I miss my girl; I miss my wife
on this, the best day of her life,
with no more pain and no more strife
dancing at the feet of her Lord.
I am told “Take time to grieve”.
I know it’s there; I’m not naive.
But when you believe what I believe,
that just seems untoward.
Shall I play a dirge and mope?
Am I in denial? Nope!
Just dance with her in joy and hope;
receive the gift you can’t afford.
My worst enemy is my mind.
I constantly worry about the time.
Whether I'm moving too fast or too slow,
or if I'm going where I shouldn't go.
The teenage mind is the worst of all,
constantly dealing with social withdrawal.
Not knowing if I should go or stay,
or if they'd even want me there anyway.
See, as you age, they say you “grow up,”
and you learn to forget and get up.
But for right now, I don't know if that's true,
for I've been this way for a while,
and thinking is all I do.
I worry and mope,
then I stop and I choke.
I hold myself back for the enemy I hate,
and constantly put them first
because they control my fate.
My worst enemy is my mind,
A battle I struggle to leave behind.
This is not just a “phase,”
It's something I face through my days.
Slipping down this slope
Into the valley of death l rot
Trying my best to though cope
If don't then lose the plot
Now all l seem to do is mope
Because all has gone to pot
My head like a kalideoscope
Memorries their is quite alot
At times guess bit of a dope
Oppitunities my self l boycott
Still l am holding onto hope
That is me david scott
Not vest effort follow up to l wonder written 2018
Desolate clown's
traveling train
tours famed cities
onto quaint towns.
He mimicks glee
for his ousted
heart's sutures
are dismissive
frowns.
Balloon twisting's
what he knows--
cause joggeling act
makes kids mope;
And sparking globe-nose
bombards
the Top's bleachers
with plumes
of blinding smoke.
His onesie sports
ink-stains for color;
And oily-face
with white base
sweating turns
cream-soupy butter;
Shoved and ridiculed
by crowds-even peers,
cause he studders.
His Mass Bay clown
soles have holes--
with grimy socks,
torn by nails and corns.
Grey's his story--
when a caboose's
the only corner
where he
can call home.
He'll tumbling fall
to gain their laughs-
cringing weeps
in silence--
from prying eyes.
The show must go on--
cause he's a star;
Like his forefathers
before him-since then past on.
I am calling this my summer of hope
While life is not perfect, I refuse to mope
I am encouraged by the appearance of the sun
and hearing to the neighborhood children on the run
In my family, 'tis the season of birthdays
gifts and gatherings sprinkle through the days
Life has a slower pace in the summer
and the sun gives the landscape a glimmer
Rest and relaxation is going to be my theme
and of course, I plan to have plenty of Ice Cream
A person in the public eye,
When subject of a joke,
Has every right to mope or cry
About the one who spoke.
Yet we’re still a democracy,
Though maybe not much longer,
And things we thought we’d never see
Are here and getting stronger.
The freedom that we have to speak
And criticize or sneer at
Applies to even those so weak
Their enemies they JEER AT!
The ALL-CAPS ranting’s not enough –
The claws must dig in deeper
To prove to all that he’s so tough
Revenge will cut much steeper.
And so the toadies and the Court
Will seek some retribution
As ABC might cut things short
In hopes of absolution.
It’s bad enough when words are hurled
From One-I Will-Not-Mention
But now, with wifely wrath unfurled,
There’s double the attention.
A new man's been charged to run this town;
Dressed as a boss, but acting as a clown.
People are split between laughter and frown.
Some look glad; others feel down.
They're, all, in a sinking boat, but who won't drown?
Those brave people who can swim.
Those who, with confidence, brim.
Those who dare tell him
That he is totally dull and dim,
And that they refuse to be judged by his whim.
Hypocrites lack honesty, candidness and felicity.
And this man is even worse.
His running of this city is some sort of curse.
He's poisoned with prejudice and animosity.
So who would trust a snake faking tranquillity?
Why should people wait and hope?
Or force themselves to cope?
Isn't there a chance to leave his scope?
Respectable people should not be left to mope.
They should learn to say "nope".
A Pope
Brings forth hope
But a kaiser
Spews hate and horror
A Pope
Spreads peace
In the north, south, west and east
But a prideful mope like a squalid dope
Spits horrors and terrors
And starts fights and wars
A peaceful person de-escalates
But a belligerent bully booms, inflates
And explodes like a lost missile
Which acts like a cussed imbecile
A real leader
Never follows an oppressor
Yet a follower is a master loser
Who lies about everything
Even when the sun is shining
A Pope
Offers love and hope
But a loser displays no compassion
No sympathy and no comprehension.
