Father of modern fantasy, J. R R. Tolkein -
the languages he knew numbered seventeen!
A hobbit (though wrong-sized) he said he could be
loving his pipe, trees, plain food and rising belatedly
(Recalling a World Built on Wires and Whispers )
The sunlight felt warm ,
even when it came from a screen .
I wandered through a garden
stitched from circuits ,
blooms too perfect.
Every memory loops,
repeats like a
blue-toned animation .
Was I tainting the garden,
or being tainted by it?
Mechanical plumes
I once called flowers,
never knowing the wind
was a fan behind the scenery.
Vines climbed because
the script demanded it;
trees tickled softly like
grandfather’s clock.
Childhood built on
pre-rendered wonder.
Roots whispered in
binding petals,
unfolding by algorithm ,
not season.
Paper petals,
clockwork trees
humming in circuits,
puppet sunlight spilling
over silicon soil.
Even here,
the rules begin to fail.
Floors tilt,
descend,
the law that kept
reality upright
fractures .
During a witchcraft ritual
the human brain surreptitiously enters
the surreal states of elevated focus,
lofty emotion, and altered awareness,
as the spell acts as a powerful metaphor
for an internal intention or flustering fear.
People may feel like birds with frozen wings
under the misty sky, swept by the polar winds.
In the congealed hearts lapped by the Arctic sea
petrified emotions congeal, unexpressed.
Warm embrace of empathy they can’t proffer,
for they turn into cold unfeeling people.
People may feel as if their lives have changed
into desolate deserts where the oasis desiccates
in the blaze of their burning minds,
the fallen foliage of ardent passions glows,
doesn’t rustle with the fossil cadence of their hearts,
for they turn into wooden inert people.
Once the ritual concludes,
the cognitive system undergoes a sudden shift
with the intense concentration,
leading to a feeling of poignant emptiness,
excruciating exhaustion, or sudden susceptibility,
epitomizing the impulsive comedown
after a concerted emotional event.
Watch as an egg hatches a minute ago you held life
ponder and wonder at the mystery of it all, life
it comes in many shapes. types and sizes or
see it as one thing for less than a second.
In a flash it morphs into something new
thats the beauty of life often not what
you expected to see, like a caterpillar
next a beautiful butterfly suping on nectar.
There are many aspects of life few expected
let your mind drift and some will come to life
leading to a path that is rarely travelled
a path that takes you on the mysteries of life
(Unknown Is a Blessing)
Remembering the curse
of those I once thought gone—
gone before they even left.
Now I look in their eyes
and know exactly
what lingered inside.
But there is no closure.
Only unremembering ,
haunting me forever.
The unknown wakes,
stirring a silent revolt.
Whispers edge the sharp silhouettes ,
echoing,
lost in yesterday’s memory.
A clash unfolds in murmurs,
perspiring between
what was reality
and what was memory ,
and everything
that exists
between the unknown .
The echoes of what
was and what is collide,
and the unseen pulls at me
with persistent hands .
Shadows stretch,
memory twists,
and questions whisper
louder than answers .
Step closer again —
into the tremor of emotion,
where the mind resists ,
the heart remembers,
and the unknown
begins to speak.
The spiral continues ,
and you are invited
to follow.
Let us enter the Forest Primeval,
in search of that something within.
Stop, listen, and feel the appeal.
This first step is where we begin.
What you hear is not heard by your ears.
The smells are not sensed by your nose.
You see, but not through eyes full of tears.
What you feel is untouched by fingers or toes.
If persistent, you shall discover
what just might be a welcome delight.
For in here live unicorns, a new lover,
trolls, and even dragons to fight.
Whatever it is you desire in life
you can make it appear within,
far away from mundane troubles and strife.
Our Forest Primeval beckons: do come in.
Pinocchio broke down in tears and cried
For love had flown away and broke his pride
Though he has a wooden heart
It gets sore and it does smart
Not having his precious doll by his side.
You are truly loved Pinocchio dear
Of that you truly have nothing to fear
It is clear when you appear
To all you are someone dear
And your persona is still in top gear.
His sweetheart met him on a moonlit night
Beneath the stars the two cuddled up tight
Pinocchio's poor heart broke
When his sweet girl puppet spoke
And told him that for her he just wasn't right.
Rime Couee 1, 2, and 3
I.
Floating across a cool, bright beam
Drifting inside a peaceful dream
Sacred geometry
Builds the structures that bring great peace
Making the restless chaos cease
Engaging symmetry
II.
Envision Rowans in colors
Wing-ed bright spirits, light bearers
Green boughs of Oak shield you!
Gliding through enchanted grove space
Blessed by Moonlight's silver grace
Wheel of Seasons anew
III.
Floating in the oaken moon beam
Whispering ancient faery dreams
Dreamy knots-work sculptures
Star groves, my sparkly bright office!
