Long Scarecrow Poems
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Scarecrow
You'll find me
in paddy fields and gardens;
even on front porches.
I'm a decoy, as lonely as can be.
I look frozen in time,
mimicking Jesus
crucified on the cross,
but I swear I mean no disrespect,
you religious zealots!
Blame farmers and gardeners!
They make me look this way!
They live to humiliate me;
dressing me up like a ragamuffin,
stuffing straw inside my coveralls,
placing a dumb-looking hat
atop my head; you name it!
Yes, I know I look ridiculous.
I wish I'd put
my perennially outstretched arms down.
Don't be scared of me, kids,
I speak no evil
I don't speak at all,
and I do not harm anything
that breathes air
Yet you humans choose to avoid me
like the plague
but come Halloween,
you all love me for just a day!
Go figure.
Yeah, I see some of you
staring at me, chuckling;
whispering amongst yourselves
about me having no brain
in the "Wizard of Oz" movie.
In my defense,
It was a misrepresentation!
I don't speak, but I'm not that dumb!
I know how to do my thankless job
and do it well.
I scare off all the birds
that peck at newly cast
seeds of growing crops, don't I?
Not so brainless now, am I?
Date written: 05/15/2020
Old Wooden Head
Outside in the garden
Just to the left of the shed
Sits and old sage
With a wooden head
He never moves a muscle
To help to cut the grass
Or do any weeding
Just sits as bold as brass
However, what happens after dark
When we are all in bed
Would make you blush with shame
Just make your face go red
He comes alive at midnight
Around the garden he goes without fail
Upsetting the lovely mermaid
By treading on her tail
As she splashes around in the water fountain
Nude as nude can be
The poor old Gnome sat in the corner
Covers his eyes so he cannot see
But poor old woody just gets excited
And wants to dance as well
But the mermaid has to point out
If he gets wet then his limbs will swell
Then he will rot way and die
Therefore, he just has to stand and stare
With a loving teardrop in his eye
Because he loves the Mermaid
Who is so sweet and fair
Has done all his life it seems
However, she does not seem to care
If he had his way tomorrow
He would make her his darling wife
But sadly, morning soon comes around
And they go back to their normal life
So as you walk around the garden
Please don’t let on you know
Because no one would believe you
So it is best to let it go
You once told me your race
(Not if I really cared)
You once showed me the true color of your face
(Not if that mattered)
You are whom you want to be
You are the sheep, you are the bee.
You once told me who you were
Once you discovered what the dean did
You called the police supervisor
And filed a report, there you hid
Your true genealogy
You wanted to be conveniently
Different than the jerk
Because there was no perk
For you to win
What an egregious sin
What a sad hypocrite
You are the pit
The pit bull that lies
And the other one, the cat
That steals the pies
You are no different than the bat
Who behaved like a wise crow
At day time and at night time
Chased the house mouse like a deadly owl
I never knew you’d stoop so low
By perjuring yourself; you duly committed a crime
By lying; you are just like the scarecrow
The kleptomaniac, which filed the death certificate
To claim the benefits that no longer fit.
You once told me your race
(Not if I really cared)
I just wanted the black ace
(Because that truly mattered)
The white pearl, the black gold
The white gold and my story told.
Copyright © November 2012, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Scant animals with their glassy hoped-for eyes
draw near to my crumbling step.
I think they want to sing me something,
carol a Mozart aria perhaps,
but they cannot
so they lift furry eyebrows
shuffle as if to say, ‘we can’t,
but listen to the wind
in the cavities of our bones,
it whistles both merry tunes and dirges,
it echo’s the past and the present
but all our four paws are here in the moment'.
A jowly mouse
with the face of a New Jersey cop
edges closer than most.
“We are not trying to warn you” it says,
expressing its lack of words
in the brisk modality of pigeon-toed dance steps.
“We are not begging for food or love”
It is Spring now and we are out here
happy to have come through.
We are a deputation, a clique, and a clack
calling you out into the bare hedgerows.
There are new threads and tubes
driving upward from the twiggy earth ---
--- you’re acting like a dead man
and so we gather here
to awaken those other little animals
that nest in your fat and fiber.
Lead them out soon or they will eat you
and you will have deserved it -
that is all.”
I nodded respectfully
at the red whiskered rodent.
Leaving the door open a crack
I went to the kitchen
to chop the head off a dead chicken.
It was time to eat and not be eaten.
Spring is whisking its mush.
A dry wine has aged fizzy and fine,
it is already shaking it’s splashy bubbles
ready for the sipping summer suns
to come.
The light outside these walls is porous,
thus I will go
I will go to the hedgerow,
hang a winter scarecrow by its ankles
until it coughs up, a new free range
Spring poem worth the eating
one with garlicy kisses, a round Romaine lettuce,
with a lightly garnished piquant dressing.
I am cold and I drive myself away
From a grave made of clay
With yellow-colored edges,
And the earth as its lid.
I am cursed to accept myself...
