They split the land, but not the pulse.
Roots remember what maps forget.
Every severed line still hums
with breath, with blood, with return.
They drew the map with ash and absence—
not to guide, but to erase.
Districts split like broken ribs,
each line a scalpel,
each vote a ghost.
We watched the ink dry on democracy’s skin,
while they called it strategy.
But we know the truth:
this is not representation.
It is redaction.
They called it strategy,
but we saw the autopsy.
Each district dissected,
each breath rerouted.
We do not consent to silence.
We are the roots beneath the fracture,
the pulse that refuses to be redacted.
We rise, not from permission—
but from memory.
London’s districts
Cricklewood, Greenford, and Edgware are nice districts of London; I lived there
Amazing moments, times, and emotions all of them. Wembley is my residence
Lovely nights, rainbow times, Wembley, and other districts gave me a great life
Lovely daily moods, amazing night desires, and colors, people, ladies, night lights
Oh, decadence! Why do you love me so much? How do I say thank you for my life?
Oh, decadence! Thank you for being my friend, and for all the unforgettable night moments
London’s districts, there are more magnetic places here, I love them. London’s dreams
London’s dream? No, it is a dream from London, ask for the photos, all are mine.
London, Central London, Westminster, Soho, Covent Garden, I love all of them.
Night
Life
London
I
Love
London
Budapest
Oh, my capital, so many times I am thinking about you
About the beautiful nights, pubs, women, streets, squares
Oh, passed beautiful decadent years, and times! Come!
Come back, please! I loved you and will love you. Nights
Yes, time is time. So many people have gone from my life
Hmm, how many passed away? I don’t know. Goodbye
Now in London. I love this city, the perfect metropolis in the world
Good to live here, so many beautiful places, and districts are here
Oh, the times, I remember all the hours from here in my time. Love
Where can I live? I have no home. I am a stray dog. Just walk and walk
But Hungary is my original home, yes, but someone holding me here
The love. Heavy to forget it. So bad. Yes, killed my life, held by God.
Budapest, I will live in you
When? I don’t know
Coming soon
Not alone
Who is she?
I don’t know
Vilmos
If I was gifted meant to be,
drift o'er the waves a shining sea,
shift the limbs and branched canopies,
sift the brambles edged a lea.
Might this time be of arrogance?
Contrite that plagues inheritance,
red light districts embarrass us,
whites of stars shift in defiance.
Be content in doing nothing,
A prudent soul would try to sing,
The student aimed degree missing,
Impudent tongue when found will swing.
Beautiful England, oh how beautiful its landscapes are
How wonderful its villages and towns are
How fascinating London and its districts are
My wonderful home has made a huge difference in my life
I will carry this city in my heart forever, it's my new life
Times change to the present day.
No woman would dare knock on doors
in districts that are unknown,
for rapists are ever-present
to satiate their selfish lusts.
Gossip is called chatting,
with persons completely unknown
inside a virtual world called the internet,
while children are advised
never to divulge their names
Today I have put on locks galore
on our stout front door,
I see to it that it is always
safely and robber-proof closed.
to strangers or unknown neighbours
as lurking paedophiles are oft unknown.
Nor are children allowed to roam
in parks or meadows or fields
for fear of being abducted
and lost forever more.
All this is now called progress,
but friend, forgive me for
I still yearn for the good old days
when we were worse off when we were born.
We all desire to be poets
we were born to write wanting this
be the Poe that we find so strange
be Emile with her enchantment
Being Brecht in definitive elucubrations
Being romantic realistic as Rousseau
or even internet literati,
minor court drama writers from our districts...
Well-known, consecrated poets
award winners...
We discovered that we are simple, mortal... not all dreams
take place...
But don't be discouraged
life is not just here and in this world...!
Block this, block that
Black this, black that
I am sick and tired
Of seeing the hatred
And the obvious prejudices
Destroying countries, counties
Districts and municipalities
Where biased authorities
And utterly corrupt and ornery judges
Rule like lions in the wild jungles.
Black this, black that
Block this, block that
Where nobody wins
And everybody loses
From venomous doses
Of ignorance and intolerance
We are all fraternal twins
With different level of shade and nuance
Oh! Nobody is perfect
And I am daringly correct
Like the angel snoring on the deck.
I have never seen a black country
I have never lived in a black county
Unfortunately nonsense prevails
And common sense is assailed
Oh! I will spare you the details
So you won’t faint, fade, fall and fail
As you lurk, search, muse and chase your tail
Black this, black that
Block this, block that.
