The blue hills from the hazy horizon
undulated gently down the emerald gradient
of the rhythmic waves of the luring landscape
that carved the contours of the charming hamlet joyful
where my endearing home was once cradled,
nurturing me in the bounty of beguiling nature.
The fairy flotilla of the cotton clouds,
making seraphic celestial panorama, slid silently
upon the curved canvas of the sapphire sky,
where my childhood joy soared to great heights
with the colorful kites I loved to fly.
A gleaming stream of shining liquid pearls
flowed with flamboyant facade of silvery splendor,
bedecked our house with an ornate garland
of a lilting loop of embracing meander.
On its water I floated rainbow-tinged paper boats
that sailed with my mariner mind
to a distant dreamland of teenage fantasy.
The boats have disappeared with the ebb of time,
I live lonely with the reflections of childhood.
Rising scarlet sun shimmers for a long while,
hanging in the halcyon horizon of color pile.
I get from it the dulcet gift of a promising day,
try to walk another unknown mile all the way.
In seamless spread of the cerulean satin sky
thin cotton cloud clumps float cheerfully high.
Their flotilla format allures me to fly like a bird free.
Flair of celestial scene creates for me joyful reverie.
It is the small things that matter most
Your heart sings fresh buttered toast
Family brings together a Sunday roast
Smitten a handwritten letter in the post
Jaunts or saunters down Britain’s coast
Snow balls glisten child’s mitten the host
Don’t be a Scrooge listen to every ghost
Best bet to forget regret but don’t boast
Entranced by happenstance engrossed
In the hub of a pub toast with mein host
Your flotilla through strife of life will coast
If don’t let get pushed from pillar to post
As God damn it our planet will soon roast
Foremost and utmost remember to toast
Little treasures that every day does boast
Teeny weeny pleasures our own outpost
Just make sure you are regularly dosed
With those small things that matter most
A man of blood, and gore and grief.' Maybe a puppet.? Certainly a thief.' With minions of dark demonic spawn, no hint of compassion, suchlike would have plaited
The thorns, in that crown of horror, with malice and brawn, lovers of bribery and power of lies, upon a relief
flotilla they've just metastacized.' High on drugs.? On hate and
Pain..The regurgitation of victimhood, is
More than plain.' They'll have a celebration
Right at gommorha its all so strange' ultra liberal values.' And many letters, as they lecture the world on how they
are so; its betters.? Just again and again..In a morbid
Refrian
Maybe because most countries; are
merely now debtors.?
Emerging sex scandal on the "Gaza flotilla": the organizer slept with all the activists. The "key organizer" of the world's most humane flotilla engaged in intimate relations with numerous mission participants right on board. On previous flotillas, Israeli military reported finding an anomalously large number of used and new condoms on the vessels. Was Greta Thunberg among them—we have no clue.
They went to break though sea blockade
Bring light to needy Palestine
A worthy cause when one is jade
A trip of orgy, by design
The amazons of our times
Or rather "dames on the loose"
Accuse Zion of awful crimes
For "noble cause" enjoyed abuse
To screw like there's no tomorrow
Abandon hubbies and proceed
Support Hamas, by moans and sorrow
No doubt, a courageous deed
When yacht becomes a battleground
Heroic act was their protest
Thereafter, all went homeward bound
Tight-lipped about "two bar" test
April 15, 2026
A small path stippled with the print of wind slurries?
runs along a snowy edge,?
scrub-oak nails down tilting stumps of ice.?
?
How old must the year become?
before a cockled bark sheds its wind-blighted hide??
?
The creek is a stretch;?
I tread through a sleet blurred flurry?
zag a rooted track to its frigid bank.?
?
Standing by the water,
crow wings flying form my black overcoat,?
I watch a flotilla of ducks?
pilot a channel through small ice floes.?
?
Then the ducks disappear; we disappear together?
as a hard mist crashes-in.?
I hear the creaking of tree-hung clouds,?
the crunch of frost-bitten shoots,?
a grinding of raw jaw bones on brittle sprigs.?
?
My warm breath pushes through the cold air
the sky returns to tints of sunlight.?
Saplings quicken under blackened limbs?
are tucked between lichenoid openings.?
?
And is that a greening moss,
is that a young crocus reaching?
I would choose Iberian over Siberian a true culinary librarian
Epicurean yet utilitarian not barbarian don’t be a contrarian
Top picks & tricks from heady cultural mix definitely not aryan
Runaway or just the gravy train arcane but with modern refrain
Can’t restrain or contain the insane foody reign of this domain
Go like the clappers for Tapas fiesta then siesta the slow lane
Rally your pals with the gals go dullally down any hidden alley
Croquetas or Las Gambas or just Patatas Bravas in Las Ramblas
Paella the story teller paprika bestow Chorizo glow best seller
Scarlet harlots prawn p*rn dig suckling pig jig a verdant valley
Have a trenchant penchant for any merchant of the don Jamon
Svelte slivers melt tastebuds pelt flow across the Iberico rubicon
Flavour flotilla scintilla of morcilla or tortilla to savour all thriller
Rain falls mainly on the plains starter or main food reigns in Spain
Cooey have you heard the word on the streets 8 hours of absurd beats
Doff hat to old school cool cat rule in the hot seat sat every tune just phat
Over the moon we swoon legends croon only a buffoon lampoon’s the boon
Phew we hiss lost you and didn’t have a scooby doo how to cope without you
Heaven or Evan's sent hell bent to be the main event a magical musical present
Give Chris a kiss knew we’d miss the dope bliss did feed our need for more you
Like the thriller in Manila not a scintilla of filler just another bassline flotilla
No fraud or clanger all banger the concorde of chords roared in our hangar
Mr Morgan on the soundtrack tiller our melody miller our weekend’s pillar
Won’t get too gooey eyes wet a little dewy guys prime time to tell your friends
Can’t go wrong sound the gong funkier than cartoon loon Hong Kong Fuey
Every gambit & skit en song ding dong laced with wit from his Sunday pulpit
Brassy every pundit knows the culprit could only be Huey you’ll like it..stay classy
All inhabitants of the world are immigrants
We came with nothing and we will leave with nothing
We are all passing by for a few happy or sad moments
We don’t get it: we are nothing and we own nothing.
