Long Haphazardly Poems
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Look in my closet and what will you see?
First is the shoe holder hung on the side of its door.
It holds shoes sometimes not matched up and some I rarely wore!
Tightly pressed together are many clothes you’ll see.
I think you’ll find them hung here quite haphazardly.
There are lovely tops and sweaters in many style and hues.
Many are clothes from which an average sized woman could choose.
See the cute black velvet-feeling top I’m looking at now
with its many white-faced cats saying “Are you kitten me right meow?”
A nice, red button-down Christmas sweater has black beads for trim.
It hangs close by a bunch of leggings ready for the gym.
A sweater that’s embroidered with flowers pink and blue
hangs near a long-sleeved dress with flowers on it too.
A practical black shawl is hung above a pair
of faded blue jeans which at times are too tight to wear.
A Rudolph top so playful hangs nearby an aqua suit.
A modest skirt this suit has and a scarf that is so cute.
Another skirted suit outfit has black stripes over gold.
Near it is a dark blue dress with a slit up the side quite bold.
Oh, here’s another suit of gold and checkered in design.
The pairs of jeans in here (if you can locate them) must number at least nine.
A leopard leather jacket with sexy pants so tight
is near a flared-out, long, bright skirt and a blouse that’s white.
A long blue fluffy bath robe hangs aside a purple-dotted top.
There are so many other things, I think I soon should stop.
On the shelf above the clothes are many purses; in a box
are lots of different types of belts and some holiday socks.
You’ve seen enough by now. But oh, my summer clothes!
They’re in a spare room’s closet. No time to show you those.
A paper thrown half haphazardly can tumble down the path with no regret
listen to the trumpet call oh dying soldier hear the sound of God's levet
we are lower animals on earth, trampling on our earth and sea
mother nature weeps at our robotic tactical feet, can't you see
that the karma of the world has gone off its skelter we are paying
for our carelessness and negligence, it goes without saying
we need to re-visit those red poppies on the ground of valor,
and circle back to a time when we wore our coats of armor
for the sake of the soul we need to heal the karmic wheel,
for karma, is something we can't beg for borrow or steal.
By: Mystic Rose
He chooses his medium and tools carefully:
It's oil and sable promise today.
He lays it on thick-haphazardly.
He folds then unfolds the unframed canvas many times
into the shape of a woman.
Squeezing out her dignity,
then reads what's left behind...
(his flavor of voodoo).
He fondles her entrails-shakes her bones.
That spill into the shape of.. "a little less than yesterday".
Picked over prey, he frames her.
Hangs her in his fun house tilted mind;
Then he buzzard hops away, taking to the sky.
Circling above, searching for another pair of wide soft eyes.
He chooses his medium carefully...to fit the deed.
Today it's his black clay heart that changes shape.
From a soft nest- to a cold, cackling cage...
The bunny takes the musky bait,
he spits gasoline on the bars.
Runs metal talons against a dying star...
igniting her.
He waits till her ashes cool.
He inhales deeply, puts the rest in a mason jar.
...proclaiming victory
he slithers away...
He chooses his medium carefully.
Today it's his stained-glass smile....
"His heavenly mirage".
A magnet for the she doves
which fly into it, heart first.
They're diced with shards from a toxic rainbow.
But there is no gold at the end.
Only hollow caves and poisoned winds...
He dons his cape and crown of dying doves.
Which have since turned from white to red.
He lounges around, buffing his trophies with a split tongue.
He chooses his medium carefully...
********************************************
As a lactose intolerant
cow whirring lion eye zing
dual (Banjo playing) Manichean
("FAKE") keen man womanizing,
faux nymphomaniac wannabe,
I cone only scream about visualizing
nip pulling and getting a breast
of Hani La (vanilla),
this sweltering unfreezing
Wednesday while mouth
watering chiefly hanker
for milch of
human kindness, which titillating
fanciful fandom fantasies
skinny dipping into soliloquizing
whet dreams har made
sadly, simply, and sorely realizing
test tickles quizzing
noggin merely figment
of fertile imagination pricking
prurient potent plentifully oozing
naughty salacious, licentious,
and felicitous evocations pulsating
hypnotically invoking
trance send dint overriding
gloriously flirtatious escapade needling
my over active
thought processes monopolizing
ability to focus attention trying
to compose joyous leavening,
sans jump starting
massaging, and kneading
dormant limp libido liberating
panting allied force,
which seems tubby
in axis Sybil for Nick -
A.Ting, thus Celeb Basie,
frantically, gingerly, and
haphazardly kickstarting
pussy riot with this feeble attempt
for a firm hut heave action,
one docile male member
devoid of livingsocial,
hence aye coon
sitter ring joining
a nunnery, which
would be habit chilly unfitting,
and very un convent
shin null for a poetic happy ending!
Many walk past
Most without bags
Wearing fleece pajama pants
At 1:30 on a Sunday
Not a.m., we are at the mall
In broad daylight,
In front of people
Their hair is tossed
haphazardly, they are not coming from church
Or lunch at Grandma's.
One is wearing red heels, slick, patent leather maybe
High, and a sequin skirt that is not as long as my hand.
It makes her giraffe-like legs look like mini-skyscrapers
She is limping now
I feel her pain
I remember those days
Trying to look good
While blisters are killing your feet
Suddenly the bedroom slippers
and the pajama pants make sense...
I spied a ship and descried the flag it flew.
It was nothing like the flags I had seen before.
It was red and blue, with white circles and yellow stars
The highlights of white and yellow stood out
like stars at night, and town lights bright.
The red like the color of the dawn and dusk.
The blue the color of the deep blue ocean.
It was clearly the flag of a sea faring nation.
