The one I love is standing here
Ahead and to my right, so near
Not near enough, can't ever be
Until the day that she's with me
A poem I can write with ease
To play for her is such a breeze
The bluebird's nest inside my heart?
I keep it clean while we're apart
It's furnished with a comfy bed
A fluffy pillow for her head
One chair for two sits right nearby
Facing towards the western sky
So every day I live I'll get
To sit with her and watch sunsets
I'll be content, just her and I
The bluebird and the guitar fly
She carries me upon her back
I steer her on a preplanned track
Then when we land back at the start
If she looks up she'll see a heart
Before I go ahead and Sign
On the proverbial dotted line
and place my John Hancock
May I kindly enough enquire please
What exactly currently is the going
Rent you are charging
For this lofty elevated empty space
residing inside your head
And does it have or provide any other
benefits apart from the two holes on
either side
That seem to whistle like wind chimes
which and whatsoever the prevailing
wind doth blow
And I see it also doesn't seem to come
with or be furnished with a brain inside
either
Just a keyboard with a poster above
it of what appears to be the sign you
find on the door of most men's toilet's
Sadly and unfortunately though the
Knob looks as if it's missing too small
or been mislaid
Like the brain itself
My country is the beautiful sun
My country is not the hard winter
My country is an often green Eden
Always languid and tropical at dawn.
It’s a country where the crowing of roosters
Revives everybody every morning
It’s a country furnished with filthy slush and rocks
Where nature is a vast and miserable garden.
It's a country full of horrid stories
Where slaves and decent people are revolted
Against greedy settlers and bloody buccaneers
It’s where only macabre memories exist.
In this awful and morose atmosphere
Where I banter all that is negative
I will build positive monuments
I will dream and recite fables.
My country is the moonlight
Which gives hope and strength to fight
Against masked and zombified
Bogeymen. Oh! God, I hold no grudges.
My country is the ever positive imagination
Presently, I don't want to denounce anyone
However, I will silence the chiming bells
Oh! It's sad to see my people on the exodus
Near the evacuative shores.
P.S. Gilles Vigneault, this poem is
For you and our people.
Copyright © January 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
In the silent night,
Distant from the rays of light,
Are my thoughts as stars,
Beautiful yet disorganized.
Seeming unreachable!
Mumbling within my soul,
Are those aims that might be disowned,
Decades have gone by,
My desires are still stocked,
Fighting to see the daring world.
Days have gone by,
Years have passed by,
The future is waiting for its turn
To make and leave a mark.
"Will a beautiful life grace its presence?"
Sounds a distant whisper in my heart.
I anticipate the future,
But fear wants me tortured.
Making me doubt the unborn,
"Will it be bright"?
I long to see it shinning,
Furnished with significance,
And spiced with happiness.
"All will be well"
A poem by the one that wants to outdo.
A chant from the heart that long to be great.
Through the deepest thoughts,
And the faintest sigh,
Abba says, "all will be well."
@Nobleone
Though a playground is for fun and frolic,
I fear the playground of my childhood;
It’s of our school though not huge in area,
Well furnished with all around green trees;
It’s during intervals that we ran there,
Like monkeys climbing the trees all at once;
Our game was catching others only on trees,
And get ourselves escaping from their catch;
We played falling, rising, climbing, crawling,
Catching as many of us, as we safely escape;
It’s during such thrilling wild game,
It was almost the end of the term there;
Feeling, perhaps, the fear of parting,
We played it more fervently again, again;
And, lo, such a wonderful gem of our friends,
Got electrocuted holding a wire above by fault;
He fell just like a dead monkey from heaven,
As though burnt alive and no doctor needs;
Then the crying and wailing and weeping,
All with heavy at hearts the school departing….
…………………………………….
…………………………..
All I had asked the lord thereafter on that ground was:
Why don’t you give us our friend back to play…?
23 June 2021
PLAYGROUND Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Shreya LN
Molasses summers break the sun,
chase frost to sheltered shade;
retreating youthful hearts
feel the cold upon them laid.
Seeing is not believing.
Believing is believing.
Seeing is drinking pictures.
poured from a pitcher of age.
Perception, a room in which we live.
Size dictated by histories scope,
furnished with experience and hope.
We trees, with warts of sap all bleeding;
a cataloged roughness of calculated measure.
Water, wet, exploding sideways; blessed and tested
in perfect tattooed resonance.
Piece of glass or perfect pebble,
silken grass or patch of stubble.
Dandelion seed blown free
to float amongst the fruit
of every tree.
Every word we speak is golden.
Everything we do is rare.
Over there.
Always over there.
UNDER THE GLASS CEILING part 1
Mary and Angelica ,ladies of great renown
Painters extraordinaire in Ol' London town
Still life,portraits & history on a grand scale-
Left out of a group painting because they were not male !
NOTE Mary Moser & Angelica Kauftmann help to found the R & A but were left out of the 1770's painting of Academicians .There were to be no other women members until 1922.
UNDER THE GLASS CEILING part 2
Forbears,Edie,Kate and Ann
furnished with brush and pan.
Each a Victorian 'Miss'
tied in service's abyss.
NOTE Upstairs and down stairs ,no in between,just thirteen and just there to please as Master and Lady take their ease.
THROUGH THE GLASS CEILING
Deborah,God annointed Judge&Prophetess
a matriarch,overseer of men,..no less;
Mary,at Jesus feet,studied...just as a man
in Christ there is no gender ban
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My life, reduced to a theory,
written by those I once served.
