I'll loan you my own plugged nickel
if you have a red cent I may borrow
but swallow a dollar today
and you'll be passing the buck tomorrow
The Two-Cent Daffodil
My Nana Pat, with a careful hand and eye,
Would've loved this stamp, a piece of sky.
Two daffodils, sun-kissed and so bright,
Held in a square of soft, creamy light.
I can picture her now, with her albums open wide,
A small world of paper and ink by her side.
With tweezers so gentle, she'd settle each one,
A small victory savored beneath the afternoon sun.
This two-cent flower, a promise of spring,
Was the sort of small treasure she loved to bring
Into her collection, a record of place,
Each stamp a new story, a moment of grace.
And though she is gone, I can still see her smile,
In this tiny landscape, worth more than a while.
For this isn't just postage, but memory's art,
A daffodil blooming in a grandmother's heart.
Just one per cent’s enough in love,
Came a voice from clouds far above.
What about ninety nine?
Dubious, wait in a line--
Summon courage to make a move!
_______________________
Limerick |19.03.2025| love, humour
VEXED VARIATIONS
threadbare
& simple
ambiguous
austere
cutting-edge
succeeding
in
deepest
intervals
experimntal
immobilities
profundity
in
chance
encounters
condescencion
eccentric
harmonies
resonate
in
exigous
endurance
sans
audible
breaks
cautious
effusive
to
an
expansive
suspension
sheer
duration
in
feelings
of
resistance
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.
If you can't say something nice
It's best to say nothing at all
That is going to be me from now on
My humour is often misinterpreted
Causing an undesirable reaction
I wrongly assume everyone sees through it
And that IT IS simply humour
I apologize, but this is me
It is me to make light of situations
That are uncomfortable to deal with
We all have our own way of getting through
Mine is to rely on humour
It works a good percentage of the time
BUT NOT 100% OF THE TIME
Robins seem to enjoy my yard
Awaiting the coolness of dewed mornings
To awaken the wriggling worms
A seasonal offering favored by the feathered ones
Dandelion waiters tend to the color and flavor
Serving up “all natural”, organic, pesticide free offerings
They can vouch for the claim
As they have managed the place for 30 years
A bold red Cardinal sits atop a fence post preaching
A Beyonce’ butted ground hog scurries away
Doves coo from within the safety of the hedges
A house cat stalks them from a windowsill
Buds dance to the music of the wood winds
A sparrow choir sings an opening hymn
As a disinterested hawk rides the updrafts
A chipmunk takes his order to go
A tongue can lick
And a foot can kick ~
Whence cometh yon vapors
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.
The Still Innocent
Pockets an offered cent
The-Hundred-Times-Less-Than-A-Dollar
Only the crazy singly obliges a caller.
The Still Innocent
Always tightening fingers on a cent
Waits for The White Collar
For an honestly earned dollar
Or The Less Intellectual Blue
In many companies still true.
The No Longer Innocent
Perfectly knows the scent
Of the more-Than-A-Cent
And close to one, acts no Saint
Nor would his wishes repaint
Deprived of it simply faint …
The No-longer-Innocent
Is at heart rent
After an honest gift you sent
Valued but just above a cent.
The woman still innocent
Says “Enough that my Guy is a Gent”
Only a Real Rabblerouser
To ably sell her The Vile Intent
And A Buffeting Bulldozer
To have her bent …
The Still Innocent And The No Longer
Betray different hunger.
Whatever happened to coffee klatches
They disappeared when divine online
~ replaced batch coding patches
Scent
To buy not a cent
It sends out a smell
In scent
C(ent) what is dead
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
so much beauty
in this world
that I must blink
with astonishment
to hold back my tears.
If I could not blink
I fear, sixty per cent
of who I am,
would leave me,
in their abject eagerness
to kiss the earth.
If you can't say something nice
It's best to say nothing at all
That's going to be me from now on
My humour is often misinterpreted
Causing an undesirable reaction
I wrongly assume everyone sees through it
And that it IS simply humour
I apologize, but this is me
It has always been me to make light of situations
That is uncomfortable to deal with
We all have our own way of getting through
Mine is to rely on humour
It works a good percentage of the time
BUT NOT 100 PERCENT OF THE TIME
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