Long Uncommonly Poems
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I love all the ladies,
No matter the size.
That sultry first kiss,
Is the ultimate prize.
Walking hand in hand,
Under a silver moon.
The romance in the air,
Can make your head swoon.
The anticipation,
Of that first embrace.
Your heart beating strong,
At an incredible pace.
Till the joyous moment,
That your two lips meet.
The taste on your tongue,
Is uncommonly sweet.
With a trembling body,
And a shortness of breath.
You then make a promise,
That you'll love her to death.
This blissful caress,
You can't wait to begin.
You hate when it's over,
Until you do it again.
As I was checking out the cats on view,
I saw just one who even seemed to care.
She put white paws up to the glass, this Blue
Calico with long, gray orange hair.
Although her nature mattered most to me,
I liked that she was small, with eyes of green.
And nestling in my arms, she proved to be
both gentle and uncommonly serene!
Inside our house, she didn't run or hide
like other cats that we'd brought home before.
She jumped onto the bed and lay beside
us both, then later found things to explore.
Delightful like her name was our new cat,
I couldn't have been happier for that!
For Ryan Jackson's "Animals on your mind... Poetry Contest"
The Unsaved
I watch you from a distance.
I see everything you do.
Your life is hard,
and the world is unkind,
mostly, if only at times.
I can not help,
more than prayer,
but do not believe that small...
at all.
For first hand, I will tell you,
I have received;
shelter from the cold,
food when I was hungry,
and a coat when the winter came,
and I had to walk outside,
among the other lost.
I took it and put it on.
I wear it still.
It has every color...
and no color at all.
It is the acceptance of His love,
and the honest heart to share it,
with others...
bereft of hope,
uncommonly out of place...
from only months or,
days before.
There are maps in the pockets,
a never-ending selection ...
of creative ways back to Him.
Every "one" different,
special and unique...
just as the ones...
the lives they are to touch.
You are prayed for;
not forgotten or cast aside.
We do not have to agree,
for that to be true...
and free.
Byte size food begets best bedeviled egg head benefits
re: visited today April 12th, 2023
Way before aye knew
the name Fletcherism applied
family and friends even
Smetana's bartered bride
would (tongue in cheek) chide
tummy uncommonly
(recherché) atypical dyed
ded if the letter “y” one did elide
in the wool feeding
and/or slaking thirst guide
did precepts sans hungry
deaf eating beast impossible to hide
(the ferocious growling harassing imp -
armed to the figurative teeth ready to pounce
viz casus belli sans reeling off
a pseudo say id dish us vicious jeremiad
me, this unrepentant conscientious masticator,
who re: lied
on self control unbeknownst
to this pumpkin eater
(me not named Peter)
unwittingly followed
the basic tenet of Fletcherism - custom made
modus operandi vis a vis exercising okayed
mandibular metered (when famished),
eyes kept closed while tongue gently played
adhered to practice of eating small amounts,
which discipline stayed
engorging self, and as a result
(consuming sustenance
only when hungry avoiding
(wolfing like an instantaneous blitzkrieg flash)
found me aware visa vis master car ding
marginal increase in pounds meaning
thy body electric weighed
approximately for long stretches
to enable safe passage for sturdy brigs
when a habitue at one or another dining digs
stuffed nibbling on hors d'oeuvre figs
adequately satiating with with oomf
when contra dance caller Scott Higgs
announced "hands four," which signal
helped get my mojo back
and reel lee deuce home jigs,
which indeed kickstarted and syncopated,
oft times espying Bobby Riggs
who years gone back whiz Vic Tory huss
e'en when donning apparel of Whigs
like colluding trumpetting molecules
that via tiff Fanny doth zags and zigs.
From back streets, alleys and hedgerows they came,
all sorts of people with children and dogs
filling the Chapel like a hall of fame;
the smell in the air had a whiff of bogs.
The best beggar in Worcester, that was Jack
a man of the street to be laid to rest,
no family to grieve, no mourners in black.
Some he had cheated, others could attest
they had learned from him street craft to survive,
receiving and sharing what came their way.
I read from St Luke how all turned aside
of those invited to the feast that day.
I gave them a welcome in Jesus' name
for coming to share the Jack that they knew.
It wasn't a banquet, but all the same
we gathered at the grave to ballyhoo.
A tipsy guy struggled to announce
he was known to them all as Steady Jack.
"Steady as you go!" his comrades pronounced.
A young Rastafarian kept us on track
with a wistful melody on his flute,
gathered for the committal packed in close.
Many an improvised personal tribute
was tossed into the grave for Jack's repose:
besides clods of soil a can of Guinness,
a bottle upended, several butt ends,
a home made wreath dropped in as a witness
limp but sincere to Jack's coffin descends.
To pay its respects an old dog came forward,
peered in, then curled up on a grave nearby.
Once the hole was filled and Jack was covered
expletives were uttered to satisfy
feelings deep within. Then dancing began
with bongo drums which continued till dusk.
Standing aside with much to understand
as cemetery staff completed their task,
I found respectful silence was broken
by fresh conversation of what we'd seen,
rituals of death uncommonly potent
shared and displayed with nothing routine.
We are wild
tactical creatures, eyes
flickering around
a perilous world. Words
and fingers.
Words and fingers.
We are safe
only when we are
predicting.
When we
guess the future
then we are safe.
.
For those
whose life is not even,
I know how
tired you are,
how hard it is to rest.
