I’m not emotionally evasive.
Don’t admire me from a distance.
Let's not waste time pretending.
Skip the decorative speech of poetry.
What we’re about isn’t moonlight and flowers,
it’s that common-coin of light comedy—sex.
If intimacy is a sequence of permissions,
take what I have—I want you close.
Let’s abandon polite fiction,
get with the friction,
and form a pleasurable, pleasure dependence
.
.
A song for this:
Get Me by Everything But the Girl
I sit in a nook
With a cozy book
Enid Blyton sparks
Jane Austen left marks
"Little women" read
Sherlock Holmes ahead
"Hound of Baskervilles" -
Mystery that thrills
"Wuthering Heights" shook
"Jane Eyre" - a cool book
O. Henry delights
Tolstoy - I reach heights
Shakespeare - can't forget
None as good as yet;
Poets so many
Inspired by plenty
Imagination
Book world's creation
Happy to be there
With nary a care
Travel round the world
Into new zones hurled
Master my diction
Power of fiction
My love of books changes the mood that I’m in.
And engages me in a life other than my own.
A life that I can relive in my mind
And feel love, loss, joy, and despair in my heart.
The power of storytelling can make me feel young or old,
A mystery writer like Edgar Allan Poe
Or a master in brilliant colors like Michelangelo.
A gymnast with artistic expression,
Or a leisure bicyclist riding along the road.
Or on a luxurious voyaging Caribbean ship,
Or a pirate ship raiding the seas.
Hiking in the beautiful wooded mountains,
Or freshwater fishing off the shore or in a small boat.
I can be Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson solving a mystery.
I can laugh with all my heart and soul,
Or I can grieve a death.
The power of fiction can empower me to be anything I want to be.
Tense, to create my own reality
Create my own world in my mind
The mind is so creative when given a vision,
A feeling; one can create and escape into it.
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
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.
The power of fiction, classified- untrue
Imaginative stories precisely on cue
Through ordinary people found in their mind
Aliens, monsters whatever they find
As they search for a person, a place, or things
Santa, utopia... a horse with some wings
They search deep in their heads expanding their brains
To find yellow submarines and Alice in chains
Tiny Tim, Thumbelina and Little Bo Peep...
the shepherdess girl who fell fast asleep
Superman, Spiderman, Batman and the Cat Woman too
Little Jack Horner and Little Boy Blue
The power of fiction makes falsehood look real
Like an octagon seesaw and a triangle wheel
Even a person with the lowest IQ
Can tell imaginative stories just like me and you
Wobbling, whistling down the street,
I think "What could be more sweet?"
than "lost in a lost world" and
"stranger in a strange land"
could in the lines of this poem meet.
The splendor of books enthralled me early in life,
being attracted by the weird animations imprinted in them.
The nascent imagination of the five-year old
morphed within me as an exploring book worm.
I grew up with other timely interests in the transit,
many passing passions came and went,
but looking for mystery the childhood book worm grew
as a constant companion creeping secretively in my head.
The lure of books attracted me to the bookstores
like an obsessed honey bee to the posy of flowers.
I enjoyed the flavor of the mystifying nectar,
concealed in the suspense scripted by Doyle or Christie.
In my journey through the corridors of unveiling mystery,
created by Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot,
I took up their roles till I reached the precinct of the last pages
where the ace sleuths solved the enigmatic puzzles.
Although my old myopic eyes degenerated very much,
the strain over the years made the failing vision blurred,
the senile book worm still crawls to find the mystery clues,
letting me feel the power of fiction.
They see a shape upon a screen,
A boundary measured, sharp and small,
A box of miles, a cube defined,
With finite length and structured wall.
But like the blue box in the storm,
Or nesting dolls of painted wood,
The outside is a gentle cloak
For depth that can’t be understood.
For look closely at the coastline’s edge,
Where rivers turn to starlight swirls,
You dive into a single drop
To find a thousand hidden worlds.
And in the deepest, quiet space,
Buried within the patterned trace,
A perfect baby universe
Reflects the Father’s starting place.
This is the map of how we live,
The spark of bird, the breath of man,
Each soul a wave of energy
Returning where it first began.
Into the great and golden cube,
Where rest and vibrant rivers meet,
An endless territory wakes
Beneath our unencumbered feet.