Where this dreamer goes to practice
Intuitive culture
IV.
With psychic, angelic infrastructure!
Spiraling aloft!
can you imagine?
a sacred wonderland...
built
at the top of a mountain
for all of humanity
to peacefully co-exist,
a place where
no one gets ill,
no wars are fought,
to see
what true harmony looks like.
a place where
happiness forever endures;
there are no more shadows
to indicate
when somebody will die;
all quiet valleys
at rest.
just imagine...
p at the sky,
when one looks u
one finds peace...
a place where
transient times
do not remember
the flavor of death.
i am free
to live and thrive,
never feeling sorrow and pain
here, the spirit
wakes up into
a world without an end
here, the conquest of death
by happiness will be
as long-lasting as
the peace is.
a place known as...
new jerusalem
just imagine...
I tell you this as death draws near
As a cautionary tale, but not to fear
I now believe that a notion ingrained in us not to be true
The moment when we pass the lives we lived flash on through
I became aware as it began not long ago
Tiny fragments swaying to and fro
It happens when sleep draws close, a vignette whirs into view
Little threads to tug at and pursue
Gossamer strings of whispers float on by
Ghostly visages flicker like lighting streaks in the sky
Moments in time come from our past
We awake and remember how much we had forgotten as the years have been vast
Night after night new instants play out
Until you realize without a doubt
There will come a time when all the images disappear
The end has come, the light winks out, all will be clear.
To think of lands that don't exist
Except inside the writers mind
To ponder what new worlds look like
Then to decide to loose or bind
We now create what has not been
To think of lands that don't exist
There's knights that rescue kingdoms dear
Others that come from inside the mist
The writers muse is quite varied
It changes with each story told
To think of lands that don't exist
To then decide what will unfold
Excites me when I do it well
With pics the reader can't resist
To write one more is all I ask
To think of lands that don't exist
Hear my song of pain and despair
That Lead you to my shore
If you continue your journey
The ship will nearly wreck
Where past lovers have lost
Their fight in my war
No man has made it through
No stories have been told
Yet you cannot resist the sound
That echos in your mind
Makes you sleepless in the night
Many have tried and gave up the fight
Only Odysseus has athena on his side
A wise man he was to stray from the trail
For i am no less sad than sweet
Leaving the taste of bitter on your teeth
Be warned on your deathbed ill have you sleep
A forever was promised
But here i am alone to weep
My throne stands empty
Forever was just words
No wise man seeks
These are the tales of the wives
who do not speak
I once was walking, enjoying the view,
When I came across a weeping shrew.
“Little shrew, what’s wrong?” I stopped and asked.
He raised his weary eyes at last.
“I’m sick and tired of the fox and his games,
Of always being the one he blames.
I work so hard, I strive and strive,
Yet nothing seems to change my life.”
“Then why keep going? Just quit,” I sighed.
“Take no more—walk away with pride.”
“I have my young, their mouths to feed,
And every day brings something they need.
“The fox gives us food for the work that we do,
But keeps making trouble out of the blue.
I cannot leave, though I long to be free;
Too many at home depend upon me.”
“Don’t worry, little shrew,” I calmly replied,
“One day, you’ll leave all this behind.
No tyrant rules forever, you know;
Even the mightiest someday must go.
“The wrong he has done, the pain he gave,
Will follow him down to his lonely grave.
And when his shadow no longer remains,
You’ll walk as a free soul, released from your chains.”
The shrew wiped his tears and went on his way.
I watched till his small shape faded to gray.
We parted beneath the fading sun—
And I never saw him again, not once.
The letter l minuscule
Is taller than I majuscule
A.I.
Has more than one eye
Are you baffled or confused?
Are you troubled or amused?
A.I. is the elephant in the sky
Watch out for the evil eyes
A.I. was invented by zealous spies
A.I. is in the sky. A.I. is ubiquitous
Everybody is talking about this phenomenon
Nobody knows if A.I. is an angel or a demon
Yet, this bad boy or bad girl is complex and audacious
A.I. is flying high
Like a lie in the sky.
P.S. Leave AI alone.
Copyright © September 2026 Hébert Logerie. All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
Great poets need not worry.
Self-written dissertations or poems
Always lack heart, soul and harmony.
Self-written lyrics or poems
Are the products of raw science,
Not fine arts and literature.
Great poets, with wit, humor, and nature,
Have a divine style and an astute common sense.
Self-written poems lack the zeal and the spirit
That only human beings can display or exhibit.
Great poems come from the core of the heart,
Great poems come from the deep abyss of the soul.
Believe it or not, a machine can play a major part,
However, a masterpiece can only be conceived by the role
That a genius-artist and a scientist can play to end-up at an evolution.
Self-written poems lack the beauty and the innate composition.
P.S. This poem was written and revised before A.I.
Copyright © January 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry books.
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