The letter l minuscule
Is taller than I majuscule
A.I.
Has more than one eye
Are you baffled or confused?
Are you troubled or amused?
A.I. is the elephant in the sky
Watch out for the evil eyes
A.I. was invented by zealous spies
A.I. is in the sky. A.I. is ubiquitous
Everybody is talking about this phenomenon
Nobody knows if A.I. is an angel or a demon
Yet, this bad boy or bad girl is complex and audacious
A.I. is flying high
Like a lie in the sky.
P.S. Leave AI alone.
Copyright © September 2026 Hébert Logerie. All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
‘A spark’ or ‘a tiny trace’
Barely more than a hint
The finest sparkling dust mote
The smallest piece of lint
A trace, barely perceptible
Scarcely carries through
An iota, wee, tiny, titchy
Minuscule, bijou
It is, by far, most certainly
The most magical thing I’ve heard
I present to you: ‘Scintilla’
My favourite poetic word
A bundle of nerves tied in a knot as tight and as tangled as eldredge, around my neck, while the fuss of the life around me drowns me to chaos still. I go into waters so deep it gets hard to swim back up. The minuscule parts of my muscle throb and fight my being in a different kind of pain, wanting to be freed. Wanting to run a direction so divergent we may never find our way back home. And yet the longing for a explicit homestead stays.
The head of mine is participation to an all-time war, that only and only asks for my sanity as its reward. Every bone in my body gets the signal through every other fiber, to shut it up!...and yet I can't.
I think about jumping off of very tall somethings, but a voice in my head laughs at my own visions of a certain indiscretion. Like a breed of my own monsters calling out my cowardice. While a soft, warm being hides behind the door forcibly closed with locks too hard for her to open. She knows something I don't.
The volume, pressure, expansion, contraction- nothing works through the cavity. Nothing bleeds for lucidity, only for the curse I cage myself with.
minuscule ripples of thoughts
attentively present yet absent
contoured by softened senses
keep track of love’s bliss scent
the soul star chakra is vibrant
having superseded the crown
though in truth labels dissolve
when in lake of bliss we drown
magnetism enlivened stillness
as rapture that is here to stay
epitomises our state of being
in this body urn made of clay
ardent awareness animated
dances to vibrance of heart
inking the universe with bliss
as a vibrational work of art
There long ago was soul,
Daring and bold,
Who shifted more weight than was told.
They made available themselves props
For the battles they immobilized and noticed
Their power taking hold.
Give yourself props, don't delay
You've achieved every step of your way.
When you delay and take heed
You'll see your own bull's eye
Has carried you day after day.
"Give yourself props, don't be reserved-
You endured what they swore you'd deny.
When you stop and take note of the strife you
Out-wrote
You'll see you're the reason you fly
Give yourself props- funny thing
How we clap for the minuscule of wins.
But the truth that you miss is you've
Interacted all this-
With grace that deserves violins.
NO COMPASS OR ANCHOR
….At sea
also known as my life, I drift.
I dream of wanting to have a
plan but I don’t. Letting down
people, not quite grasping
opportunities.
For I am a
non-commissioned
ensign of a boat in a storm lost
without its compass
or anchor.
I have passion and the drive
however I am fettered to a
chunk of seaweed.
It smells. It rots.
It becomes a part of me.
Oh the distant sunrise of a new day
is so far on the horizon it may as well be a grain of sand.
Small, minuscule, measly and insignificant.
Just like my remains of a past plan
long ago stranded on a desert island.
At sea also known as my life,
I drift….
Great Achievements: Minor
Unique Experiences: Modest
Possessions gained: Minuscule
Places Travelled: Few
People met: Many
The people I've met
From north, east, south, and west
Are most precious and priceless.
They are sealed in my treasure chest.
They are the jewels that I treasure most.
Solitude, a house no longer a home
Filled with empty promises and scorched hope.
A blood-soaked cape, threadbare and torn, draped atop a shattered shield,
Shards strewn across hollow rooms.
What was a fortress has been reduced to rubble and ruin.
Lying amongst the destruction is a failed hero,
Gasping for oxygen under the spiked boot of oppression.
