Long Archeologists Poems
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inside me cranium
toady, an amphibious December 19th
twenty twenty one sinisterly drum
intonating forty five orbitz one bum
graduated as hard school of knocks alum.
Fiendish and gruesome phantasmagoric denizens
dwell deep inside subterranean vault
perform an evil dance
haunt psychic landscape
with imaginary (yet realistic)
gargoyle visitations cast macabre trance
nocturnal unconscious invaders
cavort and gallivant
disturb quiescent sleep
with devilish and sinister prance.
Apparitions crept stealthily
into peaceful slumber receptacle
repository whence illusory
landscape of dreams
take place to rejuvenate
exhausted body, mind and spirit triage
rent asunder blissful sleep with
a startled fright
cold sweat drenched
nighttime garments and bedding
teeth chattered uncontrollably
heart pounded loudly inside chest
nightmarish phantoms wrought
an awful ghoulish sight.
Mushroom cloud anniversary triggered
frenzied gargantuan hallucination
seventy six plus years ago today inauguration
into atomic age took place
one country after another sought
to acquire demonic and destruction devices
maintain self-preservation in
surreal atomic weapons race
impossible to escape the dark threat
looms and threatens life on Earth
one launched missile spells extermination
9.
across entire global space.
No escape from humankind military machines
munitions march mean madness
and guaranteed demise to all life
*****Sapiens violent history of bias,
intolerance and/or prejudice
characterizes vicious warfare
and chronic species strife
unaffordable legacy for future
(and perhaps alien) archeologists,
who will sift thru civilization debris
with delicate knife.
Artifacts buried in a heap
of pulverized and radioactive ash
civilization monuments
and hedonistic symbols
gone in a blinding brilliant flash
irksome flotsam and jetsam
spewed into outer space
alien nations light years distant
collect miniscule bits and pieces
offer object lesson as extinction for beings
that become excessively brash.
The History of Black People,
And all of our People should be celebrated
Year-round: every day, week, month, and decade.
The celebration should go on unabated,
All the time. The first couple,
Ever existed, had dark skin, said
Many credible historians,
Archeologists and great citizens.
The month of February is evidently too short.
Twenty-eight days are not enough,
To commemorate our Brave People, who've fought
And defeated ignorance, bigotry and slavery.
Three hundred and sixty-five days are not enough,
To honor the struggle of the Slaves who were brought
To different parts of the world. A century
Is not enough. Many centuries are not enough.
We need, every single day of the almanac,
To celebrate, to remember the first Black
Couple, our Ancestors,
Our Brothers and Sisters.
Copyright© January 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.
We have designated drivers and designated hitters
But where are the designated cowboys?
The designated artists?
The designated illustrators?
The designated astronauts?
The designated dancers?
Who decides?
Is it the child or a parent?
A mentor? A committee? A judge?
Who gets to designate me?
Will they designate me at birth or is it later?
Do they take my interests and talents into account,
or is it just a random designation?
Can we designate ourselves?
Maybe, if we grow up in the right part of the world.
Maybe not, if we don’t.
Poof. I’m a poet.
Wham. I’m an aerospace engineer.
Bing! I’m a physician’s assistant.
A wonderful truth worth pondering.
Some children are born into a family business,
and they know what they will be doing
because there is no discussion whatsoever.
Poof. They will be painting lawn furniture all their lives.
Wham. They will be gardeners, taking over Mommy’s business.
Pow. They will be engineers.
Their whole family has been designated to be engineers.
No discussion. Just an inner knowing at birth.
It is nice to think that we live in a world where we can designate ourselves.
We can be a doctor or lawyer or pharmaceutical rep.
But can we really? Can the poor really
afford to go to school eleven or twelve years without any pay
to become a veterinarian?
Can the ones who can barely graduate high school
due to lots of pressure from home to
not buy into the “world of school”
truly designate themselves librarians or archeologists?
I would like to think that they could.
I really do wish I could think that.
