Long Hopelessly Poems
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You are now just an old song as I am now moving on
Thought it was love but I couldn’t have been more wrong
I wrote down all my emotions, and played them all out
Though it wasn’t long before I began to feel the doubt
You knocked me off balance, I hopelessly tripped and fell
Took me a while to lift myself up from this loveless hell
You didn’t make it easy, always trying to drag me back
But each day in my heart the love from you inside lacked
It was the pleasure you found in it all, that hurt me the most
Such a quick hello, then happy to me cut off and then ghost
You were always there when I had something you needed
Always out to beat me and relished when you succeeded
Blaming it all on childhood trauma’s but never tried to heal
Having everyone feeling sorry for you really had its appeal
You are hooked on all the wrong things, including your lies
It was always gonna be my fault, o’ what a flamin’ surprise
Sharing my life with so many third parties didn’t make it fun
Until I truly had enough, time was up, and I was utterly done
I scraped myself out of this barrel; as for me life had to go on
As for you, well; you are now nothing to me but an old song
Yeah; nothing to me but an old song . . .
I faced alarming paradoxes
as I headed toward puberty.
First,
my King James Bible-belting parents,
extended family,
and all-hopelessly-WHITE farm community
taught me
God loves me
and all the children,
red and yellow,
and black almost as much as white.
That felt good
but then I learned God hates me
because I became queerly obsessed
with hot guys,
and not hot girls.
So, God restoratively created me
so He could retributively hate me.
That seemed like poor justice and peace planning to me,
and I was still in fifth grade.
Then I learned that God had given me two extraordinary gifts:
Possibly unmeasurable intelligence,
and so,
my grade-school principal warned
my evangelical farmer parents,
we were not to be surprised
if I was and saw this Earth
in a somewhat different way.
My second gift
was the envy of all good Bible-belting out and still-in teenagers.
I could sing with the angels.
So,
the God of Infinite Love
is my Creator
and I am His Frankenstein *****
with a mind and singing voice to soar,
full of Grace.
You and I might both be surprised
how long it took to figure out
Something is very wrong with this picture,
and I don't think it is just me.
It was merely everyone else I knew and trusted
in that Bible-belting time.
So I sang for them in full voice
but gave as little voice to my sexuality as possible.
I wrote papers and test responses
in full A+ voice
but told no one
I knew they were asking wrong questions
for me to answer with full-versed integrity,
Free to sing with David and Jonathon
free of magic superstitions
standing in for mythic polypathic wisdom
of Solomon
Not to divide innocent organic Promise
God has conjoined as Love
of and for children,
red and yellow,
black and white,
gay and lesbian,
bisexual and transgender
And, yes, even straight-faced
Bible-belted out and inward Hate,
Supremely Evangelical Christian Colonizing InBred Correctness,
while continuing to give birth
to hidden,
shamed and blamed ***** Grace
of a Loving God
polypathically immense,
deep and wide,
future through past
regeneratively just
and peaceful
and wickedly funny
Because if we cannot laugh at our egocentric stupidities,
then we must cry out for cosmic tragedy.
Inspired by “The Sick Child” painting by Edvard Munch
A pale face, all happiness drained out!
green and auburn lines - vertical and horizontal,
swirl around her in abundance,
except her face... devoid of any colour!
A drooping dried flower almost ready to fall,
return to the soil!
Feeble and declining - from exhaustion,
ailing and haunted - her expression!
A young girl of fifteen…bedridden for many months!
disease has crippled her, lying in bed she hopelessly
gazing towards an ominous white curtain...
a symbol of death!
clutching hands of a woman for comfort,
who can not look at her knowing it's all futile.
Her eyes have lost the lustre and hope they once possessed,
chestnut russet hair encircling the fatigued face of a maiden,
who once was a bubbling cheerful child,
Disease ravaged a budding flower!
The final moment has come!
PLACED FIFTH
All colours of lustre and hope drained from a young face,
She wears green....
Green and auburn lines playfully swirl around her…but,
Disease has crippled her for many months,
She clutches hands of her mother, when her eyes are vacant,
Chestnut russet hair encircling the fatigued face of a fifteen year old!
Final moment has come…
A white ominous curtain is all she gazes at…
A drooping flower, ready to fall!
She played her mysterious saxophone
as if we could be together alone
in concert halls
and Republican
and Green Democratic balls,
behind
and in front of
magisterial boundary walls.