A ghost with eyes and bones,
I am walking weak among the graves
While crying out some words.
Like a field holds a scarecrow,
The cemetery holds me in its arms
To drive away from the sacred graves
The old women from the crosses.
The priest scolds me in distress
For wandering at night through the city
With just my linen shirt
And a candle like a thread.
I am guilty of my sad night
That weighs upon my non-existence...
I am a ghost created from the rain
That washed my grave away.
But Stan is my bestie, little jack argued that day.
Your whole goal in life, son, is to keep crows away.
But he makes my life complete, his humor is the best.
Could you try not being friends for one day, for a test?
No, said Little Jack. I would rather not be a scarecrow.
Stan is my bestie, he knows when I am ready to blow.
He keeps me calm, listens to me and teaches me stuff.
Like what? Asked the father, his attitude in a huff.
He says to be good to my mom and my dad.
Jack’s father got quiet. This did not sound very bad.
And he says to help you around the field if I can.
His father suddenly liked Jack's bestie crow named Stan.
in 1122 I’ll fall to the ground for you
princess O princess of rosemary dew
you know it takes two
to tango fandango
Delia – heartbound; foundling born tired
forsaken vixen of dying light
a submarine ghost
a rose dale long closed
infidel lost little girl still admired
her royal affairs of turquoise red
flew into the newborn on a death bed
into the rabbit hole of paranoia
that’s chimerical, that’s flamboyant
how easy can dreams come to an end
it’s noontide of deathless urban decay
in a separation station of her heyday
Delia’s timorous, cold like iron
living the fate of Sharon Tate
feeling redundant, Delia is
a scarecrow of the nameless river
her russet hair like abbatoir cleaver
it’s been a folly,
infamy,
end of me
end of a saint, soon-to-be sinner
she was the girl that was ill
Delia of the lavender hill
travelling light year by light year
Delia of the metasphere
Tyrants Walk
What shall I feed my children?
The garden is empty,
the plants have been pulled up.
The dog, we ate already.
There are no rats in the traps.
Instead, they live in the palace,
where the fence is live wire,
and the guns shoot the chickens,
begging for scraps or seed.
People that know no hunger,
and have never known pain,
can not decide for me or you,
what is to be gained.
By losing the very boundaries...
of our nation,
giving room for the wild to roam,
will do more not less,
toward bringing about
the beginning of the end.
Revelations re-read,
and sadly re-written,
a sin to be paid for at the gate.
The fate of the marked,
and the willingness to sell early...
for the right price,
to grow readily the wealth,
of momentary desire.
Buying the country for a price,
sold to the highest bidder,
retaking the house that belongs...
not to them, but to the people,
by crazy undead, living beyond the grave,
vicariously alive through
the body parts of the young...
stolen in the night,
children of another faith.
Are you tall, are you short?
What color is your skin?
Is the material you are made of...
useful?
Are there too many of you?
Creepy governments lending a hand,
terrorists worshiped for their leadership skills,
in killing the young and innocent.
Stop the insanity of Orwell's predictions,
the flood too great for the dam.
Yell out,
wolves among sheep,
riddles in the dark,
New York City Park,
The scarecrow screams,
"Hark!"
"Who goes there?"
The devil has appeared in plain sight,
it is time to fight, it is too late to flee.
There is nowhere to go.
COLOR FORMS
The movers and shakers of art delight.
In the shadowbox-brain they regain sight.
Dear Dorothy clicks her sarcoline heels.
Her striped boat sailing on sea-hued teals.
Zenith dawn blazes in coquelicot hue.
The artist’s tipsy trees blushed pink and blue.
Majestic Oz - smaragdine-jeweled city.
Ponies prance romantic colors - witty.
Brush brush brush then fill the scarecrow with straw.
His prideful chest overloaded and raw.
The movers and shakers of art transform
Fairy tales into surreal color forms.
10/12/2018
Anthony Slausen’s The Paint Movers Contest
sarcoline - flesh colored
coquelicot - (kohk-li-coh) - red like wild poppy
smaragdine (sma-rag-din) - emerald
The wizard will know everyone I met along the way said.
Okay, I thought, for I am from Kansas and not daft in my head.
I looked for the curtain as I pranced down the yellow brick road.
Instead of Toto a cairn terrier, I was followed by a frog who looked old.
The mini-munchkins did not come out to greet or to sing.
I never found a scarecrow, tinman or lion with zing.
In the far distance I saw a poppy field, but the flowers looked odd.
An old witch-like creature with wings gave me a head nod.
Where is the wizard? I yelled, kind of half-heartedly.
That’s when I found a lively sassy wise talking oak tree.
Winged monkeys are about, so make haste she warned me.
Fear came into my heart, I’ve seen Wizard of Oz times twenty-three.
I began to run and hit my head on an unexpected branch.
I woke up smelling cinnamon, pumpkin and possibly ranch.
A frog with a wizard hat was concocting some kind of spell.
I wondered if I was still alive or I had gone to…..