Long Asylum Poems
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Insane asylum, oh asylum,
Your walls hum with despair,
In echoes carved by silent screams,
A piece of me is there.
A shard of light, a tethered flame,
Clings to what I used to be,
But shadows rise with grasping hands,
And plead to set it free.
Oh asylum, cruel and kind,
Guard my soul; let it rest,
For if I lose this fractured mind,
Perhaps I’ll find my best.
Insane asylum, oh asylum,
Your corridors twist and bind,
A labyrinth where whispers crawl,
And pieces of me unwind.
I teeter on the brink of voids,
A precipice so steep,
Caught between the chaos’ roar,
And where the silences weep.
Oh asylum, cradle my cries,
Subdue the storms inside,
For though I ache to let it go,
I dread the hollow tide.
Insane asylum, oh asylum,
Reveal the truths untold,
In the crucible of my breaking,
Forge a spirit bold.
From ashes rise a phoenix cry,
Defiant in the night,
Let madness sing its hymn to life,
And set the heavens alight.
:: 11.22.2024 ::
After the trick or treat kids were finished- the party began,
the house was decorated for Halloween with all things spooky and creepy;
some very horrific things were really freaking me out but wine helped,
I provided chocolate spiders and someone had brought an Ouija board.
We took turns at the board calling the long lost dead to appear;
and they did but everyone was gone and I was quite alone . . . screaming!
They were all crowded in my bedroom surrounding my bed,
reaching out with their bony hands, smiling with shriveled lips and eyes;
and they never left- waiting till midnight every single night since,
even in the asylum they found me at midnight and my screaming would begin,
Because not one single ghost was one of my dear beloved;
but some apparitions unknown to me and I am quite sure . . . evil!
________________________
September 26, 2019
Poetry/Verse/After Trick or Treat
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1184-155-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written the the contest, Haunted
sponsor, Tania Kitchin
Second Place
These days, the most sought out advanced degree
In Extreme Higher Education is in Plagiarism.
A student can also minor in Overt Racism,
Sexism, Misogyny, Stupidity, and Bigotry.
Help wanted signs will be posted in January,
On every freaking corners in Washington D.C.;
Muslims, Mexicans, Syrians and minorities'
Applications will not be accepted. Senior citizens
Can apply unless they voted in the last two elections.
The reason for the change in rules and policies
Is to NOT 'Make America Great Again'.
Only Europeans and Aryans can apply for political asylum.
The Statue of Liberty will be returned to Marine Le Pen.
More pamphlets will be distributed at the next symposium.
Copyright © November 12,2016 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
I endure my arrogance like a leftover twin
absorbed during gestation,
seeing myself in everything, not only the eyes
that watch me rocking back and forth in a corner
in order to flip my house right-side up.
What’s left on the roadside is me, too.
I am wholly grateful for the retrospect when I listen,
slump-cheeked and reddening with introspective embarrassment,
dumb as an eyeball glaring down the barrel of a mandatory gavel,
self-awareness knows when you know they got you.
Argumentation is the art of capitulating as a sail
pulling down your head in a strong wind,
it's knowing when to go method, get Zen.
It is the biggest picture, zoomed in to view a passage,
out to capture rainfall in a tarp, knowing
the ocean won’t miss a few drops,
let's call it a potion.
Of my arrogance and I, our story, I will it
to the lowest bidder, as sinners seeking
asylum in an empyrean reliquary,
only the meek may enter,
my barrier is wrestling whether an artist should
be making their own bed in the morning
like a rusted hinge I stay pinned to the mattress
grasping at a careworn comforter, with both hands
weighing the gravity of the imbalance, the divisions
of labor unfavoring the languishing necessary
to push past the paralysis.
I will that our seizing be taken for breathing
and leaves us to being, finally, at rest
with ourselves.
Without intervention of opinion, although taken
with salt, is a different flavor of reason that brings us
to an alphabet soup I see myself in, because this soup,
too is part of the arrogant everything I earlier mentioned
is my twin.
When I wash dishes
I look out at my bird feeder,
noticing which political species are best at cooperating,
easy democratic process,
remaining focused on collective nutritional energy gains,
"we're all in this together" feathers of kin kind
And, which are more elitist,
not so good with sharing a modestly seeded pot;
blue jays predatively pecking,
crows taking over with raucous self-appointed authority,
ganging up against non-supremacists
preferring win/win democratic health.
But, this morning's meditation
looks over at a nearby large bush,
now January cold barren brown
camouflage, more than shelter,
for local birds of all species
waiting their feeding turn,
frightened by my neighbor's cat
or a hawk flying ominously overhead
or human noises leaking through my windows.
This small bird sanctuary,
Or is it an asylum?...
Perhaps both, depending on the bird,
harbors those waiting,
patiently, impatiently,
How would I know?
for their turn at their nutrition tower,
their seed Commons,
their energy media feeding station,
local source for economic and political exchange,
gossip,
social busyness.
Each bird flies back and forth,
some dressed in drab everyday,
others more business-ready flashy,
but all conjoining waves of flowing energy
in-between asylum bush
and open season feeding sanctuary.
Sometimes listeners and watchers,
and then short-flight toward feeders,
communicants
receiving sacred wafers,
seeds,
investments in cooperative multiculturing futures,
gifts of a generous green Earth.
Then,
suddenly,
they are gone.
The feeder Commons
abandoned.
