The mystic bay channels my
every emotion moving slowing
throughout tunnels and vessels
of my mind tampering with
my infamous glow my tangible
smile gathering mirth as i am
quite taken with self the heart
of my magnificent being tasting
the glamorous hues of heavenly
bliss coasting daintiness balanced
so well embracing thoughtful
interludes chastised mannerism
created just so as i continue
flowing between this galaxy of
stars twinkling magnitude offering
nothing an yet so glorified, fulfilled
with every inch of the fine wonders
of enduring this wide open grandeur
beyond a whisper blindly heard
bravely singing my own masterpieces
the notion a fine rapture of proses
carried out across the mystic bay
He conjures pretty poems and proses,
but something in the wicked wind forewarns,
In his eyes, a sea of roses,
in his flesh, the pain of thorns.
A child, swinging gaily on the beach,
in back, a little girl, within his reach,
before his eyes, a sapphire blue,
but behind him, soon his ears,
heard a toddler on the sand, in tears.
In school, he read of heroes, brave and true -
when he'd grow up, that's what he'd do,
but some things wash away with time.
The ideals seen by the young man's eyes
would flit away like butterflies.
One day, in matrimony, he would wed,
"To have and to hold", is what he said.
He cursed his eyes, which would betray.
A happy family is what they could see,
but the wind said it was not to be.
He conjures pretty poems and proses,
but something in the wicked wind forewarns,
In his eyes, a sea of roses,
in his flesh, the pain of thorns.
The most beautiful proses or poems
Were divinely dictated by the Almighty.
I'm not immersing in some profound dreams.
Needless to say, I'm neither inebriated not crazy.
Believe me, just like the verses in the Bible,
Many poems came from the womb of inspiration,
However, the most powerful ones were scribbled
By the Spirit of a Higher Power through dictation.
After reading a few verses from some poetry books,
The words come out alive and move like sharks in hooks,
One can experience the very presence of a supernal being.
Poets of all style, in God's name, please do not to stop writing.
Copyright© February 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.
The longing for beloved, like a moth longing for flame,
extinguishing it's own fire, admiring it's own pain,
with the bejeweled beauty of stars and moonlight
I find you engulfed in the scent of my unforgiving plight.
The damage your absence did has never been aided,
the scars I have been carrying have never faded.
Your body might be aligned with roses and dust
but I'm still holding onto the blade of proses and lust.
The deeper it cut, the better it turn me into pieces,
for a poor, vulnerable, tortured soul, only left in traces.
Since centuries, conspiracies against you have allied with dove,
agony, misery, calvary, woe, curse, they say, but I opt for love.
Stop taking.
just take a minute to stay still.
A calm mind is what I crave.
The very bliss of life.
Although with out thought there is mistake.
To much thought and your mind goes blank.
Where is the middle the simple proses of thought.
A thought followed by a black nothing.
With The preparation to eliminate rushing.
Enough to be prepared.
Not to much,
But just enough So as not to be scared.
The hope for simplistically.
A human ambition, to common we beg for it optimistically.
Freedom of thought and speech.
But to control it you must first learn to swim against the current at the beach.
Easier said then done, action and evidence shown to be absent In the face of fear words seem to dissolve your point becomes unclear.
Words caught in thought, It's a dangerous game.
Don't think to much about what I have said you’re still trapped in this never ending game.
Overthink it and you might drown in the rain.
Captain of the most distant islands
living poem among my proses
that each one was exchanging for roses
with moonlight and wandering mornings
II
You loved as few have loved
with sea madness and clear lyrics
the greatest poet that will remain in us
as he in the calm portrayed...
III
The island was your light and your horizon
was a witness to your fate, luck
let my verse take you back
IV
Timemate here awaits you
beyond this letter and this death
I follow your companion brand...!
PS TRANSLATION/ADAPTATION OF THE POEM
SONNET OF THE POETISA ADELA CARPORAL
ARGENTINA FOR THE COLLECTION 1000
POEMS FOR PABLO NERUDA.
by alkas
Red proses reluctantly fall.
All of its thorns spike every fault,
In a carnage only you and I call,
Now locked in my love-torn vault.
Imprisoned writings of lore,
Will finally give way
To the essence, you enchant more.
A fallen red prose lay.
Storyteller weaves his tales
throughout my mind and heart.
He alchemies my leaden days
into golden thoughts.
We soar above the shrinking earth
on word-filled wings at night,
glide on intellectual planes;
it’s Truth we seek to find.
Charting unknown territory
of heartlands, minds and brains,
we plumb the depths of mysteries
that rule cabbages and kings.
Like Capote penning portraits,
his stories glow so real.
Their 3-D essence touches me
in déjà vu surreal.
He’s captured me in tidy yarns,
with friendship for a knot.
Allowing him to nurture me,
he feeds my starving heart.
He takes me here, he whisks me there,
with legends of the fall.
But one place I can never trod
is deep inside his soul.
