Long Gathering(a) Poems
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Used by all to see the sights
Centuries of power cutting through darkness
Hand in front of flame as you walk carefully
with candle light.
Strike a match lighting each wick
The cakes a glow celebration of another year
Make a wish and blow out candle light.
A tub of warmed water and cloth relieving the
day’s stresses, light switch to off room's a glow
from candle light.
A romantic moment dinner made with passion
Overcome with anticipation your guest arrives
The wine is poured dinner for two by candle light.
It’s festive times traditional songs we sing
House to house we go that eve with carol
Lyrics flickering from candle light.
At times of need and reflection found at the shrine
We kneel down in prayer with heavy thought and hart
Comes your offering through candle light.
A gathering a vigil a remembrance of one’s place
A single flame is lit, down the line it goes
As the crowd grows brighter showing unity and
compassion from all through candle light.
Celebrations mood grief and passion come to life
giving each moment deeper meaning
in the presence of candle light.
-KR-
Birthdays come and go
Some are looked forward to with great anticipation
And some anticipated with gloomy thoughts of time passing
But each one must be acknowledged in customary form
If nothing else, but to please those who try so hard
A dinner, gifts, and singing the song
Quite often the same ritual year after year
In one manner or another
Whether be it a big pizza party for a six year old
Or something to honor a great grandfather turning ninety nine
A celebration of some form,
Sometimes with streamers, pinatas, and games
Or a quiet gathering...a small number sitting around
A little table at The Olive Garden for an hour
No balloons, no cake, no candle, but acknowledgement, just the same
Nice....
Looking back on the latter, this simple family gathering
An evening dinner hour at The Olive Garden
The honoree, a woman, whose years seem to pass by so quickly
Over plates of ravioli, and eggplant parmasean, one special moment
A memory of a birthday that won't be forgotten
When a blonde little boy, .......her grandson
With his head held low, his 6 year old manner
Quiet, with shy repose, reaching into his pocket,
Holding out his one and only..
Most precious minature figure of Darth Vader
Saying, ..."I brought this for you, Grandma. It's your present."
What better birthday could a Grandma have?
Happy Birthday To Me!!
"Fragments and crumbs of life, all the little pieces." - John Ruskin 1853
Remnants of a Rainbow
Empty road
Winds the season of afternoon
Through still, anticipating, plains -
Wilderness savannahs -
Chases earth’s ever sloping curve
Lost in time
Under the capricious sun
And jealous wind whirls
Gathering a sachet -
Agate dust in fool’s gold flakes
Crumbs of twigs and freely offered leaves
Regal velvet petals
Paint brushing
Bits of autumn’s glory
On escaping cerulean fingertips
Fiery dawn’s transcendent warning light -
Cargo on cloud vessels
Sailing into skyports where anxious, trembling, raindrops
Wait
For the eternal rainmaker’s apprentice
To spin the whirls into a mystical mosaic -
Arching ribbons chasing crashing light and blazing thunder –
Awash with droplets dyed with rainbow hues
In teasing footprints – tantalizing temptation –
Just out of reach
Before the eyes of the road
Until twilight frays the edges
Disperses bits of sunbows on washed out yearning–
Cascades colors to devastated dusty emptiness
Descends on grey mists - palettes of ambivalence -
Closes doors on dreamy colorless rhapsodies –
Bleached longing -
Chasing bluebirds on remnants of wishful wings.
8-28-20
Written: May 30, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Craig Cornish
***********************
Sail tilts wide, a trail of ethereal voyages—
beneath gale-screaming canvas, untamed havens huddle.
A harsh and bitter school—winds guide the clumsy—
to fulfill the needs of the learner in salt and spray.
Shimmering, citrine waters belie a dark abyss—
shadowing their sins, gathering a gale.
seabirds muster, wailing discordant dirges,
surf thrums its symphony, light-bearer of dawn.
The squall approaches, nugatory now—
Yet horizon instructs: even fickle breezes
mock hedonist’s feast, remind the sailor of restraint.
A waif—wary-eyed, pugnacious—grasps a thread at dawn,
vessel bucks in ocean blitz—
ephemeral fingers touch aurum,
foam anoints the timbered blade with oracular blessing.
Waves cradle cobwebbed legends —
a dark embrace where visceral awe remains.
Waters devote themselves to lunar reverie—
a tome of lambency unfurls its farewell canopy.
