is the moonlight
Which gives hope and strength to fight
Against masked and zombified
Bogeymen. Oh! God, I hold no grudges.
My country is the ever positive imagination
Presently, I don't want to denounce anyone
However, I will silence the chiming bells
Oh! It's sad to see my people on the exodus
Near the evacuative shores.
P.S. Gilles Vigneault, this poem is
For you and our people.
Copyright © January 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
quarterback
Patrick Mahomes
Kansas City Chiefs
quarterback
Tom Brady
Tampa Bay Buccaneers
Big black bugs
Beasts and
Butterflies
Befitting
Betsy’s
Beauty
Betting
Beyond
Belief
Both
Boys
Begin
Betting
Bigtime
Believing beyond belly laughs and sunbeams
They both traveled by boat and bird into Bali
Brave buccaneers breezing along brilliantly
Bye! We bellowed Big buds
Buried beside boy began by
Beseeching both beyond a
Bigmouthed bee be bright?
Boisterous bigwigs buried both basic beliefs
Butterflies and bumblebees began blowing
Bubbles amid bumper crop of begonias.
Before
Toussaint and Dessalines
It was nothingness
Organs, guts and spleens
Of our ancestors could be found alongside the roads
Many fleeing poor slaves in disarray
Were treated worse than animals
Oh! It's hard to find the words
To describe the usual carnage
From the time of slavery.
Before
The Battle of Vertières
Graveyards and cemeteries
Were virtually everywhere
Before
Pétion and Boukman
Christopher and Biassou
It was slavery
Blacks and Indians were considered savages
Worse than animals
Were humiliated, lynched, tortured, massacred, and killed
By adventurers, buccaneers, hyenas, deplorables, freebooters
Pirates, motherless bastards and marauders of the time
In search of sugar, foodstuffs, indigo and gold.
Copyright © June 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Standing at the edge of the bay,
I imagine a watery grave where lie
Remains of an old Spanish galleon
Laden with silver coins encrusted
Barnacles and unsalvaged treasure,
Where once the buccaneers partied
After a successful foray in a placid sea
In those moments I dance a sarabande
As my vivid imagination runs amok.
written January 5, 2022
Quarterback Tom Brady proved he was not too old to play.
He won the Super Bowl for his new team in Tampa Bay.
By a 31-9 score, Brady led the Buccaneers to victory.
The losing team was the Chiefs from Kansas City.
After the results in Super Bowl number fifty-five,
at the age of forty-three, Brady can still thrive.
The Kansas City Chiefs will try
To chop the Buccaneers down
But the boss Tom Brady
Isn't messing around
He'll throw more touchdowns
Than the law allows
Snatching out the Chief's
Feathers, making his fans proud
PORT ROYAL
You want to see the fate that was Port Royal’s?
Then let me flyyou back three hundred years:
look in this tavern, see those buccaneers,
flushed more from fiery grog than honest toils,
who soon would dice away their ill-won spoils;
then hear the thunder roaring in their ears
as underfoot all firmness disappears
and round their throats the rising ocean boils!
Now marvel as this port, the stamping-ground
of pirates on their hellish pleasures bent,
by quake and flood is shaken flat and drowned.
Then tell me, when that fury has been spent,
if you, like some, believe that God had frowned
on Man and to his anger given vent!
Port Royal, Jamaica, 1672
Like wild buccaneers
on a partying raid,
they came ashore.
Fierce waters and winds
wielding their destructive swords
grabbing defenceless trees by the necks:
viciously shaking their hair-like foliage heads;
bending their backs; snatching them up
and throwing them here and there.
With torrential forces,
the marauding buccaneering
waters and winds leveled mortared
and boarded constructions
as if they were thatched huts of shade.
Young and old beings
became like unripe and ripened fruits
consumed by the ravaging forces of nature.
Behind, lay skeletal fields and sandy shores
laden with rampaged debris.
Satisfied with the fun and booty,
the buccaneering twins
return to their seafaring sails
in search of more up roaring.
Meanwhile, the prodigal Sun returns,
reflecting dry salty tears
pasted on the faces of those
who must now iron out their wrinkled lives.
In the aftermath, Nature makes no apologies
and God can’t be cursed.
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