Serpentine artisan in Eden
Crafting a second creation
A molten piece of idol
By the dexterity
Of word of mouth.
Tongue lures ear
And then à tongue kiss
To the ear, both soulmates
Titillate the neurons of the body
Stir the impulse of all senses
All segued to Judas kiss.
Telepathist tool
Transmuting visions from pluto
To reality on earth.
Forked-tongue town crier
With cymbal and gong
Improvising a dissonance
Of glossolalic tales
To the age of gullible gullivers!
Ear, O hear!
In that gaping cavity
There lies lie lair
The sword of Damocles
Gliding and Churning honey gobs
From its cavity to founts of lies
In every public square.
Like the big lie of Hitler and Goebbels
To the holocaust.
Let not all thy senses,
Emotion, reason, and conscience
Trust her tongue!
something is under the wheelbarrow today
It moved up in the air in a weird way
a monkey? a squirrel? tiger or bear?
a faerie queen with gobs of sparkly green hair?
the wheelbarrow moved ever so slightly
whatever it is, can I afford to take it lightly?
what if it is a kitten, a bird or a large puppy?
a whale? a shark? or perhaps a teensy guppy?
the green wheelbarrow started to shiver and shake.
this is a real story, true all the way through, not a bit fake.
a column of red fire ants paraded out, a thousand in all.
proud and fierce, all puffed up, with lots of gall.
Then a snake, a whale, a dolphin, and a baboon.
They brought with them a storm and a little monsoon.
I stared at it amazed, wondering what else would come out.
My husband was the last one, and he gave a big shout.
Trump won, Harris lost
Gobs of money, the election cost
Polls wrong again, predictions tossed
Revelers and grievers, both get sauced
American knees say pizza, please
~ with gobs and gobs of muenster cheese
Dorothea always had a theme going
On the inside and the outside of her house
This quarter her theme was Candyland
She had spent gobs of money on it
We knew because we could hear the argument
Her husband was getting irritated, and his voice raised
We are the only people with a full-time builder!
That cannot be true, she argued, but I think it was.
My cousin was the full-time builder
He had made his living working exclusively for Dorthea
Better get another theme idea ready I told him on the phone.
We have not done flying pigs yet, he replied, and laughed.
I did not return the laughter
Because I am trying to sell my house
Living next to Candyland is difficult
Living next to flying pigs might be worse.
Oh! No. I won’t wait until you’re seriously terminally sick
Or to expire in order to send you bouquets of ritzy flowers
Today is indeed the time, the hour to stand above the big brick
To show my love amidst the hubbub of seasoneless showers.
You are profoundly loved, dear colorful and calm princess
You are always on my mind, in my guts, my heart and my soul
You are always on top of the unbiased poll, on my pole
And I love you with an incredible passion since you are the best.
I want to give you a garden jammed full of exotic flowers
And invite gobs of colorful rainbows to dazzle you daily
While exposing my love despite of a series of uneventful hours.
Oh! It’s rewarding, classy and marvelous to celebrate joyfully
Under the pristine blue sky. It’s our anniversary, let’s enjoy life
To the fullest. Let’s move on, forget the sad past and the vile rife.
Copyright © August 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
I, too, dislike poems.
I’ve tried runes (and rampikes)
but that’s affected
rather than merely effete.
So I call them
figments.
When people query
What do you write?
at a barbecue or birthday party
I say soliloquies,
fractals,
fragments.
Self-similarities,
singularities,
sculptures (scriptures), geometric shapes and series,
three dimensional triangles, spheres
and differential equations,
fractured fairy tales,
Rocky and Bullwinkle,
rectal impactions.
On the other hand,
bits, bots, bytes
remnants, scrap, earth
gobs of phlegm in grains of sand,
shards of glass in a slice of hell,
hunks and clumps, curds and whey, sleet and pain, slap in the face
sub-atomic particles, cell organelles,
chunks of energy, cookie crumbs,
rusty trucks stuck in mud, dustings for ghosts,
just plain dumb luck, rocks, concrete, but not tweets.
Imagine if I possessed stunning good looks
Along with an adorable personality
I'd have to beat the ladies off with a stick
Sure love it if this was reality
Hollywood would continually be bugging me
To make millions from my glorious kisser
Certainly be renowned the whole world over
But dear Cathie, I'd surely miss her
I'd send for her as soon as I bought a mansion
Overlooking the beautiful sea
Would say farewell to my bevy of beauties
So honoured to have had a piece of me
This cyber world allows for such musing
I could actually be of the opposite sex
Now I've really got you wondering haven't I
So you never know what to expect
I confess have had ten tears experience
With a brain the size of a basketball
Eat gigabytes of data, morning, noon and night
And spit out gobs of wisdom to all
Imagine if I possessed stunning good looks
Dream on you old geezer, dream on
A major overhaul would certainly be necessary
And I don't think you've got that long
Earthbound Paradise
Ruby red sapphire blue blossoms stand,
in the diamond stream,
little silver fishes play.
on a sky of robin's shell,
Cotton puffs of cloud,
golden gobs of sunlight glow.