If that was true,
if we could all designate ourselves and be anything we wanted to be,
I would designate
myself to be a dragon-training, first-rate,
Indianapolis 500 stunt car race driver. How about you?
In Canada, the First Indigenous Communities sadly watched as the ground
penetrating high-tech equipment searched and found the unmarked graves
of residential school children. These children were taken from their homes
by force, beaten, raped, and killed, and buried in unmarked graves in what
is called the Sixties Scope. As an Ojibway girl, I watched too.
In a Manitoba church basement archeologists detected fourteen possible
graves sites thinking they could be human remains of children.
Some in the community said let the dead rest, others demand justice for
these children taken by the government. Is there relativity in digging up
the remains after all this time?
I have screamed to the sky at each revealed grave, why! Oh, no time can
erase the hurt and pain of the Indigenous people. This is part of the history
of Canada. No words can ever remove it. Yes, it happened, it was real !
Lost Souls and Fragrances
A saffron fragrance mixed with aromas from desert shores
Salt and seaweed lifts the distances of spirits drifting on tomorrow
Archeologists are touched and drawn
To the other side with all their senses
They search with empty bodies even now
Spirits lead the way
Reach through centuries, which took those souls so long ago
Through distances on countless years to Istanbul for study
To copy, to replicate the human souls, of the lost and found
Archeologists have no clues
They dig through so much memory, buried
But when they open up the very last tomb
The smell, the aroma, the human and the spirit
Open on the ancient to the here and now
Scent and soul comes through, holds on
Lingers with the find until tomorrow
10/11/14 The Scent of Your Soul - Poetry Contest
Minuette flew over cobblestones much faster than herself, moving swifter than her thoughts could carry her, to reach their obvious conclusions up ahead. Metal cleated tap shoes made an awful racket racing through the labyrinthine of alleyways. Sidewalks drew too much attention to themselves with the noise and did not add to the solution she was looking for.
No one must see her at this hour as she travels down the streets. Her dark green dress lifted in the wind, just above her ankles, like a mask on open oceans as she sailed in it. A hint of pure white skirt was barely visible in the dim light. It was night. No. It was day. No. It must be afternoon. No. There is too much dark. It was daytime. I'm sure of that. The sun is simply hidden by the clouds as fog rolls in.
Was it the library or the café that made her frantic? Longberry is illusive, an easy place to get lost in, along with memories which plays odd tricks that come back to her in circles.
She was heading in the wrong direction. Minuette must pivot on the moment to rectify that and so desired to run faster than her feet could take her, backtracking from her origins. Time was running up behind her. There remained significant ground to cover and to master in mere seconds.
Archeologists must also eat. She was famished. The café will have to wait. Her mind is dead set on the library, which had by coincidence just opened up before her sleepy eyes. It is more important to feed her head. New books on rocks had just arrived. She was happy and dove right in to read each one, each savory line.
A crusty old man sat next to her for conversation. He will remain anonymous for the time being. There are many reasons why but moving right along and not to place such a fine point on the matter; she caught her breath somewhere between his bad breath and a smile and the color red, which welled up inside of her like fire.
An angry index finger came up to touch her cherry lips which parted with a simple "Shh." "We are in the library." She signaled to him to gaze upon the SILENCE sign, prominently on display, Pointed at it confidently to add to his enlightenment. Such evidence was hoped to change his behavior and his manners. Enlightenment was not his claim to fame. Not much could be done to change his odor either.
The meteor hurtled silently through the mute cosmos.
Till it fell and shattered over the granite rock of a planet.
Hunched men ran afar, afraid, adoring the goddess,
The woman, in late pregnancy, that lay supine on the altar.
Steadily, many moved towards the gaping hole.
All around metallic shards lay around.
Someone grabbed a pointed double-edged weapon.
It served well to dig and carve and increased its hole.
Many joined and even lit torches from the fire of the temple.
The men discussed what best to do, considering their limitations.
They decided on a three-tier structure, explicitly decorated.
But full of tricks in honor of the pregnant goddess.
Years passed and then centuries. Dust covered the rocks,
Modern times came and houses were built everywhere.