Horizons incarnadine, crepuscular creed,
stars spill splendor as shadows clutch twilight’s dagger.
And still—the broad reach carries us—
not canvas and keel alone, but the human heart—
sardonic tenderness stretching into the infinite.
We are born breathless,
empty but not still.
Poised, suspended in silence
awaiting the first cry!
The first inhalation,
as the spirit enters us,
for the very first time,
with a profound
loud announcement,
that catches
the mother's
the father's
and watchers' and carer's
breath away
in awe and wonder
at their
new birth.
Much in nature is breathless;
lifeless but not still.
The tides ebb and flow.
The moon waxes and wanes.
Day becomes night,
and night becomes day.
The seasons come and go.
Waves rush in, crash, gush and exhale;
without gathering a breath.
The sky changes its mind.
Storms gather and disperse,
announcing their arrival
with a loud
thunderclap - a smack!
But there's no life within
to inhale,
draw breath
and breathe,
at their lifeless,
and breathless
new birth.
On late summer evenings,
or upon winters chilled looking-glass sky
reality will change its mask
just for those who seek their place.
For a few magical moments
space and time will unfold its sheltering tent;
and the margins of light and dark move apart
from each other.
A person whose insight is often an out-sight
may discover his or her lane.
That path will not appear,
it is only seen by the lamp of mind
when it searches for its purpose
within an infinitely expanding atlas.
There in that roofless instant may be glimpsed
our onward road and upon it our compass-finding soul
traveling back to where all lanes began.
The wise will breathe in deeply,
gathering a tidal swell of gratitude to them.
The thoughtful will know for certain
that their lane has been mapped and charted,
and that we are all journeying
to a home we never truly left.
I am on the railroad platform in Chicago waiting for my honey, my man.
He had run back to purchase me a sandwich with warm honey ham.
We are heading to California on a Zephyr that has a great reputation.
This is the sixth time we have been on this train leaving this station.
Our daughter lives in California, a place that is warm in the winter time.
We bought our tickets way ahead, and now I’m standing on this line.
Others are gathering; a lady with six children and an enormous purse.
My man had better get back here fast; I start to expect the worst.
Maybe he was mugged, and will not be back in time to make the train.
Has he fallen? Developed a huge concussion on his tiny brain?
Someone hands me a hot ham sandwich, and I smile in sheer delight.
Glad we are taking the train again, as I am terrified to take a flight.
The night was dark imparted
sun set on the empty hearted;
Slipping into a deeper blackened sleep
as cold swept along the bed to creep.
Empty covers tossed and turned
love awaited was late learned;
In the dreams came nightmares passed,
scary, frightening, unmasked.
Too cold the night, too dark the lonely heart
when lovers drift away, further apart.
The morning sun rose pale and yellowed
into a sky once blue now sallowed.
Too late the dreams had taken hold
gathering a fevered frenzy bold.
Racing clouded hues of gray on blue
brought back sweeter memories of you,
The night in its frightening cold and dark
imprinted well the gnawing hollow marks.
Reality wakes at dawn
with the only truth, you are gone.
11/272017
Stormy clouds are traveling through your heart
And bitter grudges are ruining your happiness
Hate destroys and love builds everything which
Is beautiful. Get a grip on yourself while the midday sun
Shines on the neighboring hills and on the blue sea
Being angry, day and night, is bad and dangerous
Start by gathering a myriad of beautiful roses
For your life. Sometimes one must stop for breaks
You are the only person in the world who's perfect
What will you do, dear friend, on your last birthday?
Because you must weed and burn the grudges and excuses
You need more light; it's time to change the fuses
Humility is a divine gift. You must drown the grudges
That block you from living under the light of beautiful moons.
Copyright © November 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
I saw a man gathering a few flowers
And wondered if they could be for me.
He tied them together with a lilac bow,
Vanishing between the city’s towers.
I didn’t open my window or I did close,
Just in case he would come again.
I want to hear his humming then say:
“Daises are fine, I will not demand a rose.”
So rare this sight is – not the man but the bower
Where the small flowers insist to grow.
I only knew about them once before
when my mother told me a tale from a tv’s show.
She is now silent and motionless in a tomb,
This time I cannot ask for her advice,
If the man climbs up the staircase:’
Should I keep singing while my hair I comb?