Long Too much Poems
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Inspired by Black Country's Communion's "Sista Jane"
I wonder about people who like pain.
They self-berate and stress and worry so.
What is it that they think they’re going to gain?
They do too much and never take things slow.
Such people cannot face reality.
And some might use religion as the way
to get them through, but still they don’t feel free
if they live feeling guilty day to day.
Folks need to simply be more self-aware
and then accept themselves for who they are.
They need to feel some peace. They still can care,
but they don’t need to act the super star.
Faith they can keep, yet knowing what they need,
they can know joy – not bring themselves to bleed!
I want to hear her say sorry.
Not for all my pain or scarring,
but for every second, I lived this life,
without her arms around me.
I’ve had too much to endure,
as my love for her was truly pure.
I was poisoned and was dying,
and her embrace my only cure.
Now I would indeed be lying,
if I told you, I’ve moved on.
She sold my dreams for seconds,
cheap, without two thoughts.
I am just burning, deep within my soul.
I’ve waited, I’ve prayed, I’m surrounded by four walls.
It hurts me all so bad, that she chose to leave and go,
when I had my heart to offer, I guess she wanted more.
Though my heart it tore,
I’ve closed off every door.
My worth, she defined it,
as she pushed and let me fall.
I had much to offer,
like this life we talked about.
But above all else,
love to never run out.
But the waiting, it has crushed,
every drop of time.
How can I forgive her,
for the biggest ever crime?
Try.
We cowardly witnessed the genocide of many human beings
Live, live, live in real time
That was an odious, callous and vicious crime
We said nothing, absolutely nothing about the sad and awful events
Many of us were either silent or complacent about everything
Even God was absent and quiet. He did nothing, nothing
Evil doers are not humane; they are hardcore criminals
We witnessed the bombings of babies, buildings and animals
We saw the massacres and the aftermaths. We could smell the blood
And could hear the cries coming out of the television screens
We saw the live and dead bodies, the hearts, the livers and the spleens
Rotting and spoiling in the filthy streets. The color of the mud
Is grim and abnormal, because of too much sufferings and tears
Too much pain and misery, too much disgust and shame
Too much atrocities and killings. We all know whom to blame
We know who are responsible for so much evilness and wrongdoings
Humanity got thrown out of the window in this part of the universe
We wonder if these two legged machines have a heart and a soul
We wonder if they ever look in a mirror, in a clear pool
We wonder how it would be if everything were to happen in reverse
Where is God? Why this ignominious silence?
Live, live, live in real time
That’s an odious, egregious and beastly crime
How can anybody sleep at night? That makes no sense
These days, everything is live, eerie, vivid and instantaneous
Grotesque things are never acceptable, admissible and hilarious
We want peace and we dream of peace
But the guilty ones must pay from west to east
And from north to south. We want peace and justice.
P.S. This poem is dedicated to Love, Peace, Equality and Justice.
Copyright © June 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
the walls sweat like old drunks
union correctional, they call it—
correction my ass,
this place was built for breaking.
men bleed here, quietly,
a shiv under the ribs,
a mop bucket wheeled by,
nobody looks too long.
guards strut fat on overtime,
pockets heavy with side deals,
they sell cigarettes like gods
and laugh at the rest of us starving.
chow hall—if you can call it that—
thin stew, one slice of bread,
you walk out hungrier
than when you walked in.
nights are worse.
screams in the dark,
steel on flesh,
the silence after.
the air hums with rot,
paint peeling off like dead skin,
even the cockroaches look tired,
like they’ve seen too much.
and you think—
maybe the world forgot us here,
maybe that was the plan.
The Story
I look at my keyboard
What could I possibly say?
How could I tell the story I see?
The characters are so strong
The lines maybe say too much
I want them to be believed
Yet, I know that they will not
It is a story of a world I see
One of pure good
One of the purest evil
How can I write it?
How could anyone see what I see?
What words could speak my words?
My thoughts are so different
Never the same as everyone’s reality
This is a story that needs to be told
My fingers have to move
The keys have to click as I touch them
The story will flow onto the screen
The words will come
The story will be told
If I could just move my fingers
Elizabeth Willing Powel: “Well, Doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarch?”
Ben Franklin, leaving the 1787 Constitutional Convention: “A republic, if you can keep it”.
~ from the Jame McHenry Journal, Library of Congress
Power to the people, as they say.
The founding fathers wanted it that way.
They had to be brave and risk their necks,
write a constitution to put the powers in check.
They didn't want a king or autocrat,
so they had to fight and not lay down flat.
Now, in its two hundred-fiftieth year,
let's make sure it doesn't disappear.
According to the constitution's plan,
too much power is not in the hands of one man.
If we should become complacent,
we'll become dictator-adjacent,
and as the story history will tell
such countries don't turn out so well.
The founders told us we must fight,
to preserve our every right.
I pack the backpack
then empty it
count again what's needed,
discarding the unlikely.
the unnecessary.