Haunting laughter bellows through the despondency:
"Did you think anywhere was safe from my grip?"
My parasitic paranoia has infected all sanity.
Don’t you see that you can’t win against fear and hatred?
It breeds and festers within the confines of tainted hearts.
All it takes is one minuscule seed to set the world ablaze.
Now you’re the villain in their eyes, and I am the saviour,
Crushed, broken, and bleeding under my rule.
But I won’t kill you—no, that would be too easy.
I will make you watch, helpless and pleading,
As I reshape this pathetic world into my image.
I can’t begin to comprehend the vast
universe as it expands away from
the point in which I stand a minuscule
fluff of dust awaiting universal
light to fluoresce my soul and illuminate
the unfolding of my cosmic consciousness;
as darkness becomes a forgotten place
I become stardust of an ancient sun
sparkling in the painting of creation.
The worlds of our ancestors remain at war.
I saw this endless misery on an old globe,
where battles and front lines, though faint,
bled into blood-red delineations
where borders trafficked the endless dead.
I spread an historical map,
saw the suffering of much minuscule life,
wounded bodies charging or retreating,
body parts everywhere; a Lilliputian carnage,
yet loud enough to end any tune
in a songbird's throat
Old warriors returned again and again
as young men,
the mark of an early death
already seared across their foreheads,
their eyes flashing, reflecting
a world long buried
in mounds of bloody yesterdays,
and red stained tomorrows.
Then I overheard
(horror upon horror),
the yet unborn,
screaming
they were like
little birds
on fire.
The worlds of our ancestors remain at war.
I saw this endless misery on an old globe,
where battles and front lines, though faint,
bled into blood-red delineations
where borders trafficked the endless dead.
I spread an historical map,
saw the suffering of much minuscule life,
wounded bodies charging or retreating,
body parts everywhere; a Lilliputian carnage,
yet loud enough to end any tune
in a songbird's throat
Old warriors returned again and again
as young men,
the mark of an early death
already seared across their foreheads,
their eyes flashing, reflecting
a world long buried
in mounds of bloody yesterdays,
and red stained tomorrows.
Then I overheard
(horror upon horror),
the yet unborn,
screaming
they were like
little birds
on fire.
En Ukraine et à Gaza, dans un holocauste
de vieillards, de femmes, d'enfants
de fleurs innocentes…sont morts
Là où la barbarie gravite,
là où l'espoir est perdu,
là où la compassion fronce les sourcils,
là où la vie est minuscule
et la mort une fleur rusée…
là où elle-même est perdue,
sans laisser de trace…
Là où la vertu dégénère
et où l'amour perd pied…
Où iront les papillons ?
I search my mind for a minuscule moment
It maybe one that I need atonement
Then I stretch it out as far as I can
to make up a poem that is "hopefully" not bland
I also may add some things that are not real
I am not really going to tell you how I feel
I am good at hiding my inner self
like dust on an old bookshelf.
So when I write about anger or sadness
it's mostly made up with complete drabness
Or maybe I am not being completely true
and my mood is actually blue
I do love the life that is before me
although I will say women do not adore me
So if you ever read my word
most likely they are just absurd.
Those minuscule gaps,
the dripping from the tap,
that soon became the sea between you and me
My fading glow, with the things I didn’t know.
How you’d take my years as your sign to go.
But am I ever in your head, dead of night, in your bed?
Do your hands still reach for the phone?
Does your head hold the regret of all the seeds you could’ve sown?
Because
every time I see your face, trace your name and start the chase
I recall how you left me
and how you left me
Alone.
A lake surfaces between mammoth bones.
The valley once was a bowl for giant daisies.
Wind-blown swells feed now the open gills
of minnows, they are shuffled around
like silver clouds.
The fluid dance of the sunlight is rich
with the minuscule bones of long risen memories,
nowadays they are saltlicks for the deer who pass
to graze upon the dreaming waters.
Small stones on the shoreline take the form
of great forest beasts not seen since the trees
were pod bearing and leafless.
Once dinosaurs swam in these waters,
now they undulate under the mottled trout
as the ripples of an ever-ongoing language.
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