Long Broad shouldered Poems
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Chained undulations drew lustful admiration
Hungry hands grabbed slender agile ankles
" Hey, - let her go. A beautiful lady dancing,
Appreciate her", handsome stranger asserted
Narelle, ocean haired sequin harem allure, noted
Broad shouldered, neatly attired stranger
Held clenched fist on table, chest tensed
Touches from spectators ceased, she owed him
More than brawn, chat churned vivid as current
Unattended plates laid wasted on their first date
Passion unleashed her preventative heart, he knew
How to surface her deepest expression, soft coral
His protective nature became a beast to behold
A hundred questions followed her nights at work
Scrutiny of each action she took darkened her outlook
Taunting, belittling were plentiful pawns in his strategy
"I need to leave you," sobbingly declared, her dreams smashed
Twelve tumultuous months of shared living sent apparent
Signs of his worsening control, irrational temper burst forth
Without notice, outrage, accusations and dinner plates flew
Narelle knew instinctively, she'd have to flee far, fresh start
Social strings which held her cut in order to break the chains
Echoing bedroom, sterile kitchen mocked his masculinity
Clamped jaw injected injustice rippling rife in his aching ribs
Dazzled as a bird whose tree's been torn away, she spun in despair
Overwhelming pain gave way to glimmer of next season
Encircled elastic clamps gradually granted brighter realms
Inhibited dreams seasoned her mind's menu with a decent man
17th August 2020
Written for Contest : Woman In Chains
Sponsor : John Hamilton
Inspired by the song video clip of Woman In Chains
by Tears For Fears
Old Jane Gallagher,
she was fine,
in that sun shining on an every-day-girl sort of way.
Giggling
as her checkers clacked and she stacked up her kings,
funny
how young women enter men’s senses and take over their hearts.
Young women
with fresh friendly faces, and smooth, soft skin,
basking in the glow
of adolescent light
during comfortable, warm, summer days,
embedding colloquial tones
into malleable brains of dreaming young men.
There, they reside in ideal perfection
with their skinny naked step fathers prancing around,
showing off hairy legs and sipping cheap booze
to numb exhibitionist tendencies.
Soft-shoeing on the men’s room floor
in your red, felt, hunting hat,
what do you think you’re doing?
Young man filled with illusions of sweet girls
sipping sun tea and playing games with neighbor boys.
That handsome sporty roommate
scraping off his five-o-clock shadow
is going to conquer your innocent princess
in the back seat of a darkened, parked car.
Go down and tell her, “Hello!”
Go on, don’t be shy!
She only bites at the peak of her lust.
Like you had a chance,
putting a half nelson on your sporty roommate,
your skinny arms couldn’t hold old Jane,
let alone, a broad shouldered stud
wearing your hound’s tooth jacket.
Poor skinny hipster should be writing about sexy Jane Gallagher,
not sexy men entertaining Jane’s periphery existence.
Better let some repulsive coincidence
take your mind off the intimacy you’ll be missing.
Your coming-of-age tale
will be watching an unkempt recluse
squeezing a large puss filled zit in the mirror.
An Old Cowboy's Thunder
I stopped at a bar with a big neon star,
And looked for a seat in the crowd.
I saw a grizzled old gent who looked pretty spent.
He sat alone at a table, tall and proud.
I said "Pardon me, sir, this place is a blur,
Do you mind if I pull up a chair?"
He said, "Join me, my friend, an elbow we'll bend,
And talk about things we may share."
I judged him four score, but he could have been more,
And he'd cowboyed all over the West.
His face was like leather from the sun and the weather.
There was a poet's heart under that vest.
8/16/2016
As he told of a time that stood out in his mind,
A huge cowboy walked in through the door.
He was broad shouldered and lean and looked kinda mean,
Like he wanted to settle a score.
When he spotted our place he set a smirk on his face
And dragged up a chair and sat down.
He said, "If you don’t mind, this place is all mine.
Go sit somewhere else in this town!"
Well, the old man just grinned while he scratched at his chin,
Like he'd seen this movie before.
He just sort of rose and broke the cowboy’s nose
With a left that came up from the floor.
Then he hit him with a bottle that was goin' full throttle
And left him sprawled out by the table.
He sat down with a sigh and wondered just why
Folks will take on more than they’re able.
Well, I left there that night with a different insight
On just what might be true of Old Men.
