I got lost coming home tonight
To my surprise, the room was empty
You were not there, sweetie
The bed was made and the floor was bright.
I miss you, I miss you dearly
The room was very cold and sad
Like a lover who’s desperate and mad
Frankly, my heart felt weak and empty.
Your shadow was absent
Your silhouette was inexistent
You were not present in the room.
One can effortlessly hear a domestic silence
Which was afraid to bother the broom
I’m lost again. I lost my common sense.
Copyright © July 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
I
At eleven, Tehran’s burning blaze,
Sleeve rolled high to meet the weight,
A Guard’s cold fist—a question raised—
A scar that shapes my fragile fate.
II
At sixteen, classroom doors collide,
Boots thunder on the worn-out floor,
“Routine check,” their steely stride,
Rifles poised like silent war.
Her smile hides behind the page,
Formulas I cannot solve,
I tear her photo, cage my rage—
Winter’s frost begins to dissolve.
III
Seventeen, chalk dust marks the fight,
Bishops, knights, and rooks aligned,
Till shadows snuff the flickering light,
Dreams crushed, erased, confined.
IV
At twenty-two, Azad’s hall,
I face Tehran’s chess command,
My mother’s voice, a cautious call,
Security strikes its hand.
Pieces fall in frozen rows,
Prayers lost at border lines,
Silent tales the exile knows—
A country held by tighter binds.
V
At airports, stamps seal the board,
Squares crossed off the life once known,
Chalk dust and cold photos stored,
Weights of games I’ve yet to own.
VI
Endgame looms—a final test,
Between the past and what will be,
I dream in Persian, holding rest—
Sometimes to win is to break free.
Ever since I left you
the sky has been too narrow
and the light too heavy
and I inhabit the flatlands
like an exile, dreaming of
the Blood of Christ mountains
and mesquite.
The scent of silver sage
is the perfume you wore
the day you seduced me
as I wandered your streets
with my soul still echoing
from canyon walls,
and the hush hadn’t yet left me.
And the flute players—
Peruvian, you said—
sent up aching hymns
like smoke from a holy fire,
curling through my ribs
and loosening something
I hadn’t known was too tight.
Outside your chapel stood
a bush robed with rosaries—
garlands of pearl and plastic,
turquoise, wood, and glass,
whispering in the wind
like the prayers of strangers
I suddenly understood.
Inside, the hush was deeper,
diffusing the golden light
that illuminated
your impossible staircase
spiraling upward without anchor,
floating like belief
in the absence of proof.
I’ve lived as an exile
ever since I left your arms —
under flat songless skies
where nothing echoes.
But I still long for your embrace,
and there will always be
a hole in my heart
the shape of Santa Fe.
In the endless exile, where dreams melt like snowflakes under the sun,
I discovered a secret world, woven from threads of shadow and light,
where each step on the solitary path became a dance of falling stars,
and loneliness transformed into a siren's song, drawing me into the depths.
I was enveloped by a wave of humility, an ocean of tranquility where time loses its shape,
and there, between the velvet sky and the silk earth, I learned to listen,
to decipher the stories of the wind that whispers the forgotten secrets of the world,
in an ancient language, understood only by me, like a magical incantation.
This isolation, like a labyrinth of mirrors, reflected the face of my soul,
stripped my heart of illusions and regrets, leaving only the pure essence of being,
a flame dancing in a crystal candle, illuminating the path to truth,
where words become unseen bridges between silence and wisdom.
In exile, I encountered eternity in a moment, an endless journey,
where I learned that my language is a tree with deep roots,
planted in the soil of memory and desire, growing towards the sky of hope,
a song of the universe, in which each verse is a window to infinity.
My bewitched heart is bleeding
The burden of the banished
Bubbly times we buried into eachother
The butterfly of my dreams
Though bleak times never seemed so bad
They came at dawn, no warning sound..
Just boots on concrete, bodies bound.
A flashing light, a tightened cuff..
No time to scream, no time enough.
They scanned my skin, a black ink mark..
A symbol small, but fate was stark.
No gang, no crime, no war I waged..
Yet still they locked me in this cage.
A land so far, no kin, no face..
Just iron bars and empty space.
The echoes hum, the cold walls stare..
A name reduced to numbers there.
The air is thick with cries and chains..
A past dissolved in acid rains.
I close my eyes, but home’s not near..
Just nights that whisper endless fear.
What crime is this? What lie was spun?
To steal a life before it’s run?