As the ship got closer, you could clearly see its details.
It was a large primitive Polynesian outrigger voyager vessel,
a ghost ship as no one appeared to be aboard.
Where it had come from, the fate of its crew a mystery?
But the vessel sure knew how to sail
and knew where it was headed
as it sailed fast and free,
passed our sailing boat 'Snail'
on a true heading for a spot on the horizon.
For many years the Polynesian voyagers were decried as flotsam and jetsom.
How could these primitive people navigate through the vast open ocean
between tiny islands, pin-prick dotted in oceans of space?
It was assumed they migrated and populated the far flung oceans randomly and haphazardly
via their fishing trips and day trips being blown off course.
But research has descried their skill and fabulous knowledge of navigation.
Each island has a gild of navigators.
They use songs and stories to memorize navigation methods:
including the movement of the stars, wave patterns around island,
local currents, clouds, weather and bird behavior.
Polynesian navigators used the rise and setting of particular set stars on the horizon to set a heading.
They had wooden instruments, string and fiber maps of wave patterns and star movements to guide their way.
They skillfully know when they were near tiny islands
from the change in the wave patterns, currents
and their vast knowledge of birds and wildlife.
So don't be quick to decry Polynesian navigation.
Instead, descry its beauty, simplicity, nouse, proficiency and elegance.
Capsizing the Costa Concordia
Divers wreathe silently through
the submerged corridors of a
140,000-ton wreck. Little fish
dark haphazardly through
the juxtaposition of tilted ballroom,
granite bars fixed in place.
Black waters lit green by headlamps
provide a surreal spotlight
for a loveseat drifting by
A vase of Chinese dollar plants poised delicately
on a marble counter.
Across the underwater tomb,
toppled chairs, tumbled together,
wait patiently to be repositioned
outside the dance floor.
There was nothing graceful about the dramatic demise
of this giantess,
listing to her death.
She was fatally wounded, being coaxed
too closely to the coast.
A hidden reef stood ground to gore
a 70ft gash, portside.
There was the moaning of mangled metal,
the shrieking of splitting steel,
as dark torrents were unleashed into her belly,
extinguishing her light.
“Go back to your cabins!”
and corridors flooded
“Go back to your cabins!”
and pumps failed.
“Captain! The passengers are making their own way to the lifeboats!”
echoes pointlessly through the abandoned bridge.
“Vada a bordo, cazzo!”
The Coast Guard thunders across dark waters
and the captain is stealing into his own lifeboat
to listen from the safety of shore.
Listening to the chaos,
interrupted by the agonized silence of passengers
too terrified to scream.
They hold their breath and try to calm each other
in the absence of authority.
“Vada a bordo, cazzo!”
But it’s dark, he pleads, and I can’t see anything...
A rope ladder is flung over the bow,
drowning passengers slinging, and
crawling crablike to Coast Guard boats
as the ship sinks to her side,
gripping 37 passengers in a horrifying embrace.
Scuba clad stewards of the dead
open the possessive clutch
of an atrium elevator
to extract bodies
protectively closed and sealed
in a grisly pantomime of protection.
The remains of the deceased
are floated to the light
to break the surface one last time.
The Costa Concordia shudders heavily,
sliding into her death repose.
I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb’s now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Be aware that serendipity may
Unexpectedly tap you on your shoulder.
Such a nonchalant kiss in happenstance,
from the passing breeze is too easily missed.
Stay openly aware lest the impetus
Passes by, and you miss the awakening!
For on the dry beach the sands of time creep
In streams through your fingers, mesmerizing you
With the numbing mantra drone of sameness.
Lulling you to sleep comatose, and distracted,
By endless replays streaming memories
Of dreams within dreams, and old song repeats.
Leaving you oblivious to the unexpected
Awakening kiss that may drift in haphazardly,
On the willy-nilly whiffs of the passing breezes.
I crown the missus "champ impractical joker"
Unbeknownst the wife appeared unusually upbeat,
she did pretend and succeed
to give yours truly a special treat
aforementioned item alluded to purchased
at Liberty Ministry thrift store
3841 Ridge Pike
(some miles further east
same road identified as Main Street)
Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426
I can show you proof courtesy
printed information on pocketed receipt.
Most times one garden variety generic bloke
(christened Matthew Scott Harris),
would with pursed lips think
and or mouth the words okey doke
what in the name of Judas Priest
by George, he a run of the mill
on the floss ordinary heavy mettle folk
doth thee spouse got up her (figurative) sleeve
thespian wannabe she never quite...
her constitute stardom quite a joke.
She practices April's fool day
(hoping nobody notices
as she looks askance)
every time she gets a chance
gleefully clapping her hands
while performing an impromptu (risque) dance,
when she pulls off
hat tricks of her trade
taking Europe in general and France
in particular by storm
madding crowds clamoring to prance
with said unsung hero.
The words mentioned above intended for you
dear anonymous reader to woo
allowing, enabling, and providing how I view
livingsocial linkedin with good n plenti true
without a shadow of doubt poetic license taken,
these words zealously, randomly, haphazardly
scattered across screen willy nilly I spew
trying to coerce coalescence of continuity
yet additionally trying to weave events
earlier today December 22nd, I review,
whereby yours truly while waiting in a queue
assorted merchandise fifty percent off
the spouse did avidly pursue
unbeknownst she would play a prank and outdo
pulling a doozy gag at my expense, he took netview
of utter tomfoolery, and readily admits Matthew
Scott Harris I nearly ate "faux chocolate soap"
finding wife in stitches, he too
did chuckle, cuz he knew
supposed treat smelled extremely fragrant
cocoa confection fortunately, I did not chew
but promptly spit out after sneezing atchew!