Look beyond what is pale and seems ever so frail,
And just imagine where that old man has been
They sit gossiping
around on chairs
Under shady walnut
Sh! Sh! Backbiting!
Abusing! Loud laughing…
having fun!
A proud young man
newly appointed
Abused his pupils in
anger
When I in innocence
interrupted him
And reminded of his
class,
For the poor pupils I saw
were waiting
Opening their books on
their bags.
Another one, a Master, I
saw was pulling his
inferior female
colleague’s arm
And dragging her in…!
A lecturer kissing his girl
students on cheeks,
whispering in their ears,
and
embracing…!
A broad shouldered tall
teacher would kiss and
bite
The plum-cheeks of my
fair-looking class-
fellows,
One among now is a KPS
officer!
An old lame teacher,
A drinker, abused the
pupils all the time,
Often sitting cross-
legged, lighting a cigar.
O! Let’s stop it here…
but a sick Sikh
headmaster
Now I see had been
highly communal
Would beat at prayer-
time
The poor pupils
sweating in sun,
Without seeing the
wooden-slates
And beating with willow-
twigs their soft thighs.
Thanks to the highly
disciplined modern
schools
In private sector
But the curriculum be
child centered
And not fatiguing and
boring.
O O! Recently I have
heard of the teachers
Who gave me a
humiliating nickname,
One is shouting and
hurling stones at people,
Another is dumbfounded,
hardly talking to any one.
Whom have you hired
teachers...?
Drivers and Boucher—
I wonder and I ponder…
But, let I at least protest.
during the Eves of festival
a broad shouldered man
came into or near
the Layer were Witches were said to dwell
He came there to challenge
the Goblin who made
pots in the cave
Witches, Witches ask him here
cast your spell and make him appear.
I wish this Goblin to weave my baskets
I ask you witches
to tell him and ask it!
Spear, spear, sword
and arrow.
the becks of hawks, eagles, and sparrows
said the Wicca Witches.
weave your own baskets to
use as bags
to fill with stones
so heavy one must drag.
snails, and worms, and lizards to
if we were married now we're through
mount your horse and be on your way
be gone, be gone
hear what we say!
then suddenly the goblin appeared
and challenged the broad-shouldered man.
the tumbled
and fell on the baskets and pots
the grappled rolling around
non-stop.
the broad-shouldered man
grabbed a bag
and placed on the Goblins head
to calm his mad!
he told him he'd
feed him and cloth him
if he came to
weave his baskets
the Goblin grunted
as the Broad-shouldered man asked it.
he took him off
to make his baskets
a bag over his head
they mounted the horses
and off the fastest.
Weeks later
here again they came
the witches were in any mood
for these foolish games.
they casted a spell
and the broad-shouldered man fell
and became a frog
that with a tail
the Goblin grunted
and returned to the cave
making the Witches pots
like he were there slave!
“9/11”
I have seen the Sword of Anguish
As it seared its blinding wrath across the faces of millions.
I have tasted the salt of their tears
Released in painful droplets of anger and fear.
I have watched the father, stooped and broken
As he speaks of the deeds of a heroic son.
Ached for the void that engulfs the husband
As he listens to the frightened sobs
Of the wife who knows she is lost.
I have peered out through the wide eyed innocence
Of a child - hopeful, confused, afraid,
Then gone.
I have felt the fatigue of the broad-shouldered saviors
Who toil in disbelief while numbing themselves to the pain.
I tell myself: “*It is, too, much.” -
That the price of survival is, too, costly to pay.
I ask the question: “Why?” -
In the morning when I face the day;
Upon the return to home - when your presence is missed;
In the middle of the night when I wake - reaching, reaching, reaching.
Grief is physical to me now -
A gnawing volcanic mass that rises from the pit of my stomach
And hurls my suffering up and out of me in so many screaming voices.
“Time will heal,” I tell myself -
Smoothing over the scars until they are merely
A distant reminder of what you meant to my life.
But I will remember -
Always…in small agonizing sobs
That I hide in that private part of me -
And you will be with me
Again,
And again,
And again…..
Jan Pearce
In Commemoration of 9/11
These three words immensely tick me off:
"Women of color" sounds frightfully pejorative.
I get very angry, hot, offended and combative,
When I hear these god-awful words that bluff
And marginalize our beautiful and proud women
Of action, dedication, fairness, wit and elegance.
