There’s a strange bird in the tree
warbling weird birdsong at me.
I’m listening lazily.
~ Thinking that there will be a long time
of contemplating death ~
The sun shines down on me
and I’m smiling uncontrollably.
What a wonderful day to be.
moonlight
cascades
over the falls
landing on the boat
covered, floating
in the ebonic sea breeze
I am in there
so are you
if you so choose
both sleeping
something about
Hawaii
unhurries the heart
waits for
floating leis
lazily drifting
in the ebb and flow
of forever after
Cloud Patterns
white peaceful patterns
float lazily overhead
I’m lost in my thoughts
The fat grey cat sat licking, licking her long silky fur.
She lazily sprawls and yawns with a harrumph. She lay her head down and splayed her soft pink padded toes, as she curled up to take a deep kitty sleep.
Dream sweet kitty, dream.
You turned on to your left side
There painted before me was your contour,
the resplendent lines of an hourglass
The rule of thirds composing the view
Your thick raven hair against the
pale linens in the morning twilight.
Strong movement from the back of your arm
Flowing, going down to the palm
and climaxing at the finger tips
With an aura of delicate benevolence
There was a single spaghetti strap laying lazily,
aimlessly over your olive skin, pretending to support
one of your breasts, Invisible to me
I wanted to run my finger along it but did not
The whole scene fittingly arranged
As if a great work was about to be born
A pose struck like a Waterhouse goddess
I wish I was he lying in this bed
This view has been within the artist scope
since the dawn of aesthetic sight
Yet it is to this beholder of beauty
as belonging to the one to whom I retreat
that becomes this morning's single tear
Let my feelings for you in this moment
be rendered upon this canvas
in the pensive hues and lines of my love
Let it be duly hung In the Museum of Reverie
from this day until there are no more lovers
Smoke tendrils unfurl lazily,
like a slow, sensual dance
A slothlike spiral that dissolves into nothingness
The air is heavy with the scent of burning
a fleeting reminder...
The ethereal smoke curls and uncurls
Fleeting and fragile
Dancing and free
Captivating. Mesmerizing.
A quiet whispered promise...
The fancy flickering tendrils disappear, lost
Leaving a lonely feint reminder
A sacred hint of their presence
A memory of what once was
now nothing more than a whisp...
A flickering pattern that vanishes
into the mollases night sky...
A single, white thunderhead
tainted slightly, with the pink-shine
of a late sun coughs
lazily in the vast grayness
of an elegant sea,
somewhere—
a sea still asleep.
Greedy cries of gulls
fill the saltiness of the heavy air
and through the early mist
people of the day appear
in straw hats and red and green covers.
The night-crowded streets,
baked and earthy,
move on among carts
and fresh purple blossoms
and over-ripe fruit from the sea,
to and endless sand-scape.
Staggered and restless,
the ocean-lights appear,
and a warning from the sky
floods and nourishes
the clay walls of an empty palace.
It is a beautiful morning,
And I’m lazily waking up—
From another dream of you,
Wishing I could sleep again, to continue it.
In that boundless land of imagination,
You and I walked a golden aisle,
Exchanging hearts instead of vows,
Then set off to build our forever.
Love was the air we breathed.
We birthed little ones who bore our smiles,
And with each passing day,
We grew ever closer—soul to soul.
Beautiful one, words may sound like clichés,
But still, I dare to say: I love you.
And I call heaven to witness this vow—
That I will marry you.
Here on invigorating fresh lovely day,
one can lazily saunter along the way,
through each winding street so alive,
where the heart’s bound to thrive,
each. and. every person that I meet,
is quite friendly, warm, and sweet,
throngs in cafe with trademark verve,
plot some schedule, sway and swerve,
in my role as that astute observer,
I absorb prevailing charm and fervour,
paths, pavements, highways, parks,
they compel instant recall of amusement,
from impish childhood and boisterous larks,
forever etched and somehow fondly linked to,
evolution of historic town’s bemusement,
never ever shied away from embracing anew,
preservation that monument forever to the fore,
past and present composite of lasting merit,
world so truly modern, vintage world of yore,
impetus for our future offspring to inherit
My old four paw boy is a senior
Although older he has a nice demeanour
He is strong, loyal and portly
Turned from centre stage to mr grumpy
His eyes still shine bright
His mind and tummy are still right
Brings so much joy to the family
And enjoys his days lazily
He is the dog version of Goldilocks
Everything to be just right with no shocks
No fireworks or loud noises
Not too hot or too cold, only wants specific voices
He is a wonderful boy, kind and compassionate
Always listens while sat up straight
Friendly with children
He is one on a trillion
The best friend anyone could ever have
Just have a treat close to hand
117.
Branch on Fire
Up above the tree
Of courage and bravery
It fell down lazily
To burning trash underneath thee
Then a beast to man a bestfriend
Came by as if to defend
This twig from being churned
In order to be mend
From stone the twig was gone
Going elsewhere for a run
With its host like an Olympian
As if chasing the sun.
-04/16/2012
(Dumarao)
*for Crim. poem in Salingsing Issue of 1st Sem., AY 2011-12
The vestiges of slavery methodically remain.
Blacks are being killed in broad daylight daily.
Blacks are discriminating against systematically.
Systemic racism is a cancer with a behemothic pain.
The symbols of slavery refuse to evanesce like
A shameful cloud lazily hovering over our head.
There is too much hypocrisy around the sad bed,
And too many racist tail-waggers are ready to attack.
Too many unwell uncle toms are not emancipated.
This is still a highly peculiar world. People don't mean
What they mean and many impostors can't be trusted.
The struggle must continue. Fights are never clean.
Backstabbing is prevalent. The injustice is unbearable.
Life is precious and priceless and yet hope is inevitable.
Copyright © June 2020, Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
My knees are up and I’m still,
and lazily reflective.
Ludovico Einaudi’s song
‘Una Matina’ is playing.
For some reason
my thoughts align and make sense
when I listen to the piano.
I am sitting in still water, listening.
Right now, somewhere else,
someone else just might be doing the same.
Sometimes,
life makes sense, too.
However, the world seems hell-bent! Problematic and questioning.
No one here is the true solution you are looking for. Not even the extraordinary quotes. Quotes are just facts which are sometimes applicable.
People are unworthy of trust, and
animals are unaware of humans.
Still, you are figuring out—sitting in one random room or just lazily lying down—crying over small or big aspects of life.
The time you think a bit in detail, you see light, you urge for darkness. Or vice versa.
The heaven you are searching for is the questioning about the living in hell. There and here. Nothing is yours. Not your life before birth, after death, or in between. Neither your good deeds nor your sins.
Anger is you; calmness is you. You are fear and courage. God in you and Devil in you.
Good in you and Evil in you.
I hate you, but my love is you.
Snowflakes flutter to frosted earth
On a perfect winter day.
They glide through frigid wind,
Refracting whatever threads of light
Peek through the sky's soft gray quilt.
I stand on snow-crusted ground,
Craving my neck in awe
Of the chandelier of quartz drifting down.
My boots leave indents in an ever-growing cushion.
I want to let one settle on my hand.
So I can run my fingernail across
One of its many crystalline branches.
So I may feel just how smooth
A rigid structure could ever be.
So I will know that something as grand
As the smoky giants that sleep
Lazily above the horizon
Can craft something as intricate as it.
But I worry that the heat from my hands
Will melt and do away its delicate form.
If I were to tap it, even with the
Weakest edge of my nail,
I fear I would cleave it,
Between the roots of its symmetrical beauty,
In two.
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