Midwinter feast-night
A black rune-stone blooms bright blue
Odin sends a heart
591.
Feast Day Prayer to Santa Muerte
Santa Muerte in rainbow this thy Feast Day
The day of your great & holy manifestation
As our protector every night & day
From the day of our creation to the day of our destruction
With your colors & emblems, you help & protect
Through the power of God, you become holy
This day to you is our greatest respect
For Holy Death can lead us to our God Almighty.
Amen.
-11/05/2017
(Dumarao)
*Occasional Prayers to Santa Muerte
The distinguished guests
raised their crystal goblets
toast the host's lavish,
midnight banquet.
A sudden, violent chill swept
the parlor as the grandfather
clock shrieked thirteen times.
The exquisite roast on the
tarnished platters abruptly
mutated into writhing,
maggot- infested human
limbs.
Horrified screams died in
their throats as the dining
room doors slammed shut
and vanished into the drywall.
They turned to flee, only to
realize they were chewing on
their own severed tongues.
Reunion of friends
Family, a crowd
Her fiftieth trends
Of her, we're proud
A model, she struts
Resplendent in blue
With signature, guts
Astride husband, true
Past, present, apart
To feast and dance
Next chapter to start
A risk, another chance
Ensues a warm glow
Asking, when next?
Meetings may flow
Pray not a mere text
pour me apple wine
and pour me red instead
what I meant to align
with cheese and bread
sundown apple crystalline
a bit of beef overfed
hearty paprika soup
better goulash, deep red
with rainbow salad scoop
and geripptes of apfelwein
children of hoarders
I imagine they are similar to children of ministers
they either embrace their parents’ lifestyle
or they run from it screaming
I see many of them living in a minimalist’s habitat
with few surroundings
whereas their siblings are also hoarders,
living in cluttered rooms with messy paths
I see many children of preachers, themselves preaching the word
getting the calling
whereas, their siblings are transsexual and will never go inside a church again
it is often feast or famine for these children
Pestilence rushes in like a river,
My heart beats faint,
My eyes run dry,
My frail body trembles,
Yet still, I refuse to die.
When my sun sinks beyond the hills,
I shall see Him,
And all will be well.
At His feast,
My hunger will he satisfy,
My tears will he wipe,
My wounds will he bind.
The past—just a shadow forgotten,
A new dawn will rise.
But for now,
I embrace my pain with a smile.
She moves catlike
her ebony braid
swishing majestic
in pearly moonlight
and vaporous penumbra.
Raising a chalice
jade and bejewelled
the lithe shadow
samples golden droplets
of honeyed wine
anointed silently
at a feast
of grace.
I’m a castaway because
Some officials gone mad
Even if I don’t fight wars
Others think I thrive from that
Maybe it’s an old prejudice
Or perhaps a different game
That I seem a bit too dangerous
Though they know I’m quite the same
And their dodgy politicians
Understand it, but they won’t
Change a thing in this fictitious
Little spamming world they own
So I’m humming my old tune
It’s Debussy-like, quite vague
Setting table at the noon
For the feast in time of plague.
disemboweled squirrel
left in road by speeding ford
turkey buzzard feast
There was a cat who used up her lives of nine
Feasting upon caviar and mulled wine
She went out like a light
On Christmas Eve night
And her owner passed away the same time.
Yesterday's feast was most extravagant.
So much variety pleasing one and all...
Reminded many are less fortunate.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Ms. and Mr. Squirrel — small, fluffy, and sweet,
All suited and matched, looking perfectly neat.
The day is long, the occasion huge,
Thanksgiving it is, cheering in the festive surge.
It’s time to cook together, to craft a feast,
And welcome little squirrels to celebrate at least.
So Ms. and Mr. Squirrel get down to cook,
Roast turkey, mash with gravy, keep them on tenterhooks.
Cornbread and dinner rolls brighten the table,
Cranberry sauce, yam, casserole—classic and fable.
Pumpkin and pecan pie bring gentle sweetness,
Cinnamon drifts through the air in soft completeness.
Then Ms. and Mr. Squirrel guide all in sharing,
A Day wrapped in gratitude, warmth, and caring.
They revisit fond memories, voice wishes ahead,
And end the night in prayer, with hearts well-fed.
Another huge turkey was caught
The big pheasant was housed in the vault
For consumption
Not for admiration
I'm neither talking about the wild turkey
Who’s running for President
Nor the one which is a country
Now embroiled
And roiled in turmoil
I am talking about the noisy pheasant
That we all like to fest on the last Thursday
Of November every year, and on New Year’s Day.
I can’t wait to enjoy its thighs and wings
I can’t wait afterwards to make the swings
Squeak and cry, because we all weigh more
Than before: the skinny, the rich and the poor.
Happy Thanksgiving Day everybody
The President already pardoned a gorgeous turkey.
Hebert Logerie Wednesday, November 25, 2015
sunday tradition
grandma cooks a feast
forging memories
AP: 3rd place 2025
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