Copyright © February 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
It's
funny
how some
career politicians
(are hollow politicians)
luxuriate outside their districts
(their slowely crumbling districts)
typically feeding their tired voting base
the same old yellowing crumbs about racism
bellowing how the man is keeping them down
barking from mansions about how horrible we are
while they're booties grow fat off divisive rhetoric
lies and distortion sucking joy from their faces
seeing through the fish-eyed lens of racism
but the poor sheep keep voting them in
for decade after bleating decade.
Snakes will devour their own tails
sheep will travel in tighter circles
hawks are decending upon them
its shopping day for buzzards
hearts filled with mayhem
a pair of snake eyes
poking out from
the skin
of the
good
folk
We've been played
again
for the sake of ratings
by media mongrels
rewinding the worst of mankind
in in the bowel of primetime
24/7/365 (hog)feed
leaving us completely cleaved
and bloodied..
We've been played
again
by big pharma (those lords of greed)
poisoning the sheep for short term profit
pushing addictive chemicals and vague vaccines
well aware of the (Bill Gates) of hell they're opening.
We've been played
again
by ogre run governments
(those harlots for a vote)
with porous/no border policies
citizenships handed out (not by merit as with CANADA)
but by one armed bandit lotteries.
Infesting districts and house seats one by one
with grabbers -never givers
Anti-American haters and Master race baiters
flag burning bottom feeders...
pursuers not of happiness
but of mayhem and anarchy
Godless creatures of the
anti-everything.
"How sweet to the heart are the scenes of my childhood"
Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842
I remember my good old childhood days ~
feasting on fresh fruits, playing indoor games,
sharing home made meals - memory that stays!
Calling each other by naughty nicknames,
driving to nearby districts for weddings;
frozen in mind, those indelible frames!
Attending all cottage prayer meetings,
learning to cycle mid falls and bruises,
being on time for thanksgiving greetings;
playing catch with friends, fights and excuses,
watching cartoons, Shaktimaan* episodes;
we were free from worries and abuses!
Family together time at crossroads ~
that's what I recall as flashback implodes.
*Shaktimaan - a Superhero serial
11.19.2020
For Constance La France's "Terza Rima form" contest
Last night
I had a dream
You came touching my chest
But couldn't find my heart
You became a storyteller
Telling stories like ancient writers
And my skin fell into silence
Listening to the orders from
your body
You smiled
Called my name like it had never been
Hugged me closer to your thoughts
And break my lips like a holy
communion
I smiled too
Loitering every place on your
beautiful skin
Clustered within my feelings
I saw the red light districts in
your body
We talked
I looked through your words
And found my name written in it
Like a movie, I watched a star in the
midnight sky
Your kisses were legendary
Cause I felt like a salty body
of water
While your touches cry me a river
Leaving me with chills and
goosebumps
You created a pool of love
Then, I swam naked next to you
Held you by the hands gently
And said 'Happy birthday queen'
TV
It is a strange country Portugal
You switch on the Tv, and there
are song and dance
From different districts
The formula is always the same someone a tune
People are familiar too, and there are two dancing girls
Moving about which appears unrehearsed
However, this doesn’t matter
They are famous in the local society.
The world is at a brink of war, but entertainment Is more critical.
Later in the evening, there is soccer that important
In Portugal, after a game, older men make
comment this is serious
bless them all, there is no war in Portugal
oft times brutal not so short,
but nasty acknowledgement,
(this anonymous, conscientious, efficacious...
frivolous gent writhes at bloody history),
yet mindful premeditated how to be worthy,
and now feels forced to be acquiescent
(as well other citizens might) calling
(er...actually writing), an August
aegis body vowing to be adherent
to codas, doctrine, ethos...adjacent
with government sanctioned destruction,
and indefinite adjournment
of peaceful coexistence with native peoples,
who never accepted unfair (raw deal) adjustment
(most often forced with violence) preceded,
and/or followed by admonishment
of aggressive, corrosive, deceptive...
indiscriminate butchering and adolescent
women and children,
an irrevocable Janus-faced advancement
fate awaiting all aboriginal tribes
fueled by advertisement frequently with bounty
fast forward to present age of affluent
price tag to lobby and or represent
deliberate gerrymandered voting districts,
where trumped up agent orange
iz new black aggrandizement
finds Donny Brooks saturing the media
with proclamation defamation of this very day
stigmatizing valuable news as so subtly "FAKE"!
Angels come down from heaven happy
Their sapphire wings tucked inside out
In trench coats on the subway launch
All spirits take mass transit at no cost
They also take rain for free
Keep it in gold lockets for later play
Flying is more of a convenience
But not good for reading books
On railroad lines while passing time
There are no brakes in heaven
So for a change of pace they ride
And travel light when on vacation
Earth is their favorite destination
Things that need high maintenance
Make them giggle and smile
Angels try to avoid crying
And high crime districts
For obvious reasons
They need to remain discreet
When trying to walk without feet
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