My meditative hiding
and curiously waiting medicine bush
bereft of waving winged energy
breathing in and out,
feathered wings up and down.
Time to go back home
to more private nests
thoughts
feelings,
or, perhaps
to visit my neighbor's cooperative feeder,
another decaffeinated sanctuary
outside his own warm interior asylum.
In the mystery of the unknown, where thoughts flow like a river,
my being seeks innocence, unknown even to myself,
I am free, at last, to be silent, to bathe
in the quiet of your promise of promises,
like the pear tree in the garden, which feels beauty,
but never asks why such splendor is here.
On monsoon days, full of rain and longing,
locked within, yearning to explore the seas and the galaxy,
the tree beseeches the rain with a silent plea,
not to be judged by your deep gaze,
like a solitary companion who remembers,
my name scratched on the asylum walls,
as I was letting go of ideals,
I saw in the forest the tumult of life,
the remorse of a nymph who was once a virgin,
the stars were there, but of accidental origin.
In cosmic solitude, we seek unseen connections,
the universe calls us through symbols and dreams,
we dance among shadows and lights, seeking meaning,
in the chaos of existence, we lose and find ourselves.
We repeat, like a ritual, the words that become incantation,
archetypal images embrace the soul,
in a hypnotic musicality, we immerse ourselves,
transforming as the poem carries us
into the depths of being, where we find peace and truth.
I fell in love, broken wings of my fearful days, watched as they fade away with every passing day, everyday a new flower blossoming in my long deserted heart. Bow my head, heaven waves to my present, gratitude fills my fibres, scars never thought to ever heal, diminishing,
This day evokes so much of my long kept emotions, leaking everywhere in my body are juices of being in love , this world has long witnessed, failing to keep my joy volumes attended, my heart overflows, pity I can't swim, if drowning in your love be my death, then I'm ready to say my last words, " I love loving you "
Continuously had they savaged the fragile person in me, now wavering, so much comfort this shore has went through with all ending disastrously, ain't questioning just setting my precautionary at ease, been far where my recovery has dragged me, hope you not a passerby, enough had I been discarded when I looked so much in the focused destination.
Blind fold my heart, hold me gently as you lead, where only God knows where, expecting the unexpected as the rule my past has taught me, leasing my heart to you, with conditions of just loving you no less, for the less in my least being what I can less afford to give no body than you. I with a tattered yesterday, hoping for a temporary asylum in your presence
#Poetic_Ink
I walked the shape of a square
Inside of a circle.
I brought shrimp to a lobster fest.
This morning I woke up
With someone else's nose.
My niece is stuck in an elevator
With no shoes or sox.
The leaves need to be raked.
No one can find the rake.
My brother loves to talk on the phone
But he has strep throat.
I can't pick up the roll of paper towels,
I'm holding this baby.
I'm driving home
And there's not even ginger ale.
I can see the words but can't read them.
I can hear the sounds but can't put meaning to them.
I can feel the feelings but not know how to process them.
My toaster of a heart can't tell when the toast is burnt.
A roaring beach campfire
Waiting for reflective faces
That never show up.
The body as the asylum.
Choices that further enchain us.
You, please, you entertain us.
You will entertain us.
I will entertain us.
***
3/30/23
Writing Challenge "Q" Words Contest
Sponsor: Me, I'm sponsoring myself
he panted heavily
muscles twitching in his naked body
running frenzied, without looking back,
he shouted, “He is after me.... my life”
a rip roaring cry....!
the traffic halted
pedestrians stopped
people from shops came out
women through curtained windows peeped
children stopped their play
“so drunk”.... a man murmured
“A crack”.... someone shouted
“coming right after an orgy”
sneered, an oldie...
“pity on him...! Take him to an asylum”
one gentleman suggested.
he needs help, majority opined
‘nab this plague’, the moral police quipped
what is he running from...?
an assailant....?
corona virus....?
his own phantom...?
two sane men staying,
at a corner wondered.
they had masks on their face
“must be a health worker”..!
one of them said...
“yes, the subtle nuances of a cracked mind”
the other agreed!
as the scene on the road,
had grown into a high voltage drama,
dissensions grew and multiplied!
March.10. 2023
~Placed Second~
Cracked Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Anthony Biaanco
A final song to sing
Life is getting hard
Not a thing you can do
Day dreaming
Thinking of what tomorrow may bring you
One more song to sing
Voice of an asylum forager
Choice to become a cultural voyager
Pictures are taken
But perfection is split and edited
I move mountains if I could
But that state of mind is not understood
The price you pay
For having a small paradise in hell
Like loving a widower
An Achilles with a sense of compassion
Minus the expense and lashings
Was going to sell my bed to pay rent
Some of us appreciate the absence of zero
But no one truly admires a fictional hero
If all A is B and all B is C
but doesn’t equal something
Then C is the unsound value of nothing
An outcast because I have a sense of morals
A list of things to do, plural
Only in triumph
Will you find a cure for your fall
Hitting walls in my mind
Did you forget you were human
Brush your hair away from your eyes
For god doesn’t cry
Poets getting scarce
I’m starting to paint
Portraits of where you are
I’m beginning to faint
Repent
Ask your lord for help
No Mercy
He’s not listening to you
Enjoy your final breath
Are you worthy
The worlds a fast place
But you’re in no hurry
I’m alone
No tomorrow
To reach for
And I miss you