Psychically Poems | Examples

Mirror Peekers

mirrors take on a new life at night
when the lights go out and the house gets dark
spirits are attracted to the silence
they tiptoe to the edge of the mirror and check out the house
peeking at the furnishings they dare not look at during the day
For fear of being spotted and revealed, for they are hidden
Psychically aware children feel these spirit peeks during the day
They stare into the mirror, fascinated, sensing the peekers

Love Is

Some say that Love's 
imagination -- no medic
can plot and find; like 
science disproves a soul,

better ice cream in a solid bowl --   

some say love's a mere
occupation -- Bread and
Butter of the poet; the bard
and musician like snow-balls
scoop-up, compress and throw
it~

stick to the wall a vinyl or perhaps book;

my priest claims highest spiritual
veneration,  after earth relocation -- 
pass the plate, before it's too
late...cheaper now 
than after-hours' rate...

seems to preoccupy a world of real time 
and space...

that which man can only psychically 
place and trace --

Nightmare

Fear, anxiety, and agony fill my heart.
Monsters, ghosts, beasts, and vampires occupy the scene.
Through terrifying events, minds get torn apart.
Blood-spattered sanguinary battle games are seen

Why should such heart-attacking, drastic dreams arise?
Don't God and his angels protect me in my sleep?
Why should I witness murder, bloodshed, and loud cries?
Why should, on my bed, scorpions and cobras creep?

As nature has, for everything, an objective
My nightmares occur for a set reason as well.
As a treatment, psychically renovative
Hasn't Nightmare got its curing catharsis spell?

Though, as with an unexpected death, unrest spreads,
Some warning, like a knell, rings within my shrine's core.
'Beware!', a sign alerts me to liable threats.
With conscious footsteps, my existence, I restore...

Dark

Neither one's dark skin nor the black color are bad.
Dusk has its beauty; crows and cuckoos are pretty.
Do the birds chirp because they're psychically sad?
It's the human mind that makes things dull or witty.

Psyche can manipulate; physique can persuade.
The face can shine brightly; the heart may be gloomy.
Psychic vibrations can make even blossoms fade.
It's love for all that makes the human heart roomy.

Dark rooms can be lit up; dark dots can be made bright.
Positive outlooks always erase pessimism.
Though white or black, each being enjoys the twilight.
The rainbow is the world; kaleidoscope and prism...

Shades and shadows are part of this great universe.
Each has its own role. No one in greatness is worse.

Harry Horsman

Master Poet - This has been how I have been addressing,
Harry Horsman - who has been, to the verse world, a blessing;
Depth, decorum, delightfulness, and dovish dynamism,
Shines and reflects on his personality like a prism...!

‘A Voice In The Wilderness’, ‘Phobia’, ‘The Old Oak Tree’,
‘Rainbow Ride’, ‘Eyes’, ‘Scars Left Behind’, and ‘You May Not Agree’...
Horsman's works have, images and imageries in plenty,
Figures of speech of all kinds, in him, are cognoscenti...!

In 'An Agendaless Age', or 'In So Many Ways’,
His genuineness, like the summer sun, does always blaze;
In 'Jesus Christ' he sings delightfully of the savior,
In his love for the poor, 'The Gravedigger' finds favor...!

'Death Is Not The End’ - he said, I do not think death has won,
In snatching him off from this world, no great work he has done;
Horsman dwells in the blissful presence of angels and saints,
Physically and psychically, he’s free of constraints...!!!


27 May 2023
Tributes to Harry Horsman: An Uncontest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich

Joe Bonamassa and Beth Hart

As whirlwinds in the musicscape that blow so wild,
The duo sang, played guitar, and albums compiled;
Both rocked like vigorous rocks in a rough earthquake,
Their unbreakable records they only did break...!

Played and sang at their very tender childhood age,
Like tornados they shook many a music stage;
Joseph Bonamassa, at only twelve, did plan,
Smokin' Joe Bonamassa - his band he began...!

As though birds of a feather flocking together,
J.L Bonamassa and Beth Hart flew higher;
Like poppies blossomed forth "Don't Explain", and "Seesaw",
The works of the duo made one and all feel awe...! 

His works, "Blue Deluxe", "Driving Towards The Day Light",
"Rhymes", and "Fire On The Floor" are like sunlight, bright;
Adorn the altars of Harmonious music,
Cure the physically and psychically sick...!!!


14 May 2023 
Joe Bonamassa and Beth Hart Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori

Phenellophia

The women nominate Phenellophia as Goddess of the nurturers.
She was the only choice that did not inspire violent arguments. 
Probably because she had a kind spirit and had never annoyed others.
It was no real contest, as some of the fe-faeries were snippety and mean.
Others were jealous and had made enemies quickly in faerie land.

Your first job is to nurture the moon, Phenellophia was told.
She had magical skills which they were not aware of on a fey level.
She plucked the moon out of the sky and began caressing him.
This stunned them all – the jealous, the snippety, and the mean.
They were amazed they had psychically chosen the right Goddess.

The Old Rusty Gate

How I used to care for this finely beautiful gate, once!
Couldn't ever see it rusty, dingy, dusty, dirty;
Creaking of this gate left me psychically in a dunce, 
I sandpapered; cleansed; oiled; kept it gold-shiny and flirty...!

