Flood tide on flood tide; a night
Of storms awash in.
Dear, as brief a time will run
This pillowed grieving.
Mood of a morning after?
Look of a land then?
Sweetest chirped, smile-budding cracked
Quickly forgetten!
If I die young,
bury me in satin —
lay me down gentle,
on a bed of roses.
Let the river take me,
but send me away
with the words of a love song.
When the world reminds you of me,
write me a poem.
Not just any poem,
a love poem —
one that keeps me close, even after.
Once upon his signet ring
a maxim true and wise,
Which, Gave him counsel,
for every change or chance:
'Even this shall pass away!'
II.
Trains through the sand
Brought gems
Fleets
Brought pearls
But Treasures wealth?
the King would say;
'Even this shall pass away.'
III.
In his court, the sport,
When the palms
Burned with clapping
He, Cried, O loving friends of mine!
'Even this shall pass away.'
IV.
Lady fairest his queen.Pillowed
Whispering to his soul,
Mortal flesh must come to clay:
'Even this shall pass away.'
V.
Fighting on Soldiers bleeding
Groaning Pain is hard to bear,
But with patience day by day,
'Even this shall pass away.'
VI.
Towering Twenty cubits in the air,
Rose statue carved in stone.
Gazing Asked
what is fame?
Fame is but a slow decay:
'Even this shall pass away.'
VII.
at the Gates of Gold,
Spake he
Life is done, but what is Death?
Fell a sunbeam on his ring,
Showing by a heavenly ray --
Even this shall pass away'
(Blackout of The King's Ring by Theodore Tilton)
Sometimes I wonder how we make it through a single day? The Light and the Darkness, the free thoughts and old fears. Eyes that tell the world of what a man has seen. And in this life, It is bound to be too much. As a child I found out one day, that love was mysteriously negotiable. I searched for the true kind and found a great love, yes one that had it all, the joy, the sorrow. We learn to make our way through that thick bramble, scratched, and a ragged heart, The doctors they can put hearts back together, leaving it up to you to let it get beat up again, in the tradition of all human families. I think back at all the drama of people living together, suffering the broken love, solemn faces held in the past, when days shone with the possibility of happiness. The stories tell of our plight, all those who survived the good, the bad and the ugly, and if possible, will probably do it again, until we learn just what it's trying to teach us, and where it will eventually take us.
1
Sure, one could try once, twice,
A thousand times to make sense
Out of fuzzy math, but that is akin to
Sticking out one's tongue to taste
The food one cannot eat; might as well
Put down the pen and close the book.
If you
have never
met me
or tried
to understand
who I am
then why
should
I value
your opinion
about who
I am
and what
I feel
as an
autistic
person
of color?
Note: Sometimes people take what I write too literally hence the need for these notes. That being said, I am not actually asking any questions with this poem. However, in the face of discrimination, this is a common internal and external monologue. If you are an autistic person of color reading this, I see you. You are brave and resilient. Do not let anyone try to break you.
The impact of a racist riot on a community is often exacerbated by recidivism—not just in terms of individual re-offending, but in the repetition of systemic violence and the cycle of trauma it inflicts on the masses. When these events occur, they are rarely isolated incidents; they are often the result of recurring patterns of unchecked prejudice and failed intervention.
For the public, this cycle creates a sense of perpetual instability. When the same ideologies and actors resurface to incite violence, it undermines social cohesion and signals that previous lessons were not learned. Breaking this cycle of recidivism requires more than just short-term consequences; it demands a collective commitment to addressing the root causes of racial animosity to ensure these destructive patterns do not repeat.
The two most dominant baseball pitchers of their eras
On the mound, neither was cute or clever
Each reared back and fired
No matter if they were dead-tired
Sandy Koufax and Nolan Ryan
Most batters gave up even tryin’
The great Yogi Berra once said
I understand how Koufax won 25 games last year”
But how he lost five games just isn’t clear”
Koufax deemed Ryan’s lack of pinpoint control his secret weapon
He labeled Ryan a wild bombardier
Who won games because his wayward 100 mph pitches instilled fear
I want you to show me how much you love me even more.
Holding me close, showing me how with angelic wings we would soar.
I'll do anything to keep your love safe within my essence's core.
Lillies placed upon your chest,
beneath the earth you're laid to rest.
I visit with tears to heal my soul,
they water the soil that's black as coal.
The earth is moving beneath my feet,
Your lillies have popped up from beneath.
I smile and take a refreshing breath,
The lillies have grown from your chest.
Straight from the womb and your heart,
You gave the lillies a good start.
We are strong and bold and beautiful,
My tears reached your soul it's undisputable.
In thy untroubled ashes may our distance be light.
We live in one another still.
Singles Awarness
Of them together he asked her to
Stay
Maybe us together we should start
To pray
He wished her the marrying type
But was to fool to ask
She just played alone like
She was part of a cast
Emotions ran high
He was wise enough to ask
Said "marry me the foolish one
we can do it fast"
Slow down hell no, but will marry you
Than the awkward foolishness
Would all be through
-------------------------------------
Call that man and tell him
you might have a freind
but you really single
the Valintines Gift was Useless
Happy Singles Awareness day!
The Poets are our quintessential rebellious, rebels
The Maroons, the Braves, and the Daredevils
There is a ton of biases even in simple poetry
The Poets are known to be born freedom fighters
The unafraidheroes of hell, the sweet bees
Which can sing and sting, and deliver honey
Even in Poetry, we encounter weird free-loaders
Sick unabashed orators and pusillanimous braggers.
The Poets are born to be different, legally liberal
Awkwardly conservative, strong ass-kickers
Blunt truth seekers, and not obedient ass-kissers
Call the generals, the Police, and bring the arsenal
Of bloated words, and epithets; dumb or foolish attributes
Write verses and elegiac poems to pay countless tributes
To the sorry plagiarists, and to the ill-polished writers
Nobody cares anymore about the well-versed truth tellers.
Copyright © November 2017, Hebert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
There is beauty in dying.
If but through what's left
Loose hanging, to fade
For garb, golden brown.
And in death? And more tasteful!
If only what lies
Wrapped in sham cotton
With pearl-like glints sown.
“Even the worst death I can imagine feels kinder than what men might do to me.”
I want to die —
drenched in blood,
rotting yet… dressed,
devoured in the jungle
because flesh is just flesh.
I want to die —
by suicide or by murder,
by ghost or by thunder,
by knife
or a blade’s blunder.
I want to die.
Yet I fear
a death that begins with hands,
with being forced,
with skin branded by bruise and rape.
I want to die —
but I fear screams for release,
a mouth stuffed with cloth,
a body stripped of its right to say no.
I might chase death —
crash my car,
taste rat’s poison —
yet I fear
the howls, the stares,
the cruelty of a predator in a man.
I want to see the world
after I am gone,
but I fear its disgust,
its questions
over my ruined corpse.
I want to die —
so people will finally cry for me,
but I fear my parents
bowing in shame to obscene pleas.
I want to die —
but I fear
dying simply for being a girl.
I want to love being dead as a girl,
yet I fear
being dead with remorse
for ever being a girl.
In puzzling out the mystery that surrounds you,
the enduring enigma of your radiant grace,
I consulted astrologers, wisemen, barometers, and saints
to conjure with your effect on the weather here,
miles and miles removed from your gentle influences,
and finally discovered the answer, written on the furthest stars,
sprinkled across the bosom of our landscape,
and nestled among the brambles and the flowers:
Even the sky misses you at night.
I've heard it sigh when you retire
and seen it smile when you awaken
to grace the waiting day.
Christopher M. Swan 2009
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