[Poet’s Note in Comments Section of Poem ]
two companeros sorting revolutionary literature
in spirit’s gap unwrapping gifts knowing fresh
labour ! sabre cops might have followed us hot
cops never come on Saturdays — they watch rugby* remarks she blithely
work births experience dissolving glib speak
stealthily arrived contingent of state security police stalking
books, pamphlets, writings, ephemera, poems
confiscated not lovingly touched again
never say never self-assured confident
I opened a sliding glass door
and watched the Wolf River
as in shadows it flowed
behind the motel room.
The television was turned off
my co-worker in bed.
I gazed outside and wondered
What life lingered outside
in the deep, dark night.
A lamp filled the room with a soft glow.
I pulled a book from my suitcase
and read. A long workday lay ahead
but such wonder was found
as we worked in The Great North Woods.
A sign was posted over the bathroom sink
a warning of high nitrate levels,
mostly meant for pregnant women,
but the motel owner said I was safe.
Earlier in the night I was drinking
hot chocolate in a cozy lobby
and reading pamphlets of folklore
about the woods. One article told
how you could safely fell a tree.
The door to the owner’s quarters
was open for conversation.
Such serenity taken in—
this was my home for the week.
When all is dark, and often- bright
And the walls- they look- So white!
I see them in my new settee
Sometimes, in the middle of the night
Glowing- like, a marshmallow- tanned
Just a tad, to give, a hue
To look, the way my grandfather did
When he wore, his old- "Brown Shoe"
And then, they took me by my balls
And they made me state some facts
But never did I give into them
They could never trace my tracks
Jehovah people-knocked, with pamphlets in their hand
I tried somewhat to tell them, but they didn't understand
I can't sing "Halleluiah" because I haven't got a voice
And when it comes to my religion- J. W's. not my choice
When all is bright, and often- black
The words I've spilt I won't take back
Truth be told, I would not lie
So, now I shall eat my pumpkin pie
I’ve drowned for love,
and risen, a Surfer!
Life is like that, ebb
and flow – crests and
Wipe-outs! Such deep relationships
only having buoyancy two hearts
are willing to support. There
are no pamphlets, no programs
for guarantee. Love being
deliciously happy or madly
Bizzerk says one has been both
Beneficiary and Floundering Jerk --
What the heck...it all transcribes
to poetry!
In Summer
In summer, Jerry cans yearn to
host toffee apple parties, man holes
trick lost drivers, urine people
wear funny hats
about, pine cones get spat on by
urchins, flags go into a
trance, steam shapes learn to
wink, hiking trails get
rude, sprinklers thirst
making meat pies, scavengers deliver
pamphlets, stars get
drunk, swimming pools scold
strawberry patches for
being forgetful, fire pits ride
bikes, kayakes roll down
hills,bsandpits debate
sandwiches, debate their quality of
health.
Broom
The involvement of
the outside sweeping broom in the
sequence of
poetry pamphlets organising into
piles based on
themes extends the period or
condition of
Kookaburra life.
These days, the most sought out advanced degree
In Extreme Higher Education is in Plagiarism.
A student can also minor in Overt Racism,
Sexism, Misogyny, Stupidity, and Bigotry.
Help wanted signs will be posted in January,
On every freaking corners in Washington D.C.;
Muslims, Mexicans, Syrians and minorities'
Applications will not be accepted. Senior citizens
Can apply unless they voted in the last two elections.
The reason for the change in rules and policies
Is to NOT 'Make America Great Again'.
Only Europeans and Aryans can apply for political asylum.
The Statue of Liberty will be returned to Marine Le Pen.
More pamphlets will be distributed at the next symposium.
Copyright © November 12,2016 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
It’s cold as I’m waiting.
Then it’s numb.
Nothing is painful in here.
It’s just…
As I’m in the waiting room.
I’m bored as I stare at smiling magazines.
Then at the pamphlets that will never help
a person like me.
My therapist asks me about meds.
But I’m convinced those pills are empty too.
My therapist knows I’m glancing at the clock.
She knows.
But at least these appointments help me keep track of the days.
It’s Tuesday at 10:00.
Which means nothing to me.