Things waggle
day by day,
uncommonly. I know
how you
spend your days
dodging, with darts
fired at your legs.
.
You are
wild tactical creatures.
I see how your eyes narrow.
.
(Nowadays
it's the little predators
and the human
and abstract mind-predators
and the value predators
.
among the world's
human furniture
that are the worst).
Cool for late summer.
The cold leaves listen,
hang like ears
laden with rain,
but it’s not the rain that weighs,
for there’s a heaviness
in the reddening trees.
Ears and cups
but mostly ears.
In backyard hedgerows, animals
are still, unless they are disturbed,
moved on.
The leaves curl, fill with silence
and when the cups on their brown stems
tip,
more weight descends.
The trees are waiting.
The leaves are waiting.
The cool mornings gradually warming,
but not until
Micky D’s stops serving
breakfast,
not until Gas Stations
are out of regular coffee.
does the listening
pause,
the heaviness pause.
In the suburbs
landscaping crews are stiff until noon,
heads creak on brown stems
as they tend to the edges.
It is uncommonly cool.
The leaves twist and tip slowly
draining a silence,
until
two-stroke motors
are punched
or a fretful yell
cuts
then the listeners are moved on,
disturbed to another place.
Thankless job, I think watching
as Thurman tries to teach the young man
The lad sitting up
on the tractor
like a proud young pup
is full of piss and vinegar
half the time not listening
and half the time telling Thurman
how much he already knows...
As Thurman patiently slumps
his still-sturdy but ungainly frame
against the tractor
fingers strumming his red suspenders
a good-natured grin
slowly spreading
across his grizzled face
gleaming behind think glasses
I see a glint of soft amusement
at this grandiose greenhorn
Thurman has lived through
the Great Depression, and then
the horror of hand-combat
in World War II
one of three from his unit
to make it through-
so there is nothing this little ingrate
can possibly do or say
to break Thurman's composure today
he remains uncommonly calm
and utterly unflappable
a small chuckle slipping out
every now and then
And while the young man boasts
and blusters on about
his plans for next week
Thurman is mostly quiet, until
at length, asked about his plans
“Lord willing-
and the creek don't rise...”
he begins, knowing how
much could change by then
re: visited tonight October 15th, 2021
Way before aye knew
the name Fletcherism applied
tummy uncommonly (recherché) atypical dyed
in the wool feeding and/or slaking thirst guide
did precepts sans hungry
deaf eating beast impossible to hide
(the ferocious growling harassing imp -
armed to the figurative teeth ready to pounce
viz casus belli sans reeling off
a pseudo say id dish us vicious jeremiad
me, this unrepentant conscientious masticator,
who re: lied
on self control unbeknownst
to this pumpkin eater
(me not named Peter)
unwittingly followed
the basic tenet of Fletcherism - custom made
modus operandi vis a vis exercising okayed
mandibular metered (when famished),
eyes kept closed while tongue gently played
adhered to practice of eating small amounts,
which discipline stayed
engorging self, and as a result
(consuming sustenance
only when hungry avoiding
(wolfing like an instantaneous blitzkrieg flash)
found me aware visa vis master car ding
marginal increase in pounds meaning
thy body electric weighed
approximately for long stretches
when a habitue at one or another dining digs
stuffed nibbling on hors d'oeuvre figs
adequately satiating with with oomf
when contra dance caller Scott Higgs
announced "hands four," which signal
helped get my mojo back
and reel lee deuce home jigs,
which indeed kickstarted and syncopated,
oft times espying Bobby Riggs
who years gone back whiz Vic Tory huss
e'en when donning apparel of Whigs
like colluding trump petting molecules
that via tiff Fanny doth zags and zigs.
Woman, woman that I loved uncommonly
Several springs ago
When the weather was good and callow
When the wind whistled swiftly, low and slow
Oh! Woman, you were young, strong and sparkling
Darling, now you're deceased
Lying down and sleeping comatose on your back
Calm and motionless like the water
Of the paralyzed pond, staring at the sky
Eyes hermetically and conveniently closed
Where everything seems supernatural and artificial
I wonder and ponder where I'm diving
If it's an illusion, a nightmare or a dream
I don't feel good: I'm unbalanced and demented
I’m disappearing into the shadows
Where everything is dark and gloomy
Like my blood. I feel that my everything
Is gone and swept away by sadness
I'm drowning in a mercurial lake of inebriety
My God! Yes, I’m in pain indeed
I’ve lost the most beautiful mermaid.
Woman, woman, you were genial and lovely
The voluptuous gal that I loved so much
Do you remember? I frittered a lot of time
Revering you. I found myself on the slippery slope
I, too, will die like you
Woman, woman, heavy and ghastly is the cross
Where I am exposed today
The cold freezes me and the sun bakes me
I'm sad and devastated like wilted flowers
And you, apoplectic, silent and enshrined
I am suffering, weeping and dying too
I don't want to stay here anymore
My heart is weary, sorrowful and besieged
I am crying and suffering. My strength has left me
I am drowning in pain in the lake of boozing
I'm perishing too. I don't want to live anymore.
Woman, woman that I loved so much
We are no longer in springtime
But almost at the infancy of autumn
The bells are ringing and the children are banging
There is no rainbow in the sky
I am alone, in tears and very sorry
In the labyrinth of the necropolis
May the earth be infinitely light to you!
P.S. Translation of ‘Ode À Yseult’ by Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © September 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.