Long Extenuating Poems
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At high noontime, the tires are burning in the streets
The sound of barking dogs is everywhere; the cats of hell smell
Like never showered rats who are locked up in death row cells
Where the air does not go through sealed windows
No, my friends, I'm not dreaming; it’s a nightmare. The sun
Is warming the pavement and the worms are coming out
En masse. The ravines are crowded with small children
That I could never imagined or seen with clear and open eyes
From such a bizarre, awkward, frantic and satanic scene
They’re talking about revolution, that sounds spooky and crazy
Because we must talk about kindness, evolution, education
Before contemplating such a magical or drastic motion
Everything is aflame. The palace is on fire and the buildings
Are red, inflamed. Oh! Yes, it is a total and capital fiasco
All of this is to show the wickedness of the vile jackals
The wild beasts which enjoy killing daughters and sons
At noon, in daylight, the malefactors have no shame to hate
Loot and burn everything they could neither imagined, nor created
And built. These werewolves come from nowhere, from the wars
Of hell, we wonder. We only know that we can't afford to live where
Vile and wild animals can easily seize the streets manu militari
For any new extenuating excuses, pretexts or fabricated reasons
Where are the technocrats and the intellectuals of the past?
A thin and weak voice coming from nowhere replied cowardly:
They are all hidden or incarcerated in coffers infested with lice
This explains why the werewolves are waltzing in the dusty streets
In mid-afternoon where high priests and high pastors walk on bridges
In ruins and normal toddlers no longer go to church. How awful, the pigs
Are well dressed, during the rainstorm, where the contaminated air
Escapes and embalms the disconcertedly distressed firmament
What misery for a group of goons who are equally surly and jubilant!
Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
This is a translation of the poem 'La Valse Des Loups-Garous'
by Hébert Logerie
The Divorce / Portrait Metaphor
By: Tom Wright
January 16 2006
In each divorce there’s two portraits painted
But children, as pawns, only one will see.
*Neither portrait is ever quite as good or bad
As the portrait’s painter portrays it to be.
One hangs highlighted to view in best light
While with the other seldom makes the show;
It hangs dimly lit in some obscure place
Where the children lack opportunity to go.
It isn’t that the dimly lit portrait was so bad
Or had lost it’s desire for its progeny to view.
But extenuating circumstances at times forbid
I’ve never seen a Tango that it didn’t take two.
*Husband or Wife is usually never the evil person
The other portrays them to be.
Truth is found somewhere between the two
It’s he said, she said
And the children become lost with the truth.
Tom
Blind Justice of Quotas
The gavel falls by decimal,
The judgement by percent.
The individual decreased to small,
A fraction of intent.
The scales she holds no longer weigh
The implication of the crime; They total up
The data-set to clear the queue of time.
Injudicious eyes are bound
To grids of black and white
Where no extenuating ground can alter
Wrong to right.
We trade the law for calculators, Truth for
targeted numbers.
Escaping fair adjudicators for anything that
computes.
She stands in stone, a blind sum capture to
A pie-chart, crown- a goddess turned outdated,
While column weigh her down.
A ledger filled, a ratio net, The target achieved
And clear;
While justice weeps inside the trap of a
Mathematical World.
Oh DARK artist
What a beautiful picture you create
Not with hues, pigments, and light
But with tone, imagery, and night
The soul an awaiting canvas
Your pen the finest brush
With reckless abandon you work
Is the masterpiece entitled Suffering
Images of sacrifice, torture, and insanity
A downward spiral of regret in the midst
Ah but when did doom ever seem so sweet
So many beautiful extenuating means
Surely they will justify any end
Your tale like sorcery captivates
You carry the title of Ciarraighe
From the dark rain filled lands
The darkness extends to your inner being
Rain now covering the pictures you paint
Pours forth from within
With each toile of tribulation
Resonating beauty resides
Will the beauty outlive the pain
Unfortunately the canvas cannot answer
On my saddened days
I’m hoping
That angels might shine
They’ve done
everything you can do
To a person in my shoes
I’m still breathing
Made it home to tell my mother
She can rest her thoughts
this evening
Sunny days
Appeal to the circumstances
In my wretched strengths
Living life’s
a variable of extenuating odds
I’m at twenty three percent
Relaxing in the palms
of several ghost
Trying to figure my wife
Theses hard times
Which means the most?
If I call for help
Will anyone respond
I see individuals tattooed
Declaring gods son
If I can do what I do
Then who am I
Because of the people
I was brought to
I shed tears from my left eye
If angels don’t smile
Am I doomed to trials
Of lowered eye brows
Romulus
and if the seas summon tomorrow
I will again ponder your trust
for seasons shall follow
He was known as Romulus
And the seas shall swallow tomorrow
The hand of Romulus
And Caesar shall follow
Execution
In the absence of complication,
intricacies of wayward living,
matters emphatically mitigated,
compelling conclusions, well-received,
extenuating circumstance accomplishes,
impressive consequences, be enduring,
proffers a conciliatory concession,
for toward said conclusion, we pray that all our
trials and tribulations become distant memories.
Above sapphire skies delight sanguine eyes -
amidst the enshrined immersed in the contributable phosphorous azure sea,
encouraged glissades a capricious peacock anointed from an Irish spring,
envisage a virtuous seduced meadow saturated with consistent meandering streams,
lands righteous depths fluidity of the membranes cortex wherever valedictory flourish,
inspiring forthcoming musings of the mind.