A mark, a stain, that’s all they see..
And now this hell is home to me.
A ruinous filth spills onto the page
Like sap from a trees rotting heart
Hands covered in black
The speaker of my memories
Smooth and razor thin
An emissary of ink
I envy the pen and it’s melan-written spiels
Armored with a voiceless vignette
It is its only way to prove that it’s master is alive
Feverishly pushing its point to a fading death
Is this the fate of all who pick up a pen,
or am I the unlucky who withers among the living
Buried and fossilized beneath a healthy pink tongue
Are my words not memorable ?
Will my efforts be admired?
Have I not earned a meaningful epilogue?
Sometimes it is hard to see God’s grace
Sometimes all I can do is be obedient with a smile on my face
Sometimes I can’t count it joy
Sometimes I become annoyed and annoy
Sometimes God in the cleft is His placement of place
Sometimes we will be exiled to isles
Sometimes the ashen gray of walls in cells
Sometimes I need Gilead’s balm
Sometimes I need to pray a psalm
God protects us with His wings or His angels
Sometimes as the Apostle John
Hetoimazo atimazo hyper ton Theon
Sometimes as the Apostle Paul
And Jeremiah during Jerusalem’s fall
God will always provide the proper direction
A way out He will always provide
If our will with God’s will coincide
To think His thoughts after Him
To bring all our struggles and cares to Him
Enduring as a soldier or Christ’s bride
The exile of a writer is God’s protection
To head in His direction
Of course, we are all sinners fallen short
Accused continually in God’s court
Remember this is under God’s discretion
Sometimes see that God is graciously
Protecting you even if confined spaciously
From others and ourselves
Searching the depths, the Spirit delves
Advancing one and the many patiently
It's a question of what you can do.
Well, I can work.
That's what I can do.
Yet, I can't be with people or be friendly.
I just don't have it within me.
That's why I'm outside.
For this, I remain on my hill, on my descent.
It's a crescent just for you and me.
Just think, it's a fact, and that's just the way it is.
Can we agree now that this 'it' has always been?
This way been it, and this way will be it.
The way in the future.
In the way of our kids.
Yes, I can work.
That's what I can do.
Everybody else knows how to play ball.
I've never learned how to play ball.
So the ball don't play me too.
In the interview board of the portfolio
The question asked,
How so? Is it not fornication?
The ripley's reply was negative.
“As you shifted the family tree into a money plant
This is basically a spine inclination in influencing.
The shadow and the light. And the gray in daylight.
The intrepid tree shall learn to grow there. There.”
The question paper was asking again. “P.O Box?”
The mustang speed in the reply came, “ Digital, greetings?”
“You tell me, at all. Since it is all about you. Is it not?”
Pondarance.
Stress or,
May or,
Say or,
Vit D Organic!
Lines. Line breaks. Different strokes. Different brushes.
To spell oracle these days you need simply three.
Wind catcher sounds
“P-reach”, Saucer and UFO!
The price of decency in today’s world
Is the same as it has always been:
Your liberty or your life.
If you give a moose a muffin
After all
Next you’ll have to invite them in
For a glass of milk.
And we all know how difficult it is
To get a moose to leave your kitchen.
And so it goes for the illegals
Flooding the open borders
Or the squatters trespassing
Into empty homes
Or the homeless and hapless
Stealing and vandalizing with impunity.
If you’re a decent person today
The lawless will walk all over you.
And those who enable and encourage
Such lawlessness, remain protected
Whilst whistleblowers of all stripes,
From Julian Assange to Seth Rich,
End up in exile or simply dead.
There you have it.
Exile and death.
The future of human decency.
(3/22/24)
You, gorgeous Muse, with velvety skin
The sugary sap of my poetic pen
And the sole labyrinth of my soul
You inspire me and I adore you.
You are my perennial spring smile
The garden of my ethereal flowers
The leitmotif of my dreams in exile
And the fictional oasis of the fall showers.
You are the guardian angel who's never absent
And the devoted hope with multifarious scent
You never say no, no. Oh! Eternal is your beauty.
Woman, Woman, Muse of Saint-Valentine
Your sweet perfume seduces my whole being
And your maternal voice rocks me daily like a baby.
Copyright © January 14,2015 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
Suffer for awhile
As angry waves rushes ashore
Reign peace in exile.
The acceptable mask, through an endless night's past,
Dawn's meeting of eyes— more than simple strain, she cries.
millennial love
apple worm in fruit salad
bitter beginning
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