Sykehus
The old hospital in the town center
stark and unpainted
Dotted about in the near vicinity
Funeral homes look like pearls
around an elderly lady's neck
at every election cycle the promise
was to build a new Krankenhause
in a rural environment and there
were pamphlets showing how great
it will be, but, perhaps next time
when a gothic movie was made
the hospital was used as a backdrop
As it stands there is not much to do
doctors chat with nurses, because
the ailing prefer a hospital in another
town, the old place is more like
a hospice, where the old are sent
waiting for death, their relatives
think it is unseemly to let them die
at home, not good for the children
Zen
Neglect is
the biggest
disease
it’s the little things like tim tams.
having gotten my attention, the box
hops into my shopping cart, but not
before I cartwheel and squeal, certain
that one of the poets has nurtured
my senses with an Australian accent.
i’m handing them out, like pamphlets,
according to the number in the family.
of course, they’re crunchy and cold.
my husband, straight away, placed
the box in the fridge. U.S.A. all the way.
my neighbor came over for coffee.
before she left, i handed her three treats.
she gasped, herself a published author,
she had just gleamed in a current read
of munchable tim tams…indeed! of course.
to treat my bible study group friends,
i will have to grab another, unopened box,
hand them out for free. the delightful share
the Word and Aussie-awesome treats,
alongside hot water and teabags. cartwheeling…
I’M LIKE AN INSTANT POT
I’m like an Instant Pot.
We’re both big and bold.
Heavier than we should be
Fussier than we need be
Neither of us should ever
Sit on the kitchen counter
When not in use.
Our metallic armor,
Fitted seamlessly,
tight and wide around the waist
Hard to keep that much armor shiny
So I don’t try to very often.
We each have different
temperatures,
we operate that way.?Different temperatures
deliver variable output
We both even hiss!
,
Beware the danger of getting it wrong,
Pushing the wrong button,
For it is the user who chooses
How far to turn the knob
How much heat to Render,
For success and bounty
As a temp too great or too small could
Ruin inside us, each.
Operate us incorrectly and we’ll
Explode all over you
When guidelines are taken
Seriously,
Pamphlets and fine print read,
we can both be tricky about
Unfollowed rules.
When you don’t know our laws
Of operation
Our innards could easily
turn to mush
Unrecognizable, inedible,
Salty.
Be reluctant to turn the knob too much.
When Neptune's
nostalgic sighs,
weave ruffled rosaries
of brocade ink,
bleeding from
blackberry wrinkles
in torrential time,
I wonder if
herculean eyes
of my earthen heart,
are afraid of being
abandoned by the
electric rhapsody
of life's alienated
aroma.
Swinging on the
translucent
parabola of a
frozen rainbow,
my fate is
skewed as a
cantaloupe
silhouette, of
helix-shaped
maple pamphlets,
where, bluebirds
feast on decaying
seeds of love
and sing
hemlock-croons
in those magnolia
gardens.
But,
what if stars
were edible and
I devoured their
ivory scintilla,
submerging
cosmic potions
in my arteries,
iridescent with
clusters of
quasar's quivering
rays and pulsar's
pistachio glitter?
So now,
I collect
volcanic ash
from rust-orange
ruins of dahlia's
dreamscape
and embalm
them with
paradise-pink hues
of distilled empathy,
for my swan-white
halo of faithful
silence, is still
glowing with
sombre yet
glossy shine
of the linen sun
and I inhale
the fragrance of
my marshmallow moon.
"her song"
sitting on golden sands I'm in my glory
mesmerized as the waters tell me a story
with eyes opened wide peace is by my side
held within this world of tides I have wings
looking to the beyond and the life it brings
be it sunrise or sunset all senses are met
seeing seagulls fly and watching dolphins dive
total completeness of mind body soul arrive
showcasing what they know sharing a rare show
with grand reflections and whispering secrets
one will not find this in traveling pamphlets
as I utter so long the ocean whistles her song
SkyWatcher
06-13-23
Change the world, dream big dreams
Not now, goin' fishin' in yonder stream
Make a difference, man. End the war.
Aw, that's not what June and July are for
Then - Shake up the government bureaucracy
Nah! Work hard, get nowhere. That's democracy
So, do something 'safe:' End pollution in our oceans.
Sure thing! Lots of pamphlets and press conferences
~ all a waste of motion...
O.K., alright, Lazybones. Have it your way --
'Cos, really, the world's not such a bad place a/t/e/o/t/day
They say that Snow White
fell out with Cinderella,
And with her she was clinging,
pulling her hair...
So said the maiden...
- She is as dry as a mango
in the mouth of a toothless gal.. !
Ps Cordel...Cordel Literature is a popular literary genre in Btazil, often written in a rhyming way, originating from oral accounts and later printed in pamphlets. Cordel literature became popular in Brazil in the North and Northeast regions, and is now widespread throughout the national territory.
THIS cordel WAS writen BY a POET FROM THE book rescue OF ZE LIMEIRA
translation by \alkas poetry
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