Long Insatiably Poems
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I waited to be his, long to see
Fated in hopes and desires
Dancing like a concubine,
showing thee thy grace my love where were you been?
Fleeting this moment
You’ll be in my arms cometh sings joy to brings
Locked in your eyes doth solidarity where prejudice lies
The best has not yet to come; tis’ endearment mourns over royalty insatiably
How could you not love me?
I am not the only one?
My sire, deepest soliloquy of my feelings,
and bid adieu dreams
Are express in thou’s loyalty
long gone, beseech hunger
Will you let me love you?
If I could give an heir of your deepest devotion
I could make you happy; I could make you King
My sire, you are the most high
Lips painted red, and bathe rose petals
Tonight I waited for seven long years ,
Afar watching you ; watching dreams
You cometh’ near me; I’d show you love
Tis’ aspiration of my soul, plays no fear
Our moments together, will glamour thy night
I wanna feel every breath of you, like a candlelight burning for each other,
I’m slipping into dangerous ways to make me love you,
Gasping feelings, skin to skin
effervescently needing; your eyes meets mine
My Sire, you made me whole again
back to where I was once your queen..
;Put a flame to it baby inflame the eyes
FAME is a game of the Lovers disguise
Licks of temptation to the back of heels
Arc in rotation sings a living deal Love
Me! A Lover steals in the night a sight
Eternal delight and peels… ever so and
gently slow reveals a flowing glow.ing
organ turning to adore, yearning fore.
play.... in orgasmic ways
screaming in the wind delicious in
Visible, the touch of a mind
Insatiably delectably easily detectable…
No Fame in a knot but a hottie Flame.IS
... a SuPer.LuminNaughty. Human . ;)~
Fire
Loves
Air in the heART
MatTer is the Water of our
EarTh. Write tHere…is a bit of
SHe.MALE…
Form:
Spring's alluring flowers with succulent juices rill
Perfumed dander from scented strands doth spill
Sweet aroma into the parched atmosphere to distill
Twirling Daisies, Buttercups the fawning meadows frill
Swiveling Dandelions in field's pleated fabric congeal
Caressing Violets 'neath the woody ridges kneel
Fondling Honeysuckles cloak fencerows in dale and hill
Baited bees insatiably the sugary orifices drill
A virile syrup from savory serum to mill
Vintage, solar-fired incense; with wanderlust carefree
minds fill
Olfactory ducts incite, turning the hormonal wheel
Vernal Lover's the intoxicating fumes freely swill
Aphrodisiac tonic to harden each paramour's quill
Fragrant pheromones stimulating maidens' mating zeal
When Death comes knocking at your door
Rail,resist or recoil at her call
The inevitable and rarely welcome visitor
To Her succumb must we all
To Her cold and chilling embrace
When with Her we come face to face
Cold comfort in being clasped
To Her icy bosom at last.
Larger than life is this devil,
No hail fellow well met
Before Her will we all shrivel
As She rolls Her dice ,Her net,
Until up comes our number
When we must succumb to Her
With Her shears She readily clips
And our life threads She swiftly snips
Sardonic yet unsatisfied with Her store
She hies off with Her earthly winnings
Insatiably in search of ever more
Desperate to end another innings
Knowing only full well
That Her cup will never be at full swell
Nor capture the essence
Of any mortal presence.
Every step I take I know I will regret
Thump
Thump
Thump
Each step is a step closer to the place I hate most
But can I really say that when it’s the only place I feel safe?
It’s my own mini-home, so why must I insatiably and greedily want something better?
It’s not like it’s ugly or small, smelly or uncomfortable, so why must I hate it the most?
Each step I take is a step away from what I long to have
Will they love me one day?
Will they ever want me?
Will they grow tired of trying?
I don’t mean to, but it’s only second nature
I leave like the selfish child they see me to be
Have I ever been a good child?
Have I ever given them something to love?
Have I ever given them a sense of completion?
This is what separates me and them
Every step
Every time I go forward, I lose something dear
Every time I go back, I lose something dear
Insaitable, am I?
Greedy, am I?
Their dark, unwelcoming, a path to doom but for some reason I still march forth
Thump
Thump
Thump
I’ll never say it out loud
I’ll never tell them
They miss me, I know they do
They tell me
They give me that gaze
Their eyes tell me all I need to know
It’s too late
Dysfunction in the Denial of Normal
Normal is a bird without a nest, flying through empty minds,
no one has ever caught it in the net of clear reason,
each of us paints it with the brush of dreaming,
with pigments extracted from nightmares and bitter illusions.
Dysfunction is the cradle in which some were born,
stammering in murky waters, without shore, without escape,
they look at normality as a pointless ghost,
a strange monster come from another world, from another horizon.