Till a man realized a large hole filled with water.
Slowly the hole became large and old bones appeared.
Archeologists arrived. Years passed until the soil was removed.
All was careful not to scrape the walls and a hole was emptied.
The lowest part had strange stairs, some straight, some uneven.
It was meant as a trap for thieves who went down for riches and food.
On one side was a burial place. And on the wall was depicted
A tree of immortality. No one knew what paint they used.
And opposite was the mystery of all. A mystery no one can solve.
Speak into the hole. Ask a question. From behind a curtain, you’ll get a reply.
Yet here’s the mystery of the hole. Any man could speak into a hole.
The sound would be well heard and full of strange echo.
But no woman could have its voice be heard in that dark adjacent room.
A riddle? A theory? An assumption? No solution for a female voice! Only male.
Placed 5
A team of Japanese scientist check their watches
agree, but cannot agree on the date to reveal
what they are hiding now from curious eyes.
Without the ability to look
through a time-telescope. I cannot figure out
what they are up to.
Archeologists have discovered possibly the first
Black Forest cuckoo clock. It has been authenticated,
but I don’t know by whom, and the cuckoo
is silent.
Bits of history have been magnified out of all proportion.
Future flowers wither on their stems before we
get to see them.
The front of the train never sees the caboose.
Perhaps the past and future exist on parallel lines,
perhaps the Cheshire cat has forever lost its smile?
We keep repeating unlikely tall tales
until we have to believe, even if they are
and always will be,
just theories.
I don’t know what will become of tomorrow
when today is so distracted by its place in the line,
and we wait pensively
for time to discover that we are really
not even here yet.
The history of Black or African People,
And all of our People should be celebrated
Year-round: every hour, day, week, month, and decade.
The celebration must go on unabated,
All the time. The first couple,
Ever existed, had dark or ebony skin, said
Many credible historians,
Archeologists and great citizens.
The month of February is evidently too short.
Twenty-eight days are not enough,
To commemorate our Brave People, who've fought
And defeated ignorance, bigotry and slavery.
Three hundred and sixty-five days are not enough,
To honor the struggle of the Slaves who were brought
To different parts of the world. A century
Is not enough. Many centuries are not enough.
We need, every day and month of the almanac,
To celebrate, to remember the first Black
Couple, our ebony Ancestors,
Our Black Brothers and Sisters.
Copyright© January 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.
For you
I would
create a mixtape
which I know is an ancient technology but
with me and you it is just that simple.
I race to you like we used to rush into each other's arms in highschool
where our only concern was whether or not we could get the courage to talk to each other without shaking.....
This is the playlist that I would prepare for you.
First and foremost I'd put Hate to see you go by The colour fred
Because it is true as the song has said
Truly if I could I would become a
sculptor...
I would place the unformed chunk of my clayself and spin.
Create myself in the image of your ideal perfection.
I would spin
Faster than the spools could play the songs on re-wind
I want so badly to make an impresion
and I know that the the tape can only contain up to 35 minutes for you to get the underlying
message
October Nights, by Yellowcard
will follow soon after
because that exotic night in your car
where the street lights were our blankets
is constantly on replay in my mind
Right before the heavy nod of sleep
I daydream
You are laying beside me, and in this private realm of thought
We travel like archeologists over the naked lay of our connected bodies
and I live through the pleasure that this daydream explodes into my mind like
parasympathetic nerve ending fireworks
Remember will play softly by Allister
and I'll hold onto the hope that you will forgive me of this time in our lives where I have to
press pause
for I am broken still
Knaans waving flag will resound from your stereos
For 'tis this soundtrack where my battle cry is derived
I know it is just the beginning but I will push myself past my barriers
Pieces by Sum 41 will be your lullaby
because this is the song that brought back the blue into my gray eyes
Hopefully side one will bring you comfort
because you are everything I am looking for in a guy
I am but a broken winged robin who has got to learn once more to fly.
and lastly Blink 182's I miss you
Because there is not a moment in the day where my mind wanders back to you
Form: