A young beauty, the Countess of Sweeney,
was romanced by a magical genie.
While their romance was fervent,
there was just one deterrent:
he, regrettably, had a wee weenie.
Unfortunately, this magic genie
had only limited powers, you see.
He could not wish for his dong
to be long, massive and strong,
t'was against rules of genie-icity.
So the countess (her first name was Didi)
eventually moved to Tahiti.
She then soon had a tryst
with a geologist
who was endowed with something more meaty.
Eventually, the lonely genie
luckily found himself a new sweetie.
She was small and petite
and willingly discreet
which suited his diminutive weenie.
When the sun sets in the morning
and rises late at night,
and dogs hop on lily pads,
and frogs viciously bite,
that's when I'll stop loving you,
and not one day before,
unless, I find, regrettably,
that you loudly snore.
There was a great incline of stone, weathered
amongst the sparsely green valley
whose feet lay at the door of a thatched cottage
and whose head I was treading over now.
A fair stream, no wider than a meter,
had had its pulse dried up by the sun
leaving moss strewn on florid rocky deposits,
ran down the length of the valley
transforming eventually into a river that
sent the local watermills cartwheeling
like ecstatic gymnasts.
In one stride I was over,
hopping onto a small ledge
and (rather regrettably) crushing its treasured plant
underfoot.
Springing upwards, I skirted the boundary of the valley
rising doggedly above the craggy edge
and there, waiting in all its recklessness
was the wind.
Things That Should Grow on Trees
Things that should grow on trees include:
big sea birds with
extremely long wings, old-fashioned shoe
horns, tape recorders who
play sporadically cries of
grief, blank
photographs, stamps with
printed eyeballs, people with
colourless or
very nearly colourless hair and
skin and
pinkish eyes, the word
unfortunately, the word
regrettably, the word
even though, miniature
pianos, vampire
teeth, leaf
blowers, False
IDs, illuminated loyalty
cards, the watchful and
attentive, damp
clothes, pom
poms, glass
shards, pack of
cards, rope knot
balls, plastic
trinket boxes, ashtrays (glass only), lips (too
animal lips), spines (too
animal spines), toast, headache
tablets, running
shoes, and
whores.
Boar Man
Boar Man was the best at
his job of eating food waste.
He didn’t mind
the truly horrible taste.
Regrettably he’d lost all his friends
because every time he opened his mouth
flies and creepy-crawlies
went into their mouth.
For crying out loud, the flowers are gorgeous,
Fresh, happy, young, alive, and vivacious.
Regrettably, we, humans, cut their lives short,
From time to time, from events to events.
For God’s sake, let the flowers live like the monuments,
Let them enjoy a long life, like the statues in the court.
Almost every event, like birthdays, weddings and anniversaries,
Is the end for those petals, which are sinking in past memories.
Even the funerals are not sympathetic to the beautiful lilies.
In lieu of flowers, why can’t they write beautiful poems,
Make memorable cards or fake flowers with dead leaves?
Let the flowers live in the garden, and plant them in the cemeteries,
In lieu of flowers, send meaningful poems that inspire dreams.
For crying out loud, please end the customary bereaves.
Copyright © October 2015, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
As The Rising Sun, The Dawn Came In Softly & Slowly;
&
So Did My Suffering.
Maybe Unexplained Or Unexpected Feelings;
Which Have Been Ignored;
A Sudden Melancholy Skulking In The Silence;
Awaiting The Arrival Of This Day.
The Days Have Regrettably Passed Since We Parted Ways;
About 4 Years Ago, & I Now Wonder If There Was Anything I Could Have Done;
I May Not Have Needed To Spend As Much Time In The Closet;
I Probably Need To Have Paid Closer Attention To How You Felt About Being Anonymous;
Or;
To Anything Else That Would Have Kept You By My Side;
I Am Sorely Missing You Right Now.
My Thoughts Are Hitting Barriers, & My Tears Are Falling Like Waterfalls;
All With Photographs Of You;
Including Your Wild Hairstyles;
Wild Kissing Technique;
All-Gleaming Beard;
Lovely Eyes;
Beautiful Voice;
Undetectable Abs;
&
Silly Smiles.
The Monotonous Music You Listened To In Your Place;
I Can Still Hear Them Playing In My Head From When I Visited;
I Still Occasionally Hear Them In My Brain;
Which Is Shocking, But I Genuinely Miss You & Those Awful Songs.
Music is my source of escape,
For when the night pours its sadness on me.
My heart resides in that place,
For when my thoughts starts bullying me.
Lent everyone my ear but never my secrets
When the world isn't here, there's no one to see it.
They think they know me but they are gullible,
To be deceived but I'm often quiet.
I'm stingy with my heart, she's in captivity,
At the watching hour, I gaze regrettably.
She wants to love but is unvalued,
For this cruel world, ingratiates to her.
Scheming of ways to keep her here,
Because I've learnt that no one really cares.
When I'm by myself and free to muse,
But I am reluctant to leave the dark views.
when I'm crafting virtual castles in the air.
without sadness and without fear.
