Flowers sprinkle our steps with a thousand colors.
We offer them at every moment of life.
They are compliments of happiness.
Time passes, and their petals of beauty slip away.
Flowers carry our joys and our sorrows.
In bouquets or alone, they are always beautiful.
Messengers of Love running through our veins,
They caress us with perfumed scents.
The flowers of my dreams are so beautiful.
In a vase they seem suffocated.
They only wish to escape on beating wings.
Cut flowers have their hearts guillotined.
In the meadow where I lay down, head in the wind,
They look at me, amused, all trembling.
Then I feel sweetness flooding my blood.
Beautiful are the flowers of Freedom.
Joël Charvillat
Marvelous glow of life, his heart weeps far from you.
Silence is silver, his pain is gold.
Your words are diamonds, carved to make every moment shine,
to allow him to be himself without vanity or arrogance.
You are his gentle pearl.
The day already fades, night carries him far from you.
As darkness comes, he finds your face again.
Your smile awakens his being, giving back the softness of a sunbeam.
Love — without her the words ring false,
and in his dreams flowers are born at his feet
from all the tears he sheds.
Far away, the sea covers the sound of his sobs.
His steps falter and he collapses on the sand.
His hand caresses the golden, tender grains,
a light breath of air licking his skin.
He feels what exists, even as raindrops run down his cheeks.
He still allows himself to believe in the sun of love.
Are life’s dreams not the walks of moments gone by?
Or are they the shooting stars of joys yet to come?
He wanders as evening falls,
the orange colors of the sun bursting on the horizon.
His gaze fixed, he softens the lights
and rediscovers a face of love.
Yours.
Joël Charvillat
there is a never after
where words are lost
and colours fade
but perhaps we won't let go ~
in dreams and voices
there will be one more story from me
you'll be attentive
one last time
yet the tips of my fingers
slip from grasp
and all I ever wish for stills
I watch the earth spin
confused as to who is letting go
in this here and now
~ balance from the moon ~
a momentary turn
no one falls away
all lay softly
sound asleep
heartbeats become the dream
pictures ink into night skies
one thousand and one times
existing as permanently
as a memory feels
when last times
were just yesterday
En Ukraine et à Gaza, dans un holocauste
de vieillards, de femmes, d'enfants
de fleurs innocentes…sont morts
Là où la barbarie gravite,
là où l'espoir est perdu,
là où la compassion fronce les sourcils,
là où la vie est minuscule
et la mort une fleur rusée…
là où elle-même est perdue,
sans laisser de trace…
Là où la vertu dégénère
et où l'amour perd pied…
Où iront les papillons ?
Yay, the summer’s arrived, so they say
but in England, it’s here for one day;
we roast in the sun,
go rare to well-done;
spend the rest of the year in dismay.
A double murderer
Shot before a firing squad
Justice or revenge?
An eye for an eye
So, the old law book conveys
Punishment for sin
Society’s way
To rid town square of wrongs
Yet, death row awaits
The hangman stands by
The masses don’t know his name
Pulls the trap door latch
The cycle repeats
With no real decrease in crime
No one ever wins
Justice will make deals
With the guilty to win cases
Takes her blindfold off
Death for some killers
Others given terms or pleas
For the same offense
Lex talionis
The law of retaliation
Not meted out fairly
this great story is comparable ~ to parables in holy writ
Inspired by the Painting of Vincent Van Gogh
"Fishing Boats On The Beach at Les Saintes"
sky stunning sapphire, sand spectacular amber, sail-boats snoozing snug...
the sun begins to melt
from flaxen to canary~
from sangria to crimson
and blends into a warm kaleidoscope
that veils the serenity
in auburn delight
my heart hails to the prelude of
Les Colombes Du that fills the twilight air
as doves of Tenere take their flight
to search the soaring symphony
of a hundred angels humming
the melody of my heart
Les Miserable
I walked and walked down a steep ravine and came across
a village has forgotten by time by a road that evaded dwellings
A track not trodden among boulders and roofs made of canes.
skinny women with empty breasts sat on the bough of trees
waiting for someone to enter their loss of love
While telling their idiot children in the wet grass to shut up
Oh, crying stones free us from the untidy domestic wilderness
where dogs are too indifferent to muster barks.