2019 November 25
*4th Place*
Complete the poem - In the absence of complication
~~Silent One
Hollow
Stay to be filled
We can help
To fill with drudgery and voids
To fill with poison and blank pages
that we said was a love letter
I wasn’t before, perhaps a little more
So now. Hollow that is, furrowed brow.
Confused by what has come to pass.
Confused by what didn’t last.
Even relationships that were meant to be forever.
Even biological mother didn’t want our family together.
Sure there were situations extenuating
But choosing chemicals over us is still deeply penetrating.
Not to mention lost love, the ones we go out to find.
Not to mention others when I was young who tried to break my mind.
Hollow
Stay to be filled
We can help
To fill with drudgery and voids
To fill with poison and blank pages
that we said was a love letter
Hollow, yes, I might be that
Empty, but there is a purpose to
Emptiness when you are sat
In a place where water can flow through.
The parts of life that picked at me deep
Are things in my heart that I keep.
Because there are lessons to learn
From the times that I burned.
And if I can pass only some of it on
At least I can have a little joy earned.
Fathers, Day 2003
"Boundaries"
Written: By Tom Wright
6/16/03
For the elixir of the vine,
Dad could scarcely refrain.
Now just thoughts of his labor,
Like green persimmons, remain.
Twas like some withered old flower,
That doggedly clung to its stem.
Fleecing each morning sun, until at last,
His petals blanched and eye's grew dim.
How oft have I wondered?
As this flower's memory I retrieve.
Questioning extenuating circumstances,
Which I have yet to conceive;
But in all my discernment,
Lay a garden in arrant waste.
Its corners marked by boundaries,
That was unjust and unchaste.
Time has moved hands clockwise,
And those boundaries that were set.
Occasionally grieve my spirit,
O’er that shadow that remains yet.
At my dad's final passing,
I was left wrought up, but sad.
For despite perceived deficiencies,
One fact remained; he was my Dad.
If a moment passed
Where I didn’t feel
Do, or see anything
In which I didn’t
Have to be anyone
Hear anyone
See anyone
Speak to anyone
A moment where
I could cease to be
Human
In which meaning and time
Would coincide
Instead of always collide
And where the measure
Of a man
Was not established
By what he did
Or did not do
With his words
Or his hands
A moment of pause
To reflect, collect,
And refocus my thoughts
So the fog
That clouds my eyes
Would dissipate
Knowing they are not
It’s destined place
A moment of pleasure
A breath of peace, joy,
Relief, and laughter
I’ve forgotten what it is
To not care
About anything
In particular
At all
To relinquish
Myself to the present
A moment of closure
Where I am alone
But I am not
Alone
A security blanket
That feels warm
Instead of
That itchy, uncomfortable thing
Aunt Carol used to
Wrap around you
And after which
You never mentioned
You’re cold around her again
But you still
Accept invitations to her home
Every time she asks
A moment of reprieve
From the chaos
The overanalyzing,
Overthinking, overcompensating
Out of the extenuating circumstances
Your life uses
To call unwanted attention
To itself
An intermission from
The emotional abuse
Inflicted by you
on yourself
The loathing, the hatred
The outpouring of negative
Processes on repeat
In your head
A respite from all
Of its nonsense
If I could have a moment
Where all of it
Would stop
For just a minute
I’m fairly certain
I’d find a way
To be okay
Again.
(the following extrapolated
thought thread exercised,
NOT utilized to intimate
how Fats Domino belied,
and wowed a crowded house as-sized).
as a former ace procrastinator, i abhor
putting off doing what best ought
to get immediate attention bar
ring some extenuating dire circumstance,
sans mishap with flying car
pet case in point being unexpected a bomb
bin able crisis necessitating
hypothetical individual impossible
to remain calm
while in the process
(assisted with good ole mom)
to hoist self with one's own petard,
which emergency best warrant a re ward,
otherwise if fate doth NOT
require one to break
from ordinary business as usual
to enlist the "FAKE"
help of a grenadier,
who doth make
his/her livelihood
risking their life,
and limb without quake
king (obviously compensating bravery
as he/she doth stake
out mortal danger with adequate adorn
ing mortal kombat
with ample legal tender and/
or promising first born)
for unstinting mettle,
especially tolerating accompanying
martial baritone horn
player screech (like fingernails
scraping blackboard)
in close proximity - eliciting a scorn
ing glare from soldier spy
tinker tailor with a torn
smile while trained
special ops named Bjorn
incurs deadly hazard from one morn
to the next amidst adversity
shouldering care worn
Marine's motto semper fidelis,
which unnecessary loss of young life
predicated on add
age, viz being at the least,
a day late and dollar short egad
inadvertently dooming
princely valiant warmonger,
a mere stripling lad
whose mourning brings
heavy pallor of sad
ness, which imagined situation - aye
tangentially congruently analogous by
and by to the butterfly effect,
or sparrow's swan song i.e. die
destiny wrought, when one dost espy
a single occurrence no lie,
(the flickr ring, instagram
ming, kickstart ting well nigh
linkedin shutterfly of a butterfly)
say twerks catcher in the rye,
hence no matter how small, thee or thy
can change the course
of the universe forever,
no idea how nor why!