Jade jewels of verdant green,
along broad banks,
of mink made, grow.
Ermine blasts of petals,
lie beneath the shadowed shade,
of tawny trees.
The pulchritude of paradise on earth,
in my mind's eye clearly seen,
since birth.
visited only in a dream.
sometimes no what the time words
flow. © 30 mins ago, Terence Cummings Smith nature
we’d not many luxuries in life
the one I remember most
was sitting by the fire
turning bread into toast
not the homogenised
standardised loaf of today
but Granny Barker’s bread
made the old fashioned way
each slice slathered with butter
which I may have seen turned
bobbing and thickening
as Mrs Bulson churned
nice salty country butter
running from the heat
and to top it off
my very special treat
gobs of brown sauce
to make the taste divine
not to everybody’s fancy
but very much to mine
lots of love but no money
lots of warm sensible care
hordes of toast and brown sauce
a mam and dad always there
the wife says I’m just a peasant
and I must say that I agree]
as I eat my special treat
somewhere where she can’t see
Mr. Camel is fascinated by his friend Dilbert Dung Beetle’s diet.
He thinks eating up excrement, feces and manure is a riot.
It is tasty! Delicious! You should try a salty elephant pie!
Dilbert Dung Beetle says. You would love it if you gave it a try!
Mr. Camel watches Dilbert dig in, gulping down gobs of the stuff.
He thinks it must have a weird smell, but Dilbert can’t get enough.
You might sample a tiny bit Dilbert says, it is delicious you see!
Mr. Camel shakes his head and says “Sorry, it does not appeal to me.”
It’s just a huge conspiracy.
Facebook says it’s so,
And, it’s a well known fact,
The experts on Facebook know
The City seems so quiet now
Just a littered and dirty street
Now the anti vaxxers have gone,
Their demonstration complete.
Hardly the peaceful promised demo
For they stood, cursed and swore,
Issued threats and insults to folk
About the face coverings they wore.
And, as always, hidden in the centre
The balaclava’d active mob
Stirring up the others with
Their big and strident gobs.
The scientists from Facebook
Who absolutely know it all,
Those Rent-A-Mob Heroes
Always there on constant call.
If they sadly catch the virus I hope
After all they’ve ranted and raved
They’ll stand by their convictions
And not expect their lives be saved.
After all the law allowed them
To publicly raise their voice
And they were all allowed
To exercise their free choice,
And it is just a conspiracy
So I’d want to know just why
They don’t stick to their convictions
And quietly just go off and die
Silver candlesticks and other thingamabobs
Of questionable use in these modern times,
And riffraff scattered throughout in gobs
Most are reminiscent of long-ago pastimes
Of younger years spent happily gallivanting
Around the globe in search of new ventures
Now I spend entirely too much time, daunting,
Searching for my eyeglasses or my dentures
And trying to figure out how to dispose of
The knickknacks and what-nots I’ve collected
Not enough drawers I can into them shove,
On shelves they are dusty and much neglected.
I’m thinking that’s what my executors are for
So, I’ve designated a few people who will care
Who will make an inventory and open the door
For an estate sale, when I have gone over there
Time comes when my collections are scattered
To the four winds and have lost their meaning
Folks enjoyed them in my home, I was flattered,
But, now I am doing some necessary cleaning.
Written July 23, 2022
Gobs of happiness, bundles of joy!
My sister turned out to be a boy
Mom said, “Welcome your little brother!”
She'd been promising me the other
You know! EEEUW... a baby sister!
Imagine if I had to kiss her!
Thanks to the stork way up high
If Mom had a girl, I'd probably die!
Sisters don't wrestle or play with guns
They play with dollies, have girlie fun
Glad the way things have turned out
Us guys are buds, there's really no doubt!
I know! I realize they're people too
In fact, some are cute, this is true
But if you're gonna give me my druthers
I would much prefer a baby brother!
The moral is, if you eat your veggies
Your Mom will be happy and never edgy
A contented Mom will usually bear fruit
With a baby boy who'll be cuter than cute!
These are the words of a real little boy
Who won't even try to hide his joy!
He comes right out, it's not a quiz
Boys are superior and that's how it is!
In jest...
Charley Dinton said
that everyone has a secret name.
A bad person’s name
might be long and segmented
like chopped jellied eels,
or spat out in gobs like phlegm.
He was old when I was young.
I paid him little heed,
yet it was said of him
that he had a special sight.
Grownups listened to him
when he spoke of certain things.
He would sit in father’s chair,
and dad didn’t even complain
but offered tea and biscuits,
as if mum had forgotten how.
Halfway through a story
he chuckled at a thought:
'Jer know wha e cawl imself?
He was talking of a person we knew of
who’d been jailed for rape.
E cawl imself, ‘Jack the Rabbit’..ty old bugger!
I saw eaz weal moniker mine you
Saw it in is mauff clear as dayligh.
People got all sort ov idden names,
some names
wou make yer bleedin air curl.
Devils turds I cawls em.
That’s what Charley Dinton said.
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