Who can say whether normal isn't sick?
Whether chaos is the straight line that leads us to truth?
Nature was the only normal one in its sacred spirals,
until man stuck his fingers in the bitter pie.
He searches for the plums insatiably in the world's cake,
leaving behind swamps of tar and suffocations,
the oceans are floating cemeteries of soft plastic,
and the whales drown in thousands of funeral sheets.
Man has killed God in every empty net,
in every bird greased with oil and agony,
created in the divine image, but without the heavenly soul,
he destroys the sacred garden for a paper coin.
Dysfunction is the normal of a species that turns
against its own blood and its own home,
perhaps our disappearance will be the holiest miracle,
Earth will bloom again when the last man fades in the distance.
And then, in the silence without fingers that tear everything,
nature will breathe healed from our madness,
normal will return like a crystal-clear liquor,
without us, without the chaos we carry in our skulls.
Cluster, clan, hanging bunch of grapes
- bustling collection children I dreamed
- Far from rationale, imagination run wild
- Adult life ridicules, idea is far less esteemed
When I babysat, pretended they were mine
- even the Asian one. Try to stop my stories!
- Wanted to be seen at sixteen as their mother
- Saw caregiving and fun sharer as ultimate glory
Perhaps a great majority of girls feel the same
- playing with dolls, structured, serious business
- But of course, options are much more enlightening
- High valued career compared to the longing within us
Being tied to a community, sweet trip indeed!
- commitment delivered, rewarded for decades
- Blink away your tears, perfection, I'm always here
- Each Mother knows her gratitude returned in spades
11th November
Born May 5, 1818, in Trier Germany
to Heinrich and Henrietta Marx,
sans the third of nine children
(and second oldest heir)
Karl Marx thinking begot incendiary sparks,
asper his two most controversial publications
titled The Communist Manifesto,
and Das Kapital
which political philosophy
incubating seeds of self destruction didst birth
doctrines of class struggle,
historical materialism, dearth
of equitable wealth, and inherent
contradictions of industrial capital
distributed unevenly
across avast swath of Earth
thus inviting his perspective
(conveniently exploited,
mined, and usurped) advocating
the working class (proletariat)
to expedite organized revolutionary action
to topple capitalism and bring about
socio-economic emancipation,
where wages of sin exchanged for labor bled
fingers to the bone life source, viz proletariat
till slaving laborer nearly became gratefully dead
despite being cased in 12 point
Times New Roman garb, who incessantly fed
insatiably maws of production,
(no way to get a supportive talking head)
particularly highlighted
within schema of Capitalism),
a predominant paradigm
stratifying society led
to internal tensions engendered
between bourgeoisie red
dilly controlling means
of production codified as said
as die a critical approach Marx coined
as historical materialism,
where figurative landmines forced one to tread
gingerly, thus above stated philosophy
would supposedly lead down the road
where self destruction wrought marriage
birthing Socialism offspring from shot gun wed
ding, thus coaxing eventual establishment
of classless communist society meant
to establish free association of producers who spent
exchanging merchandise amidst classless
campy population hood pitched a tent.
Then
I
fear
not your
fond and soft
tenderness, but you
bidding farewell without ceasing
so, satisfy me with the fruit of your care and warmth
I was insatiably famishing, predatory for your love- you nourished with ease
Now
I
am
seeking
more than life
can bestow with ease
I’m depraved and a feared outcast
sanctified yet loathsome, I renounce my high spirits
for I am a sequestered fawn uninhabited and denied in the grove of life
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howmanysyllables.com
1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21 syllables / 54 syllables total
Date written: January 8, 2019
Contest: Writing Challenge January, 2019- Fibonacci - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Audacity has a negative connotation
That I despise with a conspicuous passion
It’s fine for somebody to be bold
And not to be too arrogant and cold
Where narcissistic images or horns emerge
Like insatiably bad worms that nothing can purge.
Audacity is not an outstanding quality
Or a special virtue; it is nevertheless an appalling pity.
When one is immersed in deceits and lies
Such an individual tends to have a lot nerves
And to be riotous to the point of bending the curves
To the extreme angles. An audacious person thinks
That he or she is above all laws and rules, and that stinks
To the core of corruption and obvious nepotism
And of course, this is the genesis of racism.
In this day and age, no one should believe in a sorry cult
Even the most primitive or ancient *****sapiens
Must find a way to know better and to let the daily radiance
The natural lights enrich the darkest part of the brain.
Audacity is an extreme darkness, a parasitical drain
There’s nothing positive or divine about being audacious
Such an individual is untrue, poor, deceptive and specious.
Copyright © August 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous books of poetry.