the earth speaks
in a syntax of wind,
in the slow-moving vowels
of shadow across stone;
its grammar lives
in the way grasses lean,
in how light punctuates
the ridge at dawn,
each pause a lesson,
each shift a clause
in the long, unwritten text
of being alive;
and when we listen,
truly listen~
we feel meaning gather
like seeds in the palm,
a quiet fluency
in the language
we were born knowing
but forgot how to read.
Before the first tongue
suffered the burden of naming,
the garden possessed
its own onomasticon:
Leaf,
Lumen,
Lark,
and one white rose—
an inviolate effulgence
ensphered in dew.
No creature
contested its quietude.
The bee
Received.
The wind,
that elder philologer,
declined dominion.
Only the hand,
catechised by appetite,
confounded wonder
with warrant.
Then
the stem vouchsafed
its green apostrophes.
One thorn
solicited blood
before blood
solicited speech.
Yet the blossom
Withdrew
no redolence.
Its whiteness,
anamnetic of snowfall,
absolved the very air
that coveted it.
Only at vespers
did the ordinance
become legible:
the thorn
was never
the flower's severity,
but sanctity
Assuming
the grammar of sap—
Creation's final rubric,
lest beatitude,
Misparsed
as possession,
translate Eden
into rubble.
Insects bite itching skin : Buggy Summer !
Scorching Sun, sizzling heat hot hammer.
Mosquitoes large tiny small
Macro micro mini, all -
compete to prick : Irritating Grammar.
I’ve got a thing about spelling
I'm not averse to showing or telling
But an apostrophe out of place
Is just a disgrace
And it always ends up with me yelling
The gate creaks open—
not with iron hinges
but the hush of your breath
caught between my ribs.
I swing it wide—
no lock, no chain,
only the pulse of a heart
that learned to beat
in the grammar of your absence.
Love steps out:
no wings, no wind,
just the slow glide
of a secret learning to stand.
It lands on your tongue
like velvet pressed to cotton,
rumpling the silence
we folded away.
Those wrinkles?
Not age—
but the creases of a letter
folded, unfolded,
folded again
each time I almost said your name.
Your eyes are wide open—
they see the feast
your love sets before my fear,
how it devours
the last brave syllable
until my voice is a hollow reed
whistling cowardice.
I kick at the dark,
curse its weight,
yet every word is a stone
I swallow back down.
Pressed to speak,
I choke on the rattle
of unsaid amour—
waves of passion
breaking without sound,
leaving an ache
soaked in persistent plea
you never let yourself hear.
Come closer.
The gate is open.
Let the ache speak—
if only your ears
would open too.
A coma’s just a comma lacking one ‘m’
'~ til it travels right up your brain stem
When Shakespeare was in school learning his grammar,
under his breath, you could sometimes hear him stammer,
"Who are these fools
who teach you to write by these rules?
They might as well teach you how to screw in a screw with a hammer!"
Many writers, poets and academics know how a beautiful
And striking alliteration is in a grammatical, congressional
Contextual and conventional debate or literary debacle
Like: blank blind badly bounced blue bowl
Oops! I meant to quote the beautiful Congresswoman
Jasmine Crockett, word for word, verbatim; man
I can never get it right. I fell short, because I’m not tall
Enough to reach that height. Oh! Many contractual
Agreements are in the works: blank black badly bounced
Blue ball. But I’ll keep on trying over one ounce
Of Vodka, maybe I will finally get it right or correct
Ladies and gentlemen, life is never easy and perfect
However, it’s okay to have fun; politics is abysmal than ever
We hope things will not get worse, but much better.
P.S. Homage to Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett (D-Dallas, Texas):
‘Bleach Blond, Bad-Built, Butch Body”.
Copyright © July 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
In a most stunning reversal of form
The ‘grammar police’ took over a dorm
Kicked out all the radicals
Screamed, ‘You’re non-grammatical’
~ Set off an academic protest storm
I’m imperfect and one can see
When I’m arrested by Grammar Police
I make some amends use spell check again
But spellcheck has too failed me
I find my better poems instead
Fly from the top of my head
And if a comma or two seems to be a loose
No one was injured or killed dead
I use my public poetry page
As a kind of growing space
My poems are plants I grow enhance
Try to water with words every day
Twas daybreak as this bright morn I rose
Greeted at breakfast by my darling Rose
A brief time together as by seven I've left
Out to the garden, the street and then left
Along cobbled paths where the dogs bark
To work as the foreman, my order to bark
The abattoir workers tirelessly cut up the meat
Despite the condition, smiling at all they meet.
Chopping and cutting up every small piece
Awaiting a break for a rest and some peace.
A cup of water then back plucking the fowl
Some people can't hack the smell is so foul.
At six the work ends and the whistle is blew
We wash up our hands they are black and blue
Home via The Dragon for a jug of the best ale,
Men's medicine, a cure-all for what they all ail.
Back home to Rose, my drink she would pour
A simple life, you make the best if your poor
We huddle together watching the embers in the grate.
We make thanks for our lot, and what makes England great.
Watch your Latin and don't let the cat in
Caesar had some jam for tea,
Pompei aderat.
ille, illa, illud,
but I'll have Yorkshire pud.
amo, amas, amat
Who let in the cat?
hic, haec, hoc
The mouse ran up the clock.
You can add another item
ad infinitum.
Grammar Ain't Your Daddy's Mommy
I've written words both big and small
While sometimes nerves get brittle
I strained at nouns, and even verbs
Assessed each jot and tittle
When writing’s done I self critique
And scope each application
Some days I feel the roof collapse
I want a quick vacation
There are some words I must insist
Be used with awesome care
Don’t mess around and fumble these
The words there, their, and they’re
So even if you get those right
There is a little more
Those three small words that scramble brains
Are you’re and your and yore.
When people travel to the country of Homonymiam, can we call them Homonymians?
My pen writes in English
My pen writes in French
Mon stylo écrit en français
My pen writes in Spanish
Mi pluma escribe en español
My pen writes in Italian
La mia penna scrive in italiano
My pen writes in Portuguese
Minha caneta escreve em portugues
My pen writes in Creole
Plim mwen ekri an kreyòl
My pen writes in Latin
Calamum meum latine scribit
Believe me, friends, if you write in these
Romance languages, you’ll be
Happy to enjoy writing. I love these
Languages. I entertain the idea
Of knowing at least one word
Of the other languages of the world
I love words of all languages
Throughout the ages
Leave a few funny comments
I know what you’re going to say, my friends
It’s always a pleasure hearing from you
I love you will all my heart, I love you
Eske nou tout konprann?
Do you all understand?
Copyright © April 2020, Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Autumn thou art but the grammar
Final in of world of law
People, zephyrs, larks and cuckoos
Look at Thee they all in awe
Truth and beauty, all adjectives
In the building of the tenses
Look they at the failing pulses
Of the dying days of yore
With them boat of fading beauty
In the Autumn leafy bar
Rows and tosses, in no channel
Till it look at Ocean fanal
Which is reddish, as in Autumn
With the waning moon in war
Life and death with Thee they mingle
In the Holy worship hour
Come and with me sit O goddess
In the scented heaven's bower
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