When the bells ring, tell me what are you taking with you
When the roosters sing, which flotilla will protect you
The streets are full of dirty snow and clear ice, and the residents
Are protesting against injustice, hatred and countless rodents.
Trash bags cans are served as barricades, the streets are dirty and filthy
The corners and boulevards are on fire, gas canisters are smoking hot
The crowds are cursing and running back and forth. The melting pot
Is on fire. We dream of more peaceful days and nights in the country.
We probably belong to the first, second or third generation of a country
Yet, we forget that we are all immigrants of this world which nobody
Owns. We still don’t get it: we are nothing and we own nothing
Yet, we can make something out of nothing to be somebody or something.
Copyright © January 2026 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
All killer.. not a scintilla of filler.. like the thriller in Manila
Mean baggie green bangers obscene BazBall gall clangers
Head distiller a pillar has such skill.. touch with his silky tiller
Starc’s iron will topped the bill with hefty lefty driller flotilla
No beige or vanilla just fancy dan elan like Faustino Asprilla
The fate of blind date no real surprise surprise can hear Cilla
England Ashes grief, flashes of mischief of late great Keith Miller
The Chesapeake Flotilla consisted of 18 small vessels,
fGunboat No. 137 and Gunboat No. 138
Several of the small ships recovered from
St. Leonard's Creek were part of
Commodore Joshua Barney's Chesapeake Flotilla
during the War of 1812.
While many were gunboats and barges
these had no formal names
identified only by there hull numbers
n addition to the gunboats, the flagship of
he flotilla, the USS Scorpion, was located
buried in the sediment of the nearby Patuxent River.
Written by;
Mort Rainey
Researcher for
Ernst Bettler University in Swisserland
Gill-Men's Navy
Book and Movie
The ghost Peppers were grown in winter
by the Siberain Aqua Farmer
A filmmaker wanted to film a movie
his dimented mind
came up with an idea
Use the Creature of ledend to eat
the scum from the street and save on cost
and produce the film fast and cheap
and make alot of money.
It was a hsush, hush affair
and involved very few.
Until Capt. Ymaly an alien
who transported here to find a creature
of space orgin
FLOTILLA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
her heart, once a crammed attic,
overflowing with yesterday’s dusty relics,
became a barren room.
each secret—a silent, fragile confession,
she scrawled on paper thin as skin,
slipped into the throat of antique glass.
a cardboard ark, ferrying her bottled truths,
down to the shore she walked,
where the sea sighs secrets of its own.
a flotilla of confessions and longing,
a bobbing armada of regret,
pushed by the tide—away, away, away.
she raised her hands in farewell
releasing all her burdens,
their echoes fading on salty winds
When I'm dreaming, I sometimes fantasize
about opening a box of crayons.
And my subconscious scribbles sapphire skies,
coloring dreams in shades of gold and bronze.
Pastels and vivid pigments color thoughts,
using imagination as a brush.
And shades float like a flotilla of dots
inked in the brightest hues, and faintest blush.
My inner child scribbles between the lines,
drawing pictures no one but me has seen.
And yet abstract: accurately defines
that magical landscape of in-between.
A box of crayons inks my dreams at night;
filling my inner child with sheer delight.
The charcoal clouds melt in the scorched sky,
serenading summer drizzle descends
with the fascinating flotilla in the arid air.
The spectrum of the setting scarlet sun
sparkles in the slant spray of the raindrops,
soaking the singed malachite meadow,
as pristine petrichor exudes in amber ambiance.
The raindrops cascade in soft musical torrent
in the misty puddle, spreading in my pasture.
I feel the nostalgic delight of my youth return.
The little pool morphs into glistening ballroom floor
for the aquatic ballet of the rolling rills.
I hear the silent symphony of the melodic past
in the rhythm of the raindrop dance.
From the barnyard comes a hopping fawn bird,
with spread-out wings flapping in the drizzle
the chicken squawks the tune of waltz for me.
So, I join her doing the feathered twirl,
spinning around together with slippery slide.
I tap my toes as she splatters the muddy water,
bringing back my younger days of joyful chicken splash.
Paris was the perfect place
To start these summer games,
From the opening flotilla
To the lighting of the flames.
Instead of an arena,
Athletes floated down the Seine,
Waving flags and wearing smiles we’d see
Again and yet again.
There was spectacle and music,
Very quintessential French
And the rain harmed no one’s spirits,
Though their clothing it did drench.
With the city as the backdrop,
Charm and beauty set the stage,
Introducing all the magic
The Olympics will engage.
What a wonderful distraction
And we owe it all to France.
For the next two weeks, I needn’t think
Of You-know-who and Vance.
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