He is seventeen
Wears his hair long, in a ponytail, it does not look clean.
There are piercings in his lip and his ears.
He wears a spider tattoo on his forehead.
His mother is horrified.
His father is having a fit.
Both grandmothers laugh at them.
Loving their grandson no matter how he looks.
A kiss on the forehead
Is a gesture of betrayal
It's not a kiss of love
Filled with joy and humor.
It would be better to kiss a dog
Which is as silent as a wandering
Moron in the Latin quarters.
Oh! Poor are those who smile
To these words emanating from a place
Where everyone has atavistic rights
Despite the silly threats of the accursed.
A kiss on the forehead
Is a sign of punishment
It is an act of treason.
P.S. Translation of ‘ Un Baiser Sur Le Front’
By Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © May 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
The shoelaces untie,
they've been caught by the kitten's eye.
She touches, hesitantly, with her paw,
the lace that rests long on the slope, raw,
to the cool breeze of Mid-January;
next to a window that reveals Her sanctuary.
The sun dresses the top limbs of a tree; its lower bare curves are the hue of a cocktail skirt, with a ripped seam,
that is halfway in the woven bamboo hamper;
that was worn by the church- less Cantor..
and the pine needles
that poke the evening..
they, in sun-light, had the tints of the moss
that recline on the splashed, carved rocks
of a Late Summer Shore.
Now, within the room there is more...
the clutter of a confident craziness
on a wooden scratched glossiness,
upon which belligerently rest, near the kitten's maw,
the chewed 1% spandex blouse, and robicund bra-
they are a tossed sunset over the edge..of Mayan Skies..
mountainous thrusts; Dusk's sleepy eyes.
The books that have begun to be read,
are upon the charcoal foam of her bed.
This portrait is etched within the walls the hue of yellow skin,
exhaustively painted again and again, and again.
A sky on the forehead
Lilacs and larks inside
Eyes enjoying the bliss
Give me milk with bread
Those deep touches of joy
How sweet your palm mom
Molecules mount a gull
Your smile so cute and coy
Look at pockets of my grin
And the pink grapes in bloom
Endless ripples from my lungs
The moon seated on my chin
Just two frontal teeth
From the waiting gums
Tomatoes bloom always
Melodies giggle as I breathe
Whoever fondles us
We say, Buenos Dias
Overjoyed they smile
At the baby Jesus
_____________________________________
May31, 2019
Baby Face What's You
THINKIN 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: James Edward Lee Sr.
Baby Picture Number 3
only highly immunized girls make love
anyway not those like me always stamped
with spit on their forehead
to be protected from evil eyes among other children
after years I rubbed the memory of that stain
with tender lemon leaves
to wipe off that mellow scent
and the bored kiss of a man
right in the middle of my forehead
as if he understood
that I stopped liking to wear red clothes
I had both hands in my pockets
without knowing what to do
because of cold and shame
anyway it will pass
after the wind blows over it doesn’t hurt
Mighty Unicorn
Fabulous horse like creature.
Project your own horn.
*Written for Unicorn Contest
I went from being his angel to his disappointment.
Being me and having fun has broken his heart.
There's so much tension in the air, it's hard to breathe.
The silence is cracking the glass and it's about to shatter.
I feel like an outcast in my own house.
But suddenly the tension starts to clear the air.
A kiss on the forehead awakes me from sleep.
I watch and wonder as he quickly exits my room.
Forgiveness has finally filled the cracks in the glass.
As he realizes I am just like he was when he was younger.