And just when every world seems full,
The Master takes the cosmic pen,
To fold the fabric back once more
And bid the new earth start again.
A tapestry of worlds in worlds,
Where life expands and never ends,
And every soul that passed to peace
Deep in the fractal grace ascends.
If it is conceived by the mind,
sanctioned by the heart,
it’s not fiction, a measure
of the real in every storied work.
Above me is a shelf-full having outlived
their authors, many their civilizations
along with their gods. There are not fictions!
Instead, transitory dimensions of being --
journeys limited only by one’s dragging
imagination --
I will consign a heaven where poets are
royalty; seated on thrones surrounded by
fawning fans. We autograph their copies as
they wipe our profuse brows, having laboriously
bleed one’s soul into the pages. Wherever
they are future carried and read, we are also there,
spirit cursing through Time’s Lyric Arteries….
The ancient Mariner!
That raging infernal!
Am I not the saga of my parent’s love,
each a manufacture of our God?
There is no fiction after the fact.
And woe to you, critics and editors,
savage murders of my fond text!
I no longer use my head, and have a lengthening face.
I barely belong to the human race.
I don't think it's normal or a matter of course,
that in the fullness of time, I should become a horse.
Yet, if it's come to this, on this strange day,
don't sit there. Saddle me up and feed me hay.
We ride the shimmer, stardust spun/
Between the birth of dying suns/
A groove of galaxies unwinds/
The pulse of silence, vast, sublime/
Nebulae breathe, in violet streams/
We waltz on waves of astral dreams/
Comet tails curl, a cosmic tune/
Our shadows cast by fractured moons/
Through veils of gas and drifting light,
We pass from day into the night/
Where gravity’s embrace is loose
We dance, unanchored, star-induced/
Electric hearts, in sync, align
With every ancient, pulsing sign/
We cross the nebula, become
A groove eternal, endless drum/
And when the universe exhales
Its secrets, stardust, cosmic tales/
We’ll still be moving, you and I,
Across the nebula-lit sky/
Proposal
_____________
By: Muchov Nuttin
Ababstract
________________
To introduce vast amounts of sodium to rough raw sand aka silca.
Objective
------------------
To create sodium crystals that extract gold coloring from sand.
To extract iron from sad to create an ironized crystal.
Overall objective
----------------------------
To extract pure gold in large qualities.
Idea
----------
Using desert sand and beach sand
Injecting hot malta like sodium into
Both raw and rough( sand) materials.
To inspire an ironish state of matter
There red crystals can be visible known
Rubato odvious
to the visible eye as ironized silca.
There the extraction of gold can occur.
"Rubato Odvious" a state were the reds
indicate the presence of gold.
Profet Objective
-------------------------------------
To make this way of gold mining
the most profitable way of doing
So.
In the shadow of the colossal sphere, where ancient echoes sleep,
Vaeloria fades into the dark, a secret it must keep.
The watchers put their scopes away, the screens fade out to grey,
As morning calls the busy streets to meet another day.
No scholar marks the turning tide, no profit in the view,
For men forget the distant stars to chase what is brand new.
They walk through cities built of glass, untroubled, blind, and proud,
Unknowing that the selfsame veil is gathering like a cloud.
The rot that choked the Aethel Sea now crawls along their strand,
An unremembered resonance that slips across the land.
As silent as the giant orb that hid the world before,
The shadow comes to take their home, and lock them in its lore.
Through lenses cold and ground from mountain glass,
We watched the dying worlds of iron pass.
For generations, every spark we found
Was tethered to a bleeding, broken ground—
The sudden flash of silo doors undone,
The brief, horrific birthing of a sun,
Then ash that drifted like a heavy shroud
To lock a planet in a toxic cloud.
We turned our mirrors to the northern sky,
Expecting just another world to die,
To see Vaeloria’s final signature
Be etched in fire, black and premature.
We braced for the familiar, sudden glare
Of empires burning down their final air.
But what we found across the cosmic deep
Was not the final, static-riddled sleep.
The planet did not burn; it started glowing,
A quiet, silver respiration growing,
As if a willow made of starlight grew
And drank the poison till the sky turned blue.
No high radiation tore the night,
But pulses of a deep, organic light.
A lonely mind had stitched the broken spheres,
And washed away a century of fears.
We leaned into our sights, amazed to see
A world redeemed by a single tree.
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