Childlike innocence free of filters
expressing raw emotions of joy anger boredom
society's norms soon to censure
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Each day a blank canvas
I am the artist brandishing the brush
~ my life an art exhibit
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2025
I refuse to fit into
The boxes they made for me
Days will pass
Over millions of minutes, and
Every time you look
Somewhere out there,
New boxes are made for
The ones who don’t understand.
Maybe I’m wrong, but
All these boxes are imaginary.
They define everything about
The boxes they put you in.
Every box holds expectations, and
Right inside them is where they say you go
Dress boldly with artistic flair
Let your true awesome self shine through
~ there’s nobody quite like you
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 2nd place 2025
Grand gestures are not needed
warmth proves that one can love deeply
~ the heart finds its ways
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Someday I'll have
said all I have to say
but until then...
Hand me the microphone
let me speak my piece
without interruption without hesitation
Sit back and zip it
take a break
it's my turn
Facial expressions
carrying the first dreams
that have never
known the word impossible
Dreams sparkling
with tomorrow's victory dances,
belly laughs,
pure joy that multiplies
with every heartbeat!
Has she left me? I wonder.
‘It’ is not the same as it once was—
The passion and the playfulness,
The tumbling of words
Finding appreciative expression.
Bereft of ideas, bereft of thought,
All my efforts coming to naught.
Dreams of she holding me tight
Once sparked metaphors deep in the night.
Now, it’s ages anything was penned,
And this was never how it was meant.
Feelings, emotions, and love—
They are all very much there.
But nothing flows from me.
And that is so rare.
You, the readers, might as well ask:
“What the hell? Why the frustration?”
I’ll say, “That is not the question.
My beloved is with me- I don’t refuse
But I still wonder, where is my Muse?”
S-poken
A-rt
R-eceives
A-pplause,
H-aving
J-ust
A-dvanced
L-iterary
I-deas
L-ike
U-plifting
L-ine
©bfa050825
Monocrostic (Birthday of Sarah Jalilul)
A-im
N-either
T-o
O-ppose
N-ew
I-nsights
N-or
O-bstruct
Q-ueries
U-ntil
I-deas
D-o
D-etail
A-ll
M-essages
©bfa051025
Monocrostic (Birthday of Antonino F. Quiddam)
I need words to catch this fire,
this burning that eats me alive
like a wolf in my chest,
this storm that turns
my bones to water.
But words give me only
small, broken things:
love, need, want
each one is a tiny box
trying to hold the sea.
Still, I shout,
because this love is a wild horse
kicking to get out,
the sun breaking open inside me,
and words are all I have
to rope this thing
that runs between
my beating heart
and everyone who needs
to know what it means
to burn this bright.
with pen in hand
sonnets written on a scroll ~
love finds the answer
AP: 3rd place 2025
ahhh... the crisp feel of the new notebook
its spine never cracked open
its pages of virgin white perfectly aligned
awaiting their marching orders
eager for all and any pen markings
from sunday best handwriting to doodles
inviting playful interaction
your creative élan of spontaneity
random thoughts splashed on a page
scripted lines scribbled to offload
a mind seeking clarity, peace or absolution
seeking a semblance of order
of profound clarity or silly mischief
one page then another
the daily journal of a busy mind
in search of something
through self-expression
hoping to find it between
the whites of pages
and the ink of a ballpoint pen
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Everyone reads what I write,
Except the one it’s meant for.
She never do.
She never will.
And I ask myself,
Do these words mean anything,
Or are they just a lullaby
For a heart that forgot how to sleep?
Maybe I write to lie,
To pretend silence was a choice,
Not a sentence carved into me.
I stitched my mouth shut
With thread made of shame,
The same shame they threw at me
Just for existing,
Just for breathing wrong.
Now only the page listens.
It takes my guilt like it’s used to it,
Lets my ache spill and settle
Like smoke in a locked room,
And when I write,
I’m dragging up the ghost
Just to bury it again, deeper,
Like maybe this time
It’ll stay down.
This isn’t poetry.
It’s a body laid open.
Every reader,
A witness to the cut,
To the blood,
To the wound that never closed,
Except for the one
Who was supposed to see it.
Freedom is somewhat limited
In a so-called democratic society
At times, people cannot truly tell it like it is
People cannot vote freely
Without some restrictions or some stupidities
In order to weaken the disadvantaged
Even though the US first amendment guarantees
Freedom of speech, freedom of expression
To assemble peacefully, freedom of religion
Freedom is not what it is
It is not how it is articulated in the glossary
Freedom is relative, please
Do not say fire vociferously
Or yell gun in the theater
At church or in the street corner
You will be prosecuted
Freedom is not what it should be
It is not what the US Constitution intended
It to be
Freedom is somewhat controlled and limited.
Copyright © 2016 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.
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