This old rusty gate now retells within many stories:
Stories of our union; innocent children-communion;
Stories of progress in all glorious territories;
Stories of rise and fall and separation and union...!

How death of dear ones leaves one's existence absurd and void!
The old rusty gate now revealed to my neighbors, common;
My sadness, emptiness, dankness, loneliness and schizoid,
And announced: though I was alive: R.I.P. with Brahman...!

I should, though late, renovate this old precious rusty gate,
Relish my memories till I live and rewrite my fate...!!!


27 June 2022

A Piece of Writing In Process

Once a poet is done psychically with his or her craft
With the vernacular of his or her masterpieces
It’s the role of the readers to add mentally missing pieces
Parts, ideas, images, a few words and a sophisticated shaft
To mechanize, modernize or upgrade the messages
A poem is, of course, a piece of writing in process
It’s a bubbling melting pot, where many things are amiss
For many logical or purposeful reasons and for excuses
Which are existentially beyond the scope of countless texts
Poets are generally perplexed and write under pretenses or pretexts.

Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.

Free Verse

Free Verse is not
entirely free – no word 
without its thought and
feeling attached; 

In fact, no-where is there
total independence, not a 
body nor spirit living 
outside the body of its
maker, 

connected both physically
and psychically to an
ever-evolving seamless
universe -- the convolution
of individualized expression
far from a comprehensive 
relationship with indivisible
reality…

What we create 
we are bound to…

never a quiet distance 
from the volume of praise  
confounded by the
clamor of silence –

Do I Need To Tie You Tighter

He’s out there again. I turn my head, but there is silence.
Are you sure it’s the same guy? I look but they have disappeared.
What do you think he wants? I inch myself to the window and move the curtain.
Don’t do that! A voice shouts.  Shh! I say, peeking out a sliver of glass.

There is a car, but I do not see a man. Maybe they have imagined it.
“What are you doing?” I jump from fright. “Nothing,” I say.
My abductor glares at me. “Do I need to tie you tighter?
I release the curtain.  His eyes stare at me. He is making a decision.

He will kill you tonight, a voice says. I do not doubt it. I believe it actually.
If we untie you, do you promise to run? The other girl asks.
They have been here longer than I have been here, but neither run.
I wonder about this, and about the guy they supposedly see out the window.

How can you see out the window through the wall? I ask them.
We are dead, one says. That’s how we can untie you.  Psychically.
I am shocked, for I know they are right.  I blocked their bodies out.
Not able to stand the truth. I let myself sleep, waiting for the end.

Watching You Turn Into a Villian

We are friends, becoming more intimate
Staring as the campfire is popping and cracking
Watching the tiny glimpses of yellows and oranges
Trying to peer through the greyness that was once a log.

You are telling me some things you would never tell me
In the day time, or without the wine but it is a cold night.
We have finished the bottle, just you and I, becoming closer.
I watch your face distort herself. You look weird, strange, unnatural.

You are suddenly a monster, someone I do not know.
In the shadows of the woods, I suddenly feel terror.
I have shared some things I wish I had not. 
Perhaps you feel the same way also.

Thoughts of a mass-murderer come into my head.
I wonder if I am hallucinating, or psychically picking up 
On the real you. You are in the middle of a story when you stop
Staring at me hard.
I guess you know....

Nan

Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Absentmindedly, Jackie wrote her name
thereupon, watching as dust motes floated
upwards, caught in sunset's evening rays
Brushing away a tear, she turned around
surveying, Nan's neglected room
provoked, a vague feeling of emptiness
Psychically, Jackie, quite distinctly heard
"The war years seemed like only yesterday"
It was her Nan's voice. Jackie gasped aloud
"Nan, is that you"? "I'm sure it was your voice"
Materialising in the doorway
Was, the slight figure of her darling Nan
Dressed for bed carrying a lit candle
Aghast, Jackie stood rooted to the spot
The candle sputtered, spent and all was dark

Like a Prayer

Like a prayer

we are unobserved
when closest to parting our lips
uttering our beliefs
and like beggars put aside our pride
asking for understanding and relief

surely we do not dwell in the topics
we discuss but live in a world
frightened most of the time
and whether we thought or think now
acted or reacted in other times
leading or misleading ourselves
by habit and biology

we are still after all
psychologically impaired
psychically dazed
pathologically entwined

Monster

My Monster(s)

There are some things you can't escape from
Truths that cannot be made lies
Pains that cannot be unfelt
Horrors that continue to haunt you late at night
the monsters in your head
The atrocious acts on replay in your mind
A childish innocence lost.
Nightmares of a monsters that is real
The ones that don't hide under your bed
Or in the closet
But stand in plain sight
In front of all to see
But you're to ignored in your childish age
By the one sent to love and protect you
Pushed off to the side and forgotten
So his drunken abuse goes unnoticed
The bruises, unseen
The touches, hushed with fear and shame.
The monsters of a childhood haunted
Nightmares that follow into adulthood
Mistrust towards men
But the sickening need to please.
A monster that you escaped as a child psychically
But mentally will never let you go.
It's been almost 27 years since I've come face to face with my monster
But he haunts me in the darkness
I've grown strong enough over the years
And have hid him in the dark recesses of my mind
But I know he will always be there
I will always feel him in the scars he left
On my mind and in my soul

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