Dictated Poems | Examples

The silence of black innocence

What should be an atmosphere of excitement 
Becomes something more deadly - more violent 
A child's first sound should be heard
Instead silence echoes

Even before life began 
A black baby understands
That in order to survive the world outside 
Their cries should be kept on the inside

How painfully sad 
That before it's existence 
It inherited generational silence 
Ones whispered through the branches of their ancestry 
The unspoken rules that come with the guide of how to survive - 
Being black and alive

There are way scarier things then the dark
Like the clothes on your chair, something innocent 
Becomes dark and twisted
Once the lights are off 
Morphing into shadows
Worse than any nightmare your mind to conjure
If you don't understand this metaphor 
I'm talking about the performative actions of the modern day oppressors 

How messed up 
That we live in a world 
That claims that us black people are the 'monsters'
Yet before our children are even born 
You've forced
Our sons and daughters 
Into a life dictated by silence

Different People Are Beautiful

It's quite a vague choice for beauty
As no two are the same.
Over time society has dictated
The "norms" of life's game.

Sadly the result is insult 
Of "abnormal" types of personality,
A tick or how some dress
Or even clear disability...

But the beauty of those different
Is how, without a word,
They improve the outlook of society
And ensure others like them are heard.

Just tell the disadvantaged
That something, by them, can't be done
And watch how their determination
Transcends the doubts of everyone!

The different can leave a defining mark
Penned in to human history.
They can broaden horizons, soften hearts
Unravel complex mystery.

It's strange how difference is attractive
Yet still rejected or looked down upon.
If the so called "normal" stop embracing the different
Then humanity will have gone.

The heroic villain

We are the villains in a story they spun
We get the villain arc without being a villain
The storyline of a traumatic childhood
Living under a shadow 
Constantly being misunderstood
Having to sacrifice ourselves for the greater good
Without being given credit of saving the world 

What they don't tell you is how the hero is the coward 
How the real villain was the 'hero' who lied about the villains worth
How they are the scum of the earth
How they are the devil's curse
How no matter how hard they try they will always be seen by the hero's words

Plot twist 
This happens in the real world 
This is a story well known
Where the villains were always good 
And the heroes were egotistical jerks 
Through their spiteful words
Masked by an image of fraudulent perfection
The 'villains' were the innocent black people 
The 'heroes' were the vindictive oppressors 
Who dictated the world through their racism
Their empire built of hatred
Their status crafted through their strategic lies 

The propaganda of their campaign for superiority 
Is everywhere can't you see 
Stop being blinded by your ignorance and open up your eyes

Algorithm And Blues

Gotta go to school it's the same old story
teach me a lesson would be good for me
learning all the rules five days of the week
don't fall behind don't think don't speak
gotta go to work it's the same sad story
get me a job that's sure to bore me
working for a wage five days of the week
don't step out of line don't think don't speak
gotta go to church it's the same sick story
wed me a wife who's bound to hound me
listen to her ***** each day of the week
don't fool around don't think don't speak
it's the way of the world the way of man
follow the herd don't say a word
all we can do is do all we can
so let's all dance to the same algorithm
everyone even you and me
dictated and played by the powers that be
me and you what have we got to lose
if we stay in line we'll be fine
and dance to the same algorithm and blues

The Camel

"A camel is an animal which all of us should thank, 
if we were desert travellers far from a water tank"

This was dictated by my 95 year old mother, from her childhood in the 1930's. I am trying to find the rest of the poem, but my searches have come up blank!
If anyone knows this poem, I would love to hear from you.

Getting old and grey

It seems that I am getting old and grey,
my body's also slowing down its pace.
But, I've still much to do, and much to say.

It seems to me that life is like a race,
It starts off fast with youth upon your side.
You swiftly run and barely leave a trace.

It seems each day is like a rolling tide
that ebbs and flows decisions are engaged.
And through each year no choice, we take the ride.

It seems before too long we're middle aged
more settled, future planned, yet to unfold.
Perspectives held when young have some-what changed.

It seems somehow, our lives become controlled
by forces unforeseen we cannot stop.
Dictated by our bodies growing old.

It seems that soon we'll have to close the shop,
and face the fact we can no longer be.
So, take the final journey to the top.

It seems the bucket list that is for me
is incomplete, therefore I'll have to stay.
Tick off the list to do and lots to see.

And I should really start this all today,
it seems that I am getting old and grey.

Acid Love

We can't tell whom we love
Even if someone who chase you
Seems perfect for your choosing
The heart can never be dictated
It's unpredictable when love hit you
It can never tell when and where
The heart fall for someone else
One thing for sure it can never tell
It can strike to fall without warning
The moment someone barge into
Your mind during your time of sleep
That's one clue your heart sense
Start beating uncontrollably mean
Often if you're busy you think of her
In you're free time you think of her
You're cautious when seeing her
Everything around seems topsy-turvy
In her presence or even thinking her
In all of these the heart is happy
This is what I mean to fall in love.

Comsi Comsa

What demands our attention today?  
A war devoid of consequences,  
Or a history shaped by creationism?  
A stillbirth born without shame?  
Vivid pain and haunting memories linger.  
A wedding absent of both bride and groom—  
Did we call for the ceremony too soon?  

