This is it,
In midst of chaos -primal
Greeny bloom woods,
Riseth the morning- alive
Is Sunshine a freedom?
Or a journey - lone
Wandering on paths - stray
Desires went abode
Yet on lane destiny- future
Memories meeked all momentum
Yearnings of purpose
Contradict the broughtup- slavery
Of genuine home- egypt
Where needs satiate,
Desires met slight,
Blurred every shades-plight
Stationed present edged
the motion independence
Weaved enough - aggravated
To find a sight - right
Now, ye discern
Of way sorjournees
Who sought only physical
Lapsed away from the head - eternal
Me - desperately denied
as them few - natural
Looking forth unto hills - zion
On direction fifth
With faith bodacious - in above
Walking cadence towards
works which setteth- beforehand
Not to prove, but to love
As a faithful bride
In the end.
Its not what you see..Always..Who can see always anyway.? Well I know.' I know
Silly question Father.' It was re...Oh you knew..' Anyway I..? No cause in reality me
Its not..Now say for instance i was
talking
On the phone no visuals..And i say you are a
Christian..And the answer comes no i
Am a muslim..? Now what can i do? if it was
Not ' my word?' I have to consider carefully, i cannot, never exclude God
He is inside me.' I must persevere in these
Earthly shoes.)
Closer to home are we
before being born,
existence is not
the place we belong.
Gone into exile
To be out of sight
Not because of crime
But base on devine
The plan is to win
Not to be seen always.
Gone into exile
Just to revive
Fighting to survive
Energy is contagious
Some people are draining
They leave when it's raining
Comes around when it becomes sunny.
Gone to exile
Not to hide
But to abide by the light
Delighted for self awareness
To be yourself
You have to master yourself
Self mastery is a power to endowed.
1. The Ancestors's Rhyme Royal
A drum still beats within the dusty earth,
The old bones whisper secrets to the wind,
Remembering what gave our spirit birth,
A path modern tongues have left behind.
But history's tune is never truly blind,
For moonlight drips on steel that feeds the past,
And ashes breath a truth built to long last. moment
2. The Clock's Complaint
The hanging clock upon the dusty wall
Does tick and count each moment of the day,
Observing every rise and every fall,
As life and love and laughter pass away.
It measures out the time we spend in play,
And though the hands move on with steady pace,
No hour can ever alter time and space.
3. A Silent Sea
The silent sea reflects the silver moon,
While gentle waves do wash the shore with ease,
Beneath the spell of midnight's sleepy tune.
No sound is heard that might the spirit tease,
But only the soft whispers of the breeze.
The lonely heart finds solace in this sight.
And rests within the quiet, starry night.
Exiled from home,
My heart is heavy
With an ever-present ache
Only family can heal
Clinging to the hope
Of being whole,
I spend each hour
In silent anguish
For grief has carved fresh wounds
Where waves of sorrow flood,
As I sink ever deeper
Into darkness
But as despair reaches
To pull me under
With her cold, unfeeling hands,
My soul refuses to drown
For I am buoyed by a love
That can never be taken,
And can never be broken,
Even as my heart breaks.
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.
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)
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