Dictionaries inspire me to do better
I hold one on my lap about an hour a day
Collecting nouns, verbs, and phrases that delight me
Tasting tantalizing words, being taught new things
Ideas parading up and down out of the book onto my mind
Outstanding way to celebrate my status as a life-long learner
New knowledge uplifts me, enthuses me, shakes me out of ditches
A terrific way to begin any kind of poem or story
Review, revise, renew rustic ideas and ridiculously new phrases
You miss out if you do not have a dictionary on your lap daily
You know what the Football World Cup really needs?
Goal! Goal! Goal!
with Bigger Goals!
Another yard — another meter—
on either side of the posts.
Bigger goals mean more goals!
More goals mean better football!
Goal! Goal! Goal!
Screamers from thirty metres!
Curlers into the top corner!
Thunderbolts from halfway out.
Goal! Goal! Goal!
That's what fans want to see.
Not defensive fantasy!
Not blockers lined up at the back.
Bring on attacking football!
More goals means fairer results.
Goal! Goal! Goal!
Imagine the score in Heaven?
5–7!
8–6!
10–8!
That's what fans play mega bucks to see.
Last-minute winners!
Goal! Goal! Goal!
More skills!
More thrills
More daring!
More drama!
More football!
Goal! Goal! Goal!
It's so ridiculously easy.
Just widen the goalposts.
when nobody's looking—
out a yard... out a meter... on either side
Go for goal!
Blight the nil-all draw!
Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal!
This is the poem,
I will be bestowing,
As attached to the hip,
With a little bit,
Of some lipstick smeared ,
Ridiculously spit,
In the middle of a fit,
Dug out of a pit,
Smitten and bitten by one made to stick,
Not only the little but also big hitting kits,
Of the middle-of-the road slick Tick-Tok shivs,
Sally McJimmy- Gee was a pro at sycophancy
Currently over-flattering plain old maid Nancy
Complimenting her ridiculously excessively
Her honey-like, simpering words annoying me
She lavished on this nutcase all kinds of praise
Thinking she might get herself an undeserved raise
If she does, I will be angry enough to burn this place down
I try to figure out which one of these two is the biggest clown
One way or the other
These things sort themselves out
Or do they
Seeded
Nurtured
Or left to fester and burn
Until the smoke becomes the air we breathe
Solved or unresolved
A blemish for some
A scar for the remainder
The kind that throbs
Long after the wound is gone
Silent walls
Ridiculously linger
Towering stubborn
Built from nothing
But the words withheld and the truths avoided
All of it
Every bruise
Every burn
So easily undone
By simple communication
Victimized, but not a victim
Never charged, but always blamed
I can hear them maledicting
But I cannot feel ashamed
Cause my guilt is just a nation
Means I’m carrying within
The inherited frustration
Of the other people’s sin
Funny how it feels unfair
And ridiculously sad
To be someone but nowhere
To be no one but not dead
I feel sorry for the angels
Cosmic managers of ours
Sorry for the lack of changes
Broken trees and faded flowers
Please don’t take it as complaint
Just admit that I’m aware
If it matters - I can wait
And I will, for better share.
In the USA, Black History month is celebrated
In February, the month with the shortest days
Meanwhile in my world, I celebrate year-round, every day
In my heart: Black History. I'm absolutely delighted
To the point of being ridiculously amazed
I'm laughing, giggling. This is taking my breath away
In reality, we need thirteen months to celebrate
Black History. Be mindful that everything started
In Africa. However, I am saying ‘thank you' anyway
There is no need to say obviously more or elaborate
Mankind must be pompously and joyfully celebrated
On a daily basis. There will be no world without Africa
We all must hear the message: Africa is the Motherland
Africa is the Mother of history. You might not want to stand
With me. Please prove me wrong. Show that you understand
The saga.
Copyright © February 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
I loved you then,
I love you now
and I'll always love you, dear.
Yet I cannot turn back the clock,
From yesteryears to the time
When madness gripped my soul.
For on that day at the meadow,
A stupid argument developed,
Escalated ridiculously to the point of no return.
My heart filled with despair and longing,
As dread and fear and envy
Took over my black heart.
Can I forget my stupidity?
Your gentle appeal, my crude abruptness?
The hurt