She brought in a few million dollars
from quiet
more sedate
enraptured listening fans
Before her critics
complained She takes no risks,
no dissonance dare pass her wet vibrating reed.
Hopelessly romantic,
Without a hint of unpredictability.
Too many sustained wooden notes!
She is to saxophone performance
as communion
and compassionate communication
are to tiresomely pedantic religious orthodoxy,
behind
and in front of
multiculturing experiential walls.
About half a billion well-voiced dollars later,
She thought it time to respond
from a patriarchal position of musing strength.
"I invite those who don't like my ecofeminist natural music
to not listen with such obviously desperate disappointment.
Instead
make your own muse
on your own performing saxophone
or flute,
Your own drum of choice.
Become wildly successful
with your own well-tooled, but unweaponed, message.
Make tons of fan co-invested money."
"And, when you do,
I am sure I will have a chance to listen mindfully with you.
And, I hope I will become greatly amazed
with spatial wonder
and timeless awe."
"I will be so happy
to raptly listen
and write your superlative review,
to become your greatest co-empathic fan."
"Sadly,
until that great gettin-up morning,
I will continue playing my best music alone,
and hope you will now know
my muse and I best hope
to become your John the Baptist,
in faith waiting for your richer Messiah tunes
of even greater
wealthier
healthier rapture."
March 1 Heart for God Bible Meditations Based on Deuteronomy 5-7
Key Verse – Deuteronomy 5:2 The LORD our God made a covenant with us in Horeb.
HEART THAT HONOURS THE LORD FOR HIS COVENANT WITH US
Our heart honours the Lord for His covenant with us, so holy
Ever righteous, constraining our souls for true worship sincerely
Never sin-afflicted as it seeks for us to work willingly…
We repent for falling short miserably in not pleasing Him by faith fervently.
Our heart honours the Lord for His covenant with us, so perfect
Ever infallible, worthy of our respect as we prayerfully introspect
Never erroneous because He is the Source of omniscient intellect…
We repent for failing to go where our feet He does direct.
Our heart honours the Lord for His covenant with us, so important
Ever vital, urging our commitment to succeed since we are not resistant
Never irrelevant with regard to eternal aim which is significant…
We repent for undermining His blessings caused by our vanity, worldly dominant.
Our heart honours the Lord for His covenant with us, so profitable
Ever useful, inspiring our spirits in divine tasks’ timetable
Never burdensome since it is graciously bearable…
We repent for complaining about His commands of which we are incapable.
Our heart honours the Lord for His covenant with us, so goodness-filled
Ever satisfying, gladdening our devotion to be joyously thrilled
Never intimidating in subjugating arrogance that’s self-willed…
We repent for finding ourselves against His plan, discontentedly-grilled.
Our heart honours the Lord for His covenant with us, so rewarding
Ever fruitful, increasing our diligence toward plenteous abounding
Never lacking, strengthening our trust upon His Word with understanding…
We repent for struggling in defending His kingdom whenever we are backsliding.
Our heart honours the Lord for His covenant with us, so glorious
Ever marvelous, brightening our future when we are hopelessly delirious
Never gloomy since it assures triumphant success against sins that are notorious…
We repent for serving not with our best, forgetting that He wants us to be victorious.
March 1, 2026
Jazz Horn
Now put your left foot forward.
Next put your right foot ahead.
See how that works?
See how the workings of these two appendages
Facilitates the outcome
Of one continuous forward motion
To where you’re going … in this world?
Welcome, my friend,
To this deliciously dark dish of desperate cravings!
Look all around you as we walk this stalking street.
See all the dark places.
Where countless lost souls huddle in bare survival,
And share the hot knob over a weak fire.
I can hear a jazz horn, way off in the distance there.
It’s surely there, and it reassures me I’m still living, here.
Maybe some words by Langston Hughes might be nice right now.
Please, my friend, do me the honor.
Oh, I see. You don’t have your poetry anthology.
And it’s dark too.
Let us then visit the old pawnbroker
Mr. Tattoo Neck knows the price for our private fears.
Piss puddles and crushed beer cans.
And an old used tire hanging hopelessly
By the cracked front window.
I see the world is one inch closer to doom since last we talked.
May we rest in peace, my friend.
Any murders lately on the street?
I hear the blond dish in Shire Apartments has moved out.
Black sooty smashed gum and litter of coupons and girlie guides.
Only one killing this week, my friend.
The butcher from 27th street; the guy who never talked to anyone.
His bowling ball is in the window.
Life is hard. It knocks you on the head when you least expect it.
