Light Source
circles earth's sphere
driving forces of darkness--
safe are cribs of men, animals
winged spirits rule god's world
Contest of Nette Onclaud
Pick A Pensee 2
Jul 1, 2025
If mothers didn't bear children,
laughter would turn into monotony:
can we imagine mankind's misery?
No infant would cry when they are hungry,
no noisy kids screaming and having fun!
Wouldn't God be mad at us,
calling us evil, selfish beings?
Wouldn't empty cribs not be rocked
while a sweet lullaby is not whispered?
A mother's duty is to bear healthy children,
God gave his blessing to devoted couples being
faithful to each other to bring forth their offspring:
how often does an unmarried mother sing?
The woman's role can be misunderstood,
many choose the single life, choosing freedom
from responsibility to pursue their dream:
have they regretted giving up their motherhood?
I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb’s now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
The commonplace
entertains the unspeakable.
Horror yellows in vaults.
It is all recorded, all labeled
all explained or condemned.
We keep the worst atrocities close,
create libraries to warehouse
the obscene and gruesome.
We have photographed
every current ghastly act.
Pundits endlessly debate
the proverbs of ancient spiders.
Dragons guard the cribs
of our future demons.
Serpents thought read our dreams.
Slaughter demands its place in the sun.
Who then are we
to command this tide of blood
that washes so viscously
against our feet?
Autumn
Let us begin in the current season, Not the season of beginnings but of seasoning.
Leaves bold
Wise, old
Winter
Hither it comes, white or gray, falling, failing, smarting, incredibly enlightening.
Lets go
New show
Spring
New birds of millenials herded into facebook frames, those cribs engaged with each month’s age. I look on, remembering how this boomer’s recollection is in a box, more than one.
Face crib
Ad lib
Summer
Watch those new birdies fly. Life is fleeting. Parents hold onto their wings, sometimes clipping. Grandparents no longer open their wallets to show their pride, but with much more intensity and videos, besides, put the kids front and center for thumbs up, hearts, exclamations, tears, never anger.
Emotes
Devotes
I love the month of February,
The coldest month of the season,
For an array of emotional reasons.
And yet, it feels like she is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amid treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
Feb is the month of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, Short, Pure, Dark, and Lovely; She's now
The celebratory month of Black History,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No swimmers on the wintry beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © February 2016, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry books.
We create androids, like God creates men.
To live forever, to live without sin.
The games of young boys, teach them how to be.
For one day they're gone, across land and sea.
The automatons, of the olden days.
A future vista, of new-fangled ways.
The blue of the sky, we cannot unlearn.
The moon's cold as ice, the sun can but burn.
The leaves are falling, dark clouds bring the rain.
Here you'll find the loss, equal to the gain.
Life on planet Earth, is a story told.
Of babes in their cribs, that one day grow old.
I never talked about the rooms
of orphans languishing in beds -
still corridors, like wombs,
that darkened pictures in our heads,
escorting us through tombs.
No unseeing their hopeless eyes,
tied in their cribs, such tiny souls -
and eerily, no cries.
Ceausescu's children paid their tolls
amidst the buzzing flies.
I could not save each child in need,
just one small baby, sweet and small -
more than just a good deed.
I wished that I could take them all,
and I will always bleed.
Fire pounds the walls of my brain,
Lights the rough inner surface,
Sheets it with a gold agony---
Rages through the different levels,
Scorches all my memories,
Leaving charred charcoal corpses---
Upward toward the nursery
Where Concepts, lined like infants in cotton cribs
Perish in their sleep
It's out there somewhere,
that marginal place where the elastic nature
of truth, reality,
the measure and fit of coffins,
baby cribs,
the doable dimensions of a a plasma screen
according to its scope, sufficiency, and relationship
to a plausible accommodation of any available space.
It’s the weight of a cut glass bowl of wine
on a rolling rowboat; anything that exceeds
an imprecise self-limiting amplitude
yet also be full or nearly so
to a hard to determine fill-line
of an existential brim or limit.
it is that overly deceptive inch, tittle, or quota,
a displacement that's great enough
to create its own capacity of
less or more.
We will know it
when the shrimp cocktail spills over
onto our dress shirt,
or when the cat starts to turn over the non-clumping clay
and silicone particles of its particular litter box
looking for where the bottom
is deep enough to cover the top.
The grown-ups did not feel, we thought,
We, students, never with them fought;
We recycled wastes, yet,
Out of these got cribs set;
We have, truly, a new fact taught...!
01 December 2022
The naked hills are clad in snow
Blurring the houses that line up in a row
The wind that blows is icy chill
Freezing cold is the water of the rill
Trees stand stripped and bare
But so much gaiety is in the air
Lightings from all houses shine
Sending out a radiance divine
Christmas trees stand finely decorated
Cribs are colorfully illuminated
The day has come when Christ was born
In our midst as the greatest boon
He came not in glory arrayed
But in a poor man’s rags clad
Took birth not in a palace of gold
But in a deserted manger of old
Poor shepherds were the sole witness
They beheld his radiant face in stillness
The whole world is under his magic sway
As love for all is his wondrous way
Jesus came down from Heaven on Earth
To offer the world its true mirth
To dole out the priceless treasure of peace
To see all bitterness and enmity cease
Merry ditties echo from every street
Children sing Christmas carols sweet
From angelic band, rises the lovely refrain
“Peace on Earth and goodwill to men"
Behold the radiant face in stillness of the night
Of the babe born to illumine the world in light
Nov.20. 2022
sewing elf with his knitted socks and his crocheted bibs
sits among the wild flowers, counting neonate nursery cribs.
stitching up mattress covers and fluffy pillows for the young.
he has a keen sense of humor and laughs like a beetle dung.
" Unforseen Evolution"
Meant for something better
Wait for me.... the world is changing!
I swear l will find you and when l am on top she will say l do it good this a journey of a lifetime in a Lexus without a nexus l was King in my nightmares only to be resurrected by the Knight in my dreams this tale is of royalty.
No plan l was scratching my head , no nosh it was water boy , no toys bro , just a base ball cap and a string for faith .
On my knees l was praying each and every day l saw an angel in my mento and she whispered you are a warrior keep your head up you are almost there.
Forget about the shortcuts , cutting corners l use the long road it got me safe on my feet when l landed l took a trip to Mars and the moon winked my approval for a chance at the hightable.
A tribal chief like Roman Reigns l am a champion , two formidable cribs with a pool and a jacuzzi , a German shepherd , one cat and thirteen fast cars the last disciple being him l am talking Mustangs.
A slice of cheese , cameras shooting , history being made and l ain't never going back to empty shelves and pockets this is my moment l am basking in.
Timberland
That
Of her spirit
Cribs mildly
Fairness about
Living organisms
And
Flowering plant
Within
Bees hum
Birds flutter
Gnawers
Are not so
Quiet and mystery
As arachnoids
Untangle their cobwebs
And
Within her mind
She generates
The sun
Gleaming from her
Soul
To yours
Written: September 29, 2022
Related Poems