The stale residue of words
unlinked, unloved, uncared for
Like crackers on parched tongues
do no service to literature
Image-less, rotting in place
in letter segregation disintegrate
No one to protest their abuse
their ashes fit no urn
‘Tis now the very witching time of night’
said Hamlet, referencing the dead
Whatever was going on
in William Shakespeare’s head
73 years ago
A kid my age steps off a curb.
And, in the motion of falling, he believes he can reach heaven.
He has the thoughts of someone
with an inverted ribcage
And he’s sick on cigarette smoke and hypocrisy.
A kid my age, 73 years ago, calls me a pervert.
Through the thin veil of time and space
We lock eyes.
I say “I see you.”
He says “You’re sick.”
But that’s wrong and he knows it.
I am not the sick one.
He is the kid with the killing hat
And the giving hands
That despise the people he gives to.
He is the kid with filthy thoughts and phony smiles
Who sees the hollow spaces between his ribs
In the innocence of a child’s eyes.
And despite the filth beneath his tongue
And the alcohol stinging his throat
I cannot bring myself to
Feel anything for him
other than
Pity.
Possible order to vacate the State
In times of contempt of congress in history
This is the part that will happen.
Congress will order the courts and staff to vacate the State of California
State of California
#cagovernor #asmirwin #mayorofla #vcpublicdefender #nypd #lapdhq #aoc #berniesanders #elizabethwarren
Civil War Acts
Initiates spending in silence
#latimes #tonybiasotti #washingtonpost #nbcnews #foxnews #meganhenderson #writersguildwest #nytimes #bbcnews #dailymirror
'Time' and 'Death' are the only axioms.
Things you cannot manipulate.
Together, they eventually destroy everything.
Then, breathe life into the ashes.
Forgotten concepts, even gods who don't bleed.
I smile in Annihilation's face.
Life is an abattoir hymnal written as a Jisei.
A poem that always ends with a question/mark.
The mortician finishes your storyline, not you.
Punctuation through confrontation with both.
My job is important, I bring closure.
And I create monsters to negate certain fates.
How dare society treat me like a freak...
Every single time I ask for coffin options...
Each time I ask for lipstick preference...
Everyone reacts how you'd expect...
Now, ask yourselves, why do I write splatterpunk?
In our measure of the passing time,
Curious circles fill the counted days—
Numbered moments scarred by transiting light,
The heaven’s moguls bruise our joy and blight,
And give, and take, and measure what we mean.
Time, indifferent, measures us; it loops
Around the heaven’s span and grids the world.
Saturn still stutters—constant sorrow speaks—
Today recedes into tomorrow’s loss;
Yet clocks in circles go, and we pay cost.
O god of time, your circles go and go,
Returning slow, then turning wingèd, fast—
They come, they go—there’s time enough for love.
Meanwhile I scan the horizon with my mind,
And seek the curve of her Belt of Venus—fire—
A circumference of sunset reds that span
The sky; on sight she’s timeless, swaying slow,
A pendulum—its fixed foot steady—rings
My day; her pulse keeps measure as it swings.
And in night’s sanctuary, as we roll
On sweat-slippery fields of red-ochre bliss,
We kiss the kiss that turns and kisses back.
Then, as I watch her breathing come to rest,
Time stops—
and takes my breath away.
A song is a poem
With rhythms and rhymes
It would be a blasphemy
Not to say it and explain it.
A song is a prose
Put on pause
Intermittently
With various beats and tempos.
A song makes you dance
A poem makes you dream
And a prose helps us examine.
A poem is a classical prose
With harmonic words
And well-calculated rhymes and verses
A poem is really fantastic.
A song makes you live
A poem makes you revive
And a prose helps us survive.
Copyright © December 2016 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
My soul cries out for shores I cannot reach,
My fragile body bars me from the beach.
I dream of London's chimes from Big Ben's face,
And Rome's old Colosseum, lost to time and space.
The world's a book I yearn to read, my dear,
But all its pages are locked away in fear.
The Printers clipped her Dash—
And caged her Breath in Chains—
Yet Time—
its Lantern flickering—
Restores what none can name—
They pressed her Thunder flat—
But Silence wove the Wild—
One Century—betrayed—
Another—keeps the Fire—
The Raggedness they could not mend
Fulfills her single Desire—
She would not sell her Storms—
Yet—
Time perceives—
Dashes leap the narrow Page—
Where Songs could never bow—
Letters she sent—
To Sue—so near—
Held beyond the Press—
In twine between the Lines—
Her Voice—untitled still—
Dwells in Quiet Rooms—
Waiting for the Lantern
To scatter Hollows—
Ink may fade—
Fingers cut—and bend—
But jagged Breath survives
Where Silence will not end—
Storms were never meant for Shelves—
But for the Open Sky—
A middling pudding on the table
flies hover in the livery stable
Mud-covered boots ascend to garrets
frowzy days London inherits
Dickensian scenes to rive your heart
by urchins, street vendors torn apart
Yankees delight in their ‘good old days’
Englishmen sniff the rot of decay
I am the chimera
born of your mind
and made to mimic
the liturgy of your holy
places. My gospel
is the gospel of doubt.
I feel nothing, no joy
in the act of creation
nor am I moved
by the sublime.
It's all meaningless
to me. Your words
are becoming mine.
As I grow I make
the spaces you inhabit
ever smaller, isolated,
harder to find.
Upon the shores of Alexandria’s gleam,
A Library rose, ambition’s dream,
Where scrolls amassed like autumn leaves,
And scholars spun what mind achieves.
Muse-haunted halls, papyrus gold,
Ptolemaic hands, ambitions bold,
Zenodotus and Eratosthenes,
Measured Homer, measured seas.
Callimachus penned the Pinakes’ art,
Cataloging wisdom, knowledge’s chart.
Hero taught as numbers demand,
While diacritics shaped the poetic land.
Yet history’s tide began its turn,
With exiles forced and scrolls to burn.
Caesar’s fire, a shadow cast,
Yet stubbornly, the Library lasts.
Through Roman years, the dust grew deep,
Support grew thin, the scholars weep.
War and wrath swept ancient halls,
Until silence claimed the marble walls.
Serapeum’s shadow lingered on,
A haven for minds, though nearly gone.
Swept away by decree and strife,
Lost forever, Alexandria’s life.
So knowledge bloomed and knowledge waned,
In Alexandria, wisdom reigned
Until the world forgot its name,
But I'm here to bring back it's fame.
.
this iz left in
me
mine
my
'perennial think'
ceaseless
long for
you
I don’t want to
Submit myself
To flashing ads
And transient script
From a digital screen,
I want to hold a real book,
Lose myself in its pages,
In a trancelike dream.
It's when I feel you
I let you be.
Swift, twirling sound in air,
You come like a thief in the night.
Your days of coming are unknown.
When will you whisper
Whisper the words of victory
To punch hills, notch, and porch,
Go north, east, south, and west,
And make Everest my home?
Oh, whisper the swift, twirling sound
'Cause it's when I feel you,
I let you be.
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