I hope I make it.
I don’t know if some ******* will come in here and shoot me in the face!
I live my whole freaking life scared!
It’s ridiculous that we all have to be hostages to these evil people.
The city grows darker at night.
I have noticed it because I live mostly with the night.
The night is my secret lover, and there is no other.
The city is as dark as nothing in the middle of nowhere.
Something bigger than a final sunset is needed.
You know what I mean, my friend?
Here, I will buy you that jazz horn there.
You can sweetly serenade me,
And lovely night naked,
As we make love here
In the calming mad darkness.
A rhetorical question finds me ask
king (to no one in particular) why I bask
with recollection the names of blank
exclamatory staid grade school crank
key teachers approximately
42,0480,000 breaths aye drank
fifty years ago (most whose names frank
lee listed below),
when the need to access
and retrieve
immediate necessary information
analogously interleaved
among coaxial bracts
during examinations relegated
as hopelessly lost
into interstitial invisible cranial cracks
irretrievably buried
during examinations, which age
(feels like a million years ago)
often found me seized and caged
with sudden inability to remember
any vital answers as gauged
evidenced by nothing writ
ten on paper (even including my name),
thus loosely similar as aye sit
to compose poetry,
and/or prose tempted to quit
asper defeated by resignation,
and sinking sensation in the pit
of my stomach (more so regarding orbit
ting like an unsound garden
black hole son around cold (mit
ten necessary) awful days grudgingly
handing over like a lit
till insignificant being,
a test paper devoid of academic grit
analogously surrendering
(while feeling fit
tubby tied, sense internally emit
ting abnegation sans chafing at the bit,
yet no sooner did buzzer indicated test
time over, then (of course),
an instantaneous pest
that blocked chunk dramatically
flowered gloriously invoking nest
head treasured mother lode
of learned information invest
ment accounting for principle ball lanced
formerly figuratively barricaded facts
suddenly at my behest
ironically retaining to this day
dogged details amazingly,
now gracing lix spittle fist size gray
dictating academic failure
forcing laying down pen hay
for ma forgotten requisite thoughts may
king skepticism about self thrive, ray
zing mailer demons impossible to slay,
May is the month of Mary
May is the month of love
May is the month of all flowers
May is the month of all Mothers.
Let's celebrate all Mothers
Those who are poor and are living in huts
Those who are rich with fake eyelids
Those who are small with high heels
Those who are lofty in a giant pair of trousers
Those who are educated, stylish and sophisticated
Those who live sadly in the street corners
Those who worship the Virgin Mary
Those who mourn, pray and smile.
May is the month of Mary
May is the month of love
May is the month of Mothers
May is the month of all flowers.
Let's celebrate All Moms
Those who bathe in the pond of misery
Those who wander hopelessly the streets
Those who are discouraged and disappointed
Those who toil every day
Those who practice love
Those who need to be rescued
Those who mimic the styles of Mary
Those who kneel, sing and laugh.
May is the month of Mary
May is the month of love
May is the month of all Moms
May is the month of the all mums.
Copyright © May,2016 Logerie Hébert, All rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
I choose Sunday as my leisure day,
and very glad to have accomplished much in forty hours:
I look at the Heavens and pray...
to delight in this blessed day among other ordinary days.
If we all set apart a day to worship Him,
more blessings would be showered on us...
think of all his wonderfully kept promises
that inspired David to write Psalms for Him!
I've seen sickness, desperation, unhappiness and poverty
flourish in wretched souls that have given up on faith,
why have they chosen to live hopelessly and allow misery?
Have they ever sought God instead of indulging in mirth?
Many of us may not be spiritual persons, or the ones with diseases,
but putting one day aside for reflection can mend our ways...
forget how to get rich and dream of sailing the high seas,
choose a special day among other ordinary days!
Entered in Frank Herrera's contest,
" One Stand Out Day "
written by Andrew Crisci
Je meurs de seuf auprés de la fontaine ...
I die of thirst beside the fountainhead,
and am least seen where most I am displayed.
Shadows are my substance. I am paid
in ghostly coin to counterfeit the dead.
Under a sagging sky, my dreams are fed
on winds blown far from lands where time has ceased,
in which alone still lives a present, pieced
together from the leavings of instead.
Where most my strength is needed, force has fled,
and those I’ve aided offer me no aid,
and wanting’s self is caged by having, weighed
down hopelessly in place by wings of lead.
Where most I hunger, I am nourished least,
a silent specter famished at the feast.
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