I'm a writer, a sucker for flowery words
Creating poetry and proses I can afford,
Then we met and everything changed
My mind went idle, empty in a snap
Hands frozen, heart trembling, begging to stop--
I could no longer write, how strange!
There's something cryptic about you, can't explain,
Can't even put it into words, hopelessly gripping my pen
Staring at a blank sheet, crumpling stained papers
Why can't I even describe you in metaphors?
I'm just a poet, lost for words and what can I do?
I'd rather sit here and silently adore you.
Here I am-- again
Grabbing my pen, scribbling my pain
Into bleeding and excruciating words
That might end up killing me.
Damn, I need to let this out!
I need to release all the dramas and doubt.
My pen cries of simile again
Fighting considerately in vain,
Creating make-believe stories,
Drowned in almost vivid memories.
I try to ensconce myself
In awesome poems and proses
While gripping thorny roses
Trying to fix my broken self.
Metaphors that speak euphoria,
Rhymes that sound like paranoia,
Stanzas full of painful battles
Writing frustrations with beautiful titles--
Out of melancholy or perhaps emptiness--
I locked my soul in unreal happiness.
I opted to unspoken dialogues
Where I never have second thoughts on monologues.
This is how I silently wept.
This is where my thoughts are kept.
Simple or fancy? Sordid or prance-y?
Lily or roses? Tiptoes on proses?
What kind of poem will my mind see today?
What will happen if I stop to pray?
Trixie, my muse, is laughing right now.
She has no idea the when or the how.
But when she comes full force into the fray
Poetry to my day is pure play….
My Muse!
My muse is not an imaginary being made up by ancient civilizations saying that inspiration
for everything comes from supernatural beings different ones assigned to different things
instead it comes from inside of my brain
which derives from my creativity
my imagination
my fantastical thoughts
my intellect
my stupidity
my rage
my anger
my indecisiveness
my two year old tantrum throwing
my acting before thinking rationally
my truly raw and naked side of me
my selfishness
my introvertedness
my extrovertedness
my imbalances
my believes
my disbelieves
my wants
my desires
my goals
my dreams
my problems
my solutions
my uncontrollables
my unknowable
my travels
my mental disorders
my passions
my hatreds
my biases
my nonsenses
my nuances
my lovers
my ex-lovers
my interests
my disinterests
my attacks
my heart aches
my heart breaks
my successes
my failures
my anything and everything inspires me to write whatever comes my way
whenever I make it come to pass
by writing it into existence through my poetry and my poetic-proses!
What Wasted Wastes!
Wasted debates
Wasted dialogues
Wasted breathes
Wasted efforts
Wasted energies
Wasted times
Wasted days
Wasted weeks
Wasted months
Wasted years
Wasted lifetimes
Wasted knowledges
Wasted secrets
Wasted powers
Wasted egos
Wasted loves
Wasted emotions
Wasted existences
Wasted pleasures
Wasted pains
Wasted pleasurable-pains
Wasted gains
Wasted seeds
Wasted ideas
Wasted beliefs
Wasted facts
Wasted fictions
Wasted thoughts
Wasted minds
Wasted actions
Wasted words
Wasted poems
Wasted proses
Wasted poetic-proses
Wasted spoken words
Wasted literatures
Wasted artworks
Wasted philosophies
Wasted books
Wasted injustices
Wasted justices
Wasted priniciples
Wasted ethics
Wasted values
Wasted morals
Wasted proofs
Wasted evidences
Wasted sciences
Wasted religions
Wasted myths
Wasted fairly tales
Wasted fables
Wasted legends
Wasted histories
Wasted everythings
Wasted anythings
Wasted nothings
Wasted waste we are
Or are we not wasted waste?
are we not wasted nothings?
Poetry is breathing out
graces of the heart;
for unlike other writing,
such exhalation
transcends words:
whether scented with sulfur
or mint de jour
poetry is the soul’s lure
dangling immortality--
We are tempted to the brink;
whether dreadful fall
or bottomless sink
next step is uncontrollable:
rhyme with time
or proses with glows,
the shell broken
serpents and birds alike
released—poetry a feast
of both our demons
and saints--
So...with pen and pad
we come to the table;
some fable some truth
with manic greed
we plate all obsessions
imbibe the fatal drink;
not a writer dare blink--
both God and the Devil
transfixed, they are watching,
prolonging to eternal
some final call--
so long as the poet
amuses them all….
MY BELOVETH
How beautiful are thy feet my beloved
You navel is like a round goblet
Your two breast are like the young roes
Those are twins
Your faces is like the morning stars
Your eyes proses the heart of everyone that look at it.
By night on my bed I sought her whom my soul loved
I sought her but I found her not
You are the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys.
As the lily among thorns so is my love Martha
Among the daughter of men
Draw closer to me, and let me cherish you as queen.
Behold thy voice can even woke up the dead and bring it back to life
They lips are like the thread of scarlet
How fairly is they love, my love, my sister my friend
I rather loose my life than to let you go
I will stand and defend you
I will always be your keeper
Both day and night
Let my beloved come close to me
And feel the love I have for her.
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