Remember to add a pocket edition
of 'North American Birds'
adjust the straps,
shove and pummel the overstuffed kit,
try to balance the weight,
smooth the angular,
tighten the loose.
Once again
I open the backpack
to add a small survival kit.
I forgot to pack a rope
or toilet paper!
I remember just in time
that I have left the instruction manuals
for the battery-operated can opener,
the outdoor fire lighter,
the camping stove,
and a high-tech sharpening tool
on a small folding chair.
I gather the manuals up,
pack them,
try to pack the small folding chair,
decide I will have to carry it separately.
The camping chair is in my left hand,
in my right hand a sturdy hiking stick.
A tin pot, cleats and folding iron skillet,
dangle from a rolled-up pup tent
above the backpack,
they jangle loudly when I dare move.
I lumber to the front door to leave.
I can’t pass through the door,
too much gear
I will have to squeeze out sideways,
but now I can’t turn the door handle or lock,
my spacesuit-like, all-weather jacket
won’t bend at the elbows.
A light rain is falling.
My hand-held GPS is low and needs charging.
I forgot to pack a camera.
Something is beeping under my coat - can't reach it,
my fashionable 'Everest' climbing hat
has toppled off my head -
can't reach down to get at that either.
Being no longer limber enough to shrug,
I proceed to unpack previous expectations
and all outdoor plans for today.
Theoretically, I will have to unpack myself
just to enter the house once more.
We met over oysters and scallops in the French Quarter
of a mismatched ether.
She sent pictures - her in a mirror, beside a mirror,
partly hidden by a mirror, naked under glass
(I still have that one).
She liked to reflect and be reflected.
I admired her self-regard, her low-minded succulence,
Her high-handed high-heeled slipperiness.
Raw fresh oysters and Dom Perignon for breakfast and lunch.
Scallops seared in butter on a crostini and a
Sauvignon Blanc for supper.
This minimalist diet kept her svelte, prim, and of course
most improper. I thought of her as a swim without a swimmer,
splashes of her revealing her lovely lips, and they were indeed
lovely,
red but not scarlet more a sea anemone rouge
as it fades to a pink laced coral.
The camera may garnish but it cannot hide
that kind of salty lusciousness
caught fresh every morning.
I likened her to a glistening slickness to be sipped or guzzled
Her words slipped through you like Gaelic eels.
Her neck undulated as a dolphins caress
as she swallowed her catch and zoomed.
I confess to an occasional shame-faced queasiness;
and then oyster and scallops are best consumed
over the internet where too much of them
cannot sour the stomach or tease you softly
with a squirmy aftertaste.
Yet I still imagine her in a mirror again
her teeth as pearly as pearls, yet snip-snip sharp
and as pointy as stiletto’s rent through a fished-up
filet of heart.
Maybe you'll never live to read my thoughts,
Maybe you'll never live to see my dreams,
Maybe you'll never know about the thorns,
a yellow rose carries in between.Maybe.....
I'll never live to be your daisy,or your pure white little dove,
Maybe all the maybes never get to know there was a time,
we were so very happy,so very much in love,
but maybe ,in the inner of the inside of my heart,
I know one day ,our souls met,and they'll never be apart.
Maybe these are fool's verses, twisted without rhyme,
yet,its how i'm feeling ,and Now ,I think its time!
Maybe...I'm not perfect,of that i am so sure,
If i ever leave you,If i go and lock my door,
Its cos I can't stand another heartache,a spirit tear to sore.
Yet,there is that little window,that I shall always see,
a scene of sweet remeberance,when"US",where You and Me.
Maybe a dove finds home and home finds land,
Maybe a dance be born,to hold your hand again,
maybe fresh ink dries,and my verse finds the end,
Maybe the hurt is too much for me to understand.
Maybe there is here and here is there,
maybe a pearl and a shell will never tear,
They tear..
Mabye,just maybe ,as we turn to dust,
We born to find once more our Love and Lust
Maybe...
Form:
They said we would be rid of our chains
But, they've only grown tighter
They said that welts would heal and fade
But, all I feel is the tenderness of new wounds
We’re always looking up at the stars
Cause our feet never seem to touch the ground
We HANG above the rest!
But not in a way you would expect?
So, this is the sharing of the crop?
They issued us free, right?
But I don’t feel it
That emancipation proclamation of devastation
Of disappointment
The ink is distorted by the tears of decomposed slaves
Waiting to be seen and heard
They laugh at our pain
What pleasure is there to be gained??
You call yourself “sharing?”
Only taking away more from us
Say that we just have "a little more" debt to work off
As the hours turn to days
Days turn to weeks
Weeks turn to years
At the command of God
They lock us behind bars
Whip us with our sins and hatred
Discipline us with our disobedience
The captivity of our sins is too much to bare
I want to die!
I can no longer handle being alive
The muscle falls from the bones
As I become apart of the Earth
Along with the sins of my ancestors