These intellectual and broad-shouldered women
Deserve our love, respect, recognition and reverence.
I hate and abhor this bumptious term "women of color"
With burning passion. Because I love my eloquent sisters
Assiduously. I respect and revere them. I want to honor
These wonderful queens by offering them exquisite flowers,
Golden crowns studded with diamonds, sapphires and rubies.
I'm not at all a happy camper when I hear these tertian words.
Our women of light and dark shades were christened by the breeze
Of an eternal spring; they're as precious as the proud songbirds.
Women are our mothers, sisters, aunts, wives and friends.
Without these ladies, life would be monotonous and tasteless.
Women are the beacons of our world and the helping hands,
Which carry men from the womb to the tomb that accepts no less.
P.S. This poem is dedicated to all reasonable and beautiful women who are united regardless of their color.
Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
I stopped at a bar with a big neon star,
And looked for a seat in the crowd.
I saw a grizzled old gent who looked pretty spent.
He sat alone at a table, tall and proud.
I judged him four score, but he could have been more
, And he'd cowboyed all over the West.
His face was like leather from the sun and the weather.
There was a poet's heart under that vest.
As he told of a time that stood out in his mind,
A huge cowboy walked in through the door.
He was broad shouldered and lean and looked kinda mean,
Like he wanted to settle a score.
When he spotted our place he set a smirk on his face
And dragged up a chair and sat down.
He said, "If you don’t mind, this place is all mine.
Go sit somewhere else in this town!"
Well, the old man just grinned while he scratched at his chin,
Like he'd seen this movie before.
He just sort of rose and broke the cowboy’s nose
With a left that came up from the floor.
Then he hit him with a bottle that was goin' full throttle
And left him sprawled out by the table.
He sat down with a sigh and wondered just why
Folks will take on more than they’re able.
Well, I left there then and thought of old men -
Just imagine where old cowboys have been.
1-20-21
Contest: Cowboy Poetry
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
In this landscape, lies a nest
made of brown brittle leaves,
cracked asphalt,
and tire flattened filters
this creature, stands
broad shouldered and stupid
with a flat face and eyes
open so wide they are windows
offering a glimpse into
the bones of a building.
Yet there is a maw so wide and welcoming,
as if by design
we wanted to be trapped
like Jonah, deep inside
the festering stomach
of a dying Leviathan.
The air inside hangs stagnancy
like meat from a butcher’s hook
For years, no atom has moved
an inch, not even the neon
would dare to appeal to its bright nature.
This cursed Frankenstein,
this ghost of a golem
stays stuck in a vacuum of time,
doomed to the disease
we all lovingly call nostalgia.
Down the throat is a linoleum tract,
the pathway echoed out
Conversations, a background hum
Where Marcy would meet Chaz
at Corndog Palace
Little Marcus would suck
Slimer’s fruit based concentrate
Aerosol spray coated the shelves
full of the endless adolescent days
Here we were meant to forever wade
through the swimming crowd
soaking in drum machines and vaporwave
Now just a concrete carcass,
you suburban eyesore
the corpse of Victor Gruen’s
idea that could have been
so much more.
Bold, wide, and gently rolling or narrow, crisp, and clear,
rushing over bedrock. Broad shouldered to carry the burden
of the depths, or lithe and athletic, coursing swiftly down a
stream. Men stand and gaze transfixed by the timeless
rippling and unfolding of your waters.
The Rivers
Provider of food and bounty. Transporter of goods and
people. Pathway toward dark, uninhabited places.
Prime mover of the soil. Your course and banks perpetually
changing, birthing lowlands and broad deltas. Seeker
of lower elevations and home of deep wellsprings.
The Rivers
You bequeath the gifts of the waters from your eternal flow
to the veins and arteries of all life on earth. You are the
medium of cool, molten flow; a go-between from modest rivulet
to vast sea or ocean abyssal. Your soul composes the antiphonal
music of the waterfall and rain bearing cloud. Motion is the
purpose of your existence or eventually, all life perishes.
The Rivers
Men seek more than your bounty. They crave more than a
quick drink of your cooling waters, hoping to slake a passing
thirst. Our souls yearn for more than adventure along your realms.
We long to meld our spirit with yours; and in doing so, to feel eternal.
The Rivers
7-31-14