Copyright © April 2016 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
I strolled through swamps and muck
I climbed the mountains in the air
I untangled from stuck
revevrted to the now and here
I so wanted to hope
and to learn how to cope
To exit the trap, mope
I strolled through emotion
and bled through devotion
but didnt stop the ocean
What am I ?
I am a conqueror of all beings—
my existence bears no explanation,
an unequipped instruction manual.
I am a compass without a clear path of direction.
I’ve been accepted, rejected,
appearing unexpected,
and too often in this world, neglected.
Every emotion, every decision made,
every passionate act of motivated infatuation.
I am a bittersweet creation
that requires time and patience.
I bring grief, laughter, and hope.
I make you cry, wonder, and mope.
I am used with kisses and spoken in wishes,
sometimes paired with, sprinkled on,
and cooked in favourite dishes.
Carried with depression,
a worm in your confession.
I am taught, advised,
an example of a lesson.
I am searched for,
dreamed of,
ignored, and treated as a chore.
Lost, borrowed, broken, and repaired—
feared for my pain, yet used in bravery when scared.
I am one thing,
one element,
one word.
I contain only four letters,
yet carry entire lives, and the reason some survive—
making it worth your while to persevere , and care to be alive.
I am love
Still hope we can cope
With the nope
Don’t give a damn plan
From that Tandoori tan
Obscene Tangerine dope
Jackanory Mandarin Man
That trope..like to be Pope
Go out on a limb..got the vim..scope
To make him of the grim...dim..whim..mope
Just give Mr Grope enough Rope
Opined women..a frump
If they mind.. some bump & grind
Half inching while pinching their rump
The darkness descends
Besotted with anything cosseted
Rotted or garrotted by design
But sign on the dotted line
Raise a 'Stein" of wine
Knaves..slaves.. saved
From the craze & blaze
Of this moral maze & haze
Extinguished by depraved waves
From distinguished graves
Denies his demise is nigh
Popularity sky high he lies
Bliss as the remiss abyss
Of hiss and diss ends
Thanks to a sly bit of
Wry Fab Four rapport
No not you say hello...but yes I say goodbye
Off with his head the French might have said
Cos we've read we'll get by instead
With a little help from his (dead) friends
There once was an old Pope from Rome
who had the Good Book a huge tome
an altar ego and mass appeal
so he made the Vatican home
2015 he addressed the environment
on climate change caused by man
and issued a Catholic Church encyclical
the first-ever since Popes began
let's trust instructing his cardinals
to avoid any more scandals
when pontificating and preaching to the choir
to burn less incense and light fewer candles
altho' it's a slippery slope here's the dope
and no I won't soft-soap
there's not much hope of Pope on a rope
but I can cope so I won't mope
now hear my voice as it's a choice
if I may be quite so bold
religion is discretionary not hereditary
and the herd of sheep in the fold should be told
Under eighteen
hot tears spilling
nowhere near serene
at the end of your rope
cannot cope
need fulfilling
please don't mope
there's always hope
here's the dope
find someone thrilling
you can soft-soap
who is willing
and won't say 'Nope'
to a clandestine marriage
on the slippery slope
of the blacksmith's anvil
hire the carriage
you prefer
defer the billing
and elope
I lay under a tree,
With no voice yet glistening with glee,
And then I see you come along,
And I don't know what to feel,
Your voice is so pungent,
That it always feels wrong,
Even when singing the words to a song,
But I don't know what to sing,
Because I sat there in solitude,
Just waiting for this foul mood,
To disappear,
To not retrace,
To sit here and mope,
Because I don't know how to cope,
But all I know,
Is you won't see me fall apart.
To visit the Gulf of America,
In case you get the notion,
You might fly over what’s now called
The Mar-a-Lago Ocean.
Be sure to click your seatbelt,
For when using this portation,
(The “trans” has been removed)
You’ll pass a bright red once-great nation.
Get your brand-new passports ready
For the agents are quite brusque
And you might just get deported
To a planet now named Musk.
What once was Mars is filled with
Crowds of migrants (oh, such noise!),
Lining up to use the bathrooms
Clearly labeled Girls or Boys.
There’s a huge arena filled with
Those with polio or mumps,
For there are no more vaccines,
Which Junior argued were for chumps.
While back on earth, the military
(Minus gays and gals)
Is patrolling Mar-a-Gaza,
Filled with Donald’s kiss-ass pals.
And in Congress, the Republicans,
With joyfulness, cavort,
Knowing that, no matter what,
They’ll have the backing of the Court.
For those of us remaining,
We can mutually mope
Or reclaim the Gulf of Mexico,
With just a thread of hope.
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