Under flat stones, the men are hiding the emptiness of the
existence too much to bear now that the vines take no berry
On this day that has no time, but the endlessness of the gone
Cabbage patch, yellow chickens looking for worms before
the children do because they are hungry too.
Les Braves
(Iambic Pentameter)
Tan sands conceal deep furrows of their pain,
As churned emotions scream on the light breeze.
The rushing lather bubbles with red stain,
While mortar clouds suppress the dying wheeze,
That madly dared to reach the cliffs in vain.
The hostile bluff still taunts a flying skein,
Where warriors bravely tried to scale the crest.
The rock secretes long tales of plaintive strain,
Of ones that fought abreast for the oppressed,
and finally achieved the winning gain.
Yet no win comes without a shocking loss,
As the escarpment holds the treasured sons,
That fought the menace of the iron cross,
to fall heroic to opponents’ guns,
but proudly rest in peace ‘neath the grave’s moss
Note: Just came back from a visit to the D Day beaches and the American cemetery at Colleville-sur-mer, a great place of reverence.
3rd place trophy winner
10.21.22
Contest: 3 stanza poem in quintain (Sicilian)
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
Les More owned big fancy mansions galore
Then bought half of Wyoming, but kept craving more
Now his real estate dwindles to six feet by four
It's all he now needs; no less, no more
6/23/22
8th Place
Greed Poetry Contest-Margarita Lillico
Je vois partout de beaux bouquets
de clochettes blanches à l’air fragile ;
Ces petites fleurs aux têtes courbées
feuilles vert-foncé et tiges graciles.
Sur une pelouse forestière
un tapis blanc resplendissant
de têtes, inclinées en prière
annonce l’arrivée du printemps.
Sous les doux rayons du soleil
j’apprécie ce paysage si pur,
ces clochettes de l’espoir éveillent
la somnolence de la nature.
28.03.2022
Les vieux poèmes sont comme de vieilles chaussures
Que nous refusons de jeter au fond des fissures
Comme les vieilles pensées que nous ne pouvons pas ignorer
Ou les vieilles routes que nous aimons naviguer.
Les vieux poèmes sont maintenant très renommés
Comme de vieilles pantoufles confortables
Des témoins de nombreuses histoires autour de la table
Où grand-mère s'est assise autrefois avec fougue et en beauté.
Les vieux poèmes sont comme un vin raffiné
Ils s'améliorent à mesure que l'âge et le temps s'entremêlent
Et nous rêvons du bon vieux temps passé.
Les vieilles chaussures sont conservées au sous-sol
Pas trop loin des deux cheminées
Où sont situés les signes à louer.
Copyright © Février 2019, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés.
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.
This is a translation of the poem 'Old Poems Like Old Shoes' by Hebert Logerie
Late,
the morning glories rise
passionate, royal, magenta blooms trumpeting,
helloes and goodbyes;
novice neophytes falling
into lavender blush dream states
succumbing to a mellowed change in weather
cooler days awakened by pale aging sunlight
soft, restless breezes
in the trees shedding leaves;
twilight for the foliage
a lurid golden year half-light dulcet dawns,
scarlet carmine sunsets, waning,
whispering not shouting
carnelian nights humming a lullaby,
serene, euphonious,
clouded eyes struggling to remain awake
buddings small and petite,
placid emollients of day;
shaded out of scathed hunter greens
falling to lemon camboge
limed colored oranges,
harvest time citrus afterbites
commencement to vermillion bleedings
September full blood moon phasings,
in crisp kaleidoscope etchings
of a well-painted palette
sepia rusettes, auburn,
ambered melancholia disturbances;
sanguine shortened days,
arboreal sleep, brittle and dry
les Feuilles Mortes.
Mystic Rose contest of Hello September
9/17/21
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