The Gen Z lifestyle is riddled with artificial deceptions.  
An unforgettable presidential race stands as a historical disgrace.  
Did the pope truly have a closed casket,  
Or was it merely a non-cadaver?  

Platforms like Facebook are swarming with scammers—  
More than we've ever witnessed before.  
Referrals are obsolete;  
Being broke has become a norm,  
Your wallet may as well be smoking.  
Buy one, get one free—Temu’s prices tempt us all.  
This is the reality of U.S.-China trade tariffs.  

Are our lives dictated by the Bollywood Referrals Act?  
Isn’t that the truth?  
Comsi comsa.

It was true that I didn't have much ambition, but there should be a place for those without wings

It was true that I didn't have much ambition, but there should be a place for those without wings,
a better place than the usual one, where dreams flow like rivers at dusk,
how could anyone enjoy being woken up at 6:30 in the morning by an unrelenting clock,
to jump out of bed like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, without a script,
to swallow breakfast on the run, like a river pouring into the sea without knowing its fate,
to go to the bathroom and brush teeth and hair, like a cold, mechanical ritual,
to battle traffic, a chaotic dance of cars and horns on crowded streets,
just to arrive at a place where, essentially, you make a lot of money for someone else,
and you're asked to be grateful that you're allowed to sell your time in pieces.
But where is the place for dreamers, for those who walk unknown and free paths,
a place where mornings are not dictated by clocks, but by the song of morning birds,
where value is not measured in money, but in moments lived in harmony with oneself,
where gratitude is not demanded, but naturally springs from the joy of being and creating,
a place where each day is a blank canvas, and we are the artists of our own destinies.

A-holes

My father, complex, yet now understood,
His behavior was shaped by his neighborhood.
He called them "A-holes," and they called him the same, 
But the environment was really the one to blame. 
From giant beasts to tiny bugs in a dance, 
Our behaviors are dictated, not left to chance.
Imagine a world with less conflict and fights, 
Understanding our actions, seeing the lights. 
"A-holes" bring humor, a show to the stage, 
But empathy and patience, could lead to less rage.
So cheers to the "A-holes," amusing as they be, 
May their environments change, setting them free. 
For we are reflections, mere products of space, 
Finding our understanding in this human race.

Dictation From The Almighty Jehovah

The most beautiful proses or poems
Were divinely dictated by the Almighty.
I'm not immersing in some profound dreams.
Needless to say, I'm neither inebriated not crazy.

Believe me, just like the verses in the Bible,
Many poems came from the womb of inspiration,
However, the most powerful ones were scribbled
By the Spirit of a Higher Power through dictation.

After reading a few verses from some poetry books,
The words come out alive and move like sharks in hooks,
One can experience the very presence of a supernal being.
Poets of all style, in God's name, please do not to stop writing.

Copyright© February 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.

I'll Forever Be Your Ex-Wife

Shikata ga nai Poetry Contest
Silent One




My Dear,

The sun will rise tomorrow 
And there will be some sorrow
For I'll be out of your life
And I'll forever be your ex-wife

It saddens me to let go
However I need to grow
And blossom
Instead of playing possum

I need to get back on my feet
Instead of taking your back seat
It's like I was tied to your hands
And molded to your plans

Which was to be your slave
That you locked in your cave
It was ... always you being sated
And me being dictated

This one way street needed to end
And to cut ties now will be a godsend
For five years we had a bond
To death do us part, I now need to despond

This note should it find your ways
I truly wish you happier days
Shikata ga nai
I say a final goodbye

Dimmed Room

I play the burlgar of the gates 
Of the constant paradigm
Which states that never is too late
To clarify the hidden scheme
What makes the power powerful
What makes submission obligated
Could be an energy of fool, 
Collective fool that is dictated
To do the right, as it was taught 
But what seemed proper, fades with time
Appears another face of God
Unjustice gets a justify
The devil’s advocates have won
Concealed arrangement, sealed and signed
Was a conclusion, long foregone 
And what seemed fair, turns out a lie 
But as I crack the secret code
And enter in, I see the same
Dimmed room, as if it was foretold
To be repeated in the game.

Conspiracies

Whether it is a conspiracy theory or a conspiracy fact,
I don't concern myself with any of that.
I don't have any fear of world dominion.
From my perspective, it will never happen,
because at the end of this climate change misadventure,
everyone alive strong enough to survive will be dictated by nature.

what if a cobra swishes out of a sink

I have a large print Webster’s dictionary on my desk.
I flip through it and write down words that interest me.
Then I decide what kind of poem I am in the mood to write.
If I want an alliterative poem I choose lots of words in the same section.
dictionary, dictated, diaphragm, diagnosis, diabolical

If I feel like an acrostic poem, I make sure I am spelling the word right.
Acrostic poems do not do well if the initial word is misspelled.
Sometimes I wake up, look at the sink in the bathroom and think
What if a miniature alien crawled out of that drain?
What if a cobra swished out and bit me while I was brushing my teeth?

My imagination loves playing this kind of game.
What if the refrigerator came to life?
What if an opossum crawled out of the toaster?
What would I do? What would I say?
Would the opossum be able to talk? Would it be pink?

My muse Trixie likes playing with these kinds of ideas.
She throws things at me during the day and during my dream state.
I often wake up with an idea for a poem.
Unfortunately, that idea usually peters out and dies before breakfast.
I have probably lost as many ideas as I have ever had.

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