Furnished with tales of honour
and shame, they summoned me,
tried me unfairly,
and shot me at Hango Hill.
For hours, I bore in agony and anguish,
until the burning pain turned
to death’s icy chill.
I often wonder if that fatal shot
condemned me as a traitor?
Because one could rightly argue
I have the status of a martyr!
That bullet may have stopped my heart,
but my name shall prevail!
For I, Iliam Dhone am Mann,
Leader of Manx Rebellion,
I am the state.
As Receiver General, I lived
to serve my people.
Their struggles, my own;
they, a divided nation,
Was I the driving force of evil?
Or was I a glimmer of hope for those
in depths of despair?
Struggling with death and damnation,
they turned to me for hope.
Can hope prevail without faith?
Hark Ye! Some had faith in me!
Was their faith misplaced?
Now, you decide - I, Iliam Dhone
Am I, hero or villain?
Shout and taunt me
Push me down,
Strip away my pride
Leave me nude,
Naked and confused.
Look at my bone of
Indignation
Is this all you'd hoped to see
I have more.
The cloth of my skin
Hides all
As the cloth of man hides nought.
Herein is to be found
me
Skin tight on flesh
Flesh tight on bone
Bone protecting all
And beneath all
I exist.
That is where I live
I chose that
The site of my mansion
It is built of dreams
Furnished with hopes
Delicate
Yes.
As eternal life
Shall you find me
Hunt me down,
Trap me
Skin me
Mount me,
Put my head
Besides past victories
Is there glory to be found?
Glory sought?
Yes.
But I am better
For I have life
Eternal, till I die
Each and every second
My eternity.
One's life is life
Life all-encompassing
Hide your dreams
Your hopes
In the womb,
Of envisioned failure
By others.
Let it mature
In their deception.
Welcome it into the world,
To the sound.
Of your enemies wailing,
At the pain.
Of giving birth,
To your success.
"Democracy don't rule the world,
You'd better get that in your head;
This world is ruled by violence,
But I guess that's better left unsaid" - Bob Dylan
He sits on a throne well furnished with sweat, blood and tears
of many who have cursed and loathed him across the valleys,
deserts, and mountains.
He claims he's their king, but they see him as their emperor;
one who has taken away their kings, their way of living,
their heritage, their lands.....
A dozen warriors follow him everywhere he goes,
for he knows the wrath of people whose rights
and freedoms have been taken away.
As a prisoner of his own device,
he hides from his own freedom, for he cannot eat, converse,
sleep, or dream as a free-man.
A sword, cross-bow, and loyal warriors are his only companions.....
Revolutionary evolutionary
Heartful constitutions
Lovers constructing
Contributions contorts
Contours, all sides a winner
Armies of DREAMERS
WE are redeemers
Consecutive notions
If we begin we are beginners
Heavily measured DEVOTIONS
Affiliated positives
Once SCREAMED
THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE ARE FREE
and the corners of the WORLD are
Furnished with a song not yet sung
Blessed be the birds and bees
Strum down low
A guitar STROKE
Strum up glow
A GESTURE, a hope
A fluid atmosphere, infectious
Ambiance is here.
Revolutions STOKE the hearts aflare
Free aflame afire
Inquire multiplier of fame escort
One ply one try
What cost
Multiple efforts
Floral fashions flourishing actions.
Asking freedom festers festivals
Basking in ever GLOWING
EVOLUTIONS everlasting
Effortlessly REVOLUTIONIZE
THE WORLD, EVOLVING
Of lavish love the poets write
to whom their love bestow
But what of love
and what it's like
to be the one who is adored?
I've known this staggered heart
an adoration one yields divine
and of this sacred sacrament took part
then retreated from its faith like mine
Once, before illusions of protection
veiled by confident speech
crumbled wholly thou innocent projection
of the visions it had seen
Showered with waters sweetened earnest
till it's naked wells drank tears like rain
yet the soul of the one who's heart was burnished
now reflected fear that must flee all impression of pain
An object of worship at the core
'twas meant for The Lord on high
of men and angels a gift explored
for the imperfect begs the question of why?
And yet once loved with adoration
furnished with a reverence meant for God
what hope remains to know raptures imitation
but for the masquerade of a clever facade?
Perhaps this explains why poets express
extravagant love only given
such devotion transgress's the love it profess's
and this prison is a high price for the wisdom
Rising again, furnished with a bright dream
That led me to a noble path, graced with loving memories
So, i'm moving away from moment of despair
Looking to continue loving my purpose in life
For I refused to give up my treasured dream
Find meaning from every trial, with hope in my pocket
So, I had faith to keep going on, rising again and again-
-And planting seeds of hope with devoted heart
Making me a sailor with triumphant dream
Ready to move on, withstand other storms
While listening to melodies from deep waters
Charming my spirit, and making me embrace new sense of being
So, I keep rising, and rising again, love waiting on my new path
To carry me through a fulfilling journey
For I always believed, happines is forever in the midst of everything
Anytime, everywhere, it will always come to free me
The questions are calming,
much to his surprise,
root him into
deep rock foundation
while answers tip in shallows.
He knows there will always be
questions, even while answers
topple.
.
Last night
he imagined a universe
furnished with questions,
where things were
inverted as small sucking
vacuums in a space of
larger, weaker vacuums.
Was this where
he might have come from?
Unknown land,
unconscious world, did dreams
flash in and out there?
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