Soothing my mind with fantasies is sweet.
I feel that time is truly tight and feat.
All my delights in this are folly.
Nothing tastes as dear as melancholy.
When I was waking up alone,
Recalling whatever I've done
Tyrannise, my ideas almost you
Fear and grief struck me through
Whether I stay or whether I go
The pace of time seems to be real slow.
All my sorrows around this are jolly.
Nothing is as insane as melancholy.
disappearing in a smooth way.
The hope of tomorrow is gone today.
Lay an effort to entice him to stay.
even when he went astray.
Life is similar to molding clay.
Hearth hardened, put on display.
Memories are all over, alike a token.
The mountain of lies, I've spoken
The wounds were ripped open.
Regrettably, one had chosen
It wrecked each day with a fancy notion.
And yet she flees the world, broken.
Written: May 09, 2023
Anatomy Of Melancholy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
Regrettably, Miss Greta G
must use a broom to clean her room;
she let the pigs come play, you see
for they were neat, so she assumed.
How learned she this? Not clear by whom.
I think I may have, I confess,
so I shall help clean up the mess.
I think ’twas from the book she saw,
a pig whose house was made of sticks,
another one was made of straw;
the last of course, was made of bricks.
On seeing these three piles, it clicks,
but how the pigs got from the barn?
Now that should be a tangled yarn.
She nearly pulled the whole thing off;
the cat is out, for here’s the deal:
Although I had my headphones on,
as I passed by, I heard a squeal,
and caught a whiff with porcine feel.
And now dear Greta’s rather mad,
And I’m the wolf, mean, big and bad.
----------
In the rhyming form of a Rhyme Royal, but using 8 syllables instead of 10
Choices fall on chances,
Scratched hard on inner voices.
The, that proposes sacred lotuses,
In contentment, poised as rejoices,
Profoundly, altered the straits of moises,
And lavished, with own choicest decisions.
Of no imperialistic befitting,
The Mannered in contemptuous setting,
Mystifying, the paddles of uplifted sailing,
And begrudged, on own contents of failing.
The, that is not on ends yet,
The pinched on sides in a null set,
Regrettably, in the sweat beads of taunt,
And cornered, beaten by own away cast.
Chances on it that troubles,
The edged and resounding doubles,
The choiced, on it that rightly humbles,
And sided, fancied in unbounded struggles.
Within my faded memories
of what was
I can see that I was gifted
with your love
Special moments lost
in time and space
The love in your eyes has
been tragically erased
Those tender moments
have been long gone
A splendor now all wrong,
sorrowful I’m not that one
Regrettably our instances
of joy have passed
Attempting to deal with
times you had put me last
Never wanting it to end
or to be replaced
Yet I see it in your eyes
and the look on your face
Promises you made and
had never fulfilled
And our love you had
no plan on ever trying to rebuild
Why prolong the hurt,
the heartache was pending
Painfully I could feel your
love for me was ending
Let me try to save the last
shreds of my dignity
While I still have that
heartbreaking ability
For crying out loud, the flowers are gorgeous,
Fresh, happy, young, alive, and vivacious.
Regrettably, we, humans, cut their lives short,
From time to time, from events to events.
For God’s sake, let the flowers live like the monuments,
Let them enjoy a long life, like the statues in the court.
Almost every event, like birthdays, weddings and anniversaries,
Is the end for those petals, which are sinking in past memories.
Even the funerals are not sympathetic to the beautiful lilies.
In lieu of flowers, why can’t they write beautiful poems,
Make memorable cards or fake flowers with dead leaves?
Let the flowers live in the garden, and plant them in the cemeteries,
In lieu of flowers, send meaningful poems that inspire dreams.
For crying out loud, please end the customary bereaves.
Copyright @ March 2009, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Regrettably, you're forswearing considerateness.
Because of your deeds, my heart has been disparaged.
However, the faithful has devolved into the dreadful.
There was nothing but words scribbled on a journal.
It's a sincere pity you're sweepingly slighting kindness.
Placing the underachievers on a dazzling betrayal.
Escape the fierce curse of those who benefited.
If you tamely yield to the glare, he will rebel.
Some people keenly appreciate and admire your skill.
Because of your frailty, some individuals devour you.
They were wavy heart told,
there was a silver star-shaped pot of gold
at the end of the hellstorm rainbow
This was the time-honored
private talk
to the latest crop
of pawn fodder privates
Battlefield grunts on the frontline
A pact of brothers
of diverse colors
in the Death Metal Band
Human shield runts in the chain-of-command
The General consensus was,
the grieving families would annuity understand
But the living remnant,
the broken pieces of bloodied memories
They reaped the iron-copper riches of the sword,
the carnage cursed misfortune of war
The hailed heroes were uniformly told,
there was a halo-shaped pot of gold
at the end of the cluster explosion glow
What was left unsaid:
Was how to live
with shrapnel in the soul —
Faceless collateral
on the stained coins
of valorous tears
Buried inside the chest
Tainted treasure of splattered images
Regrettably,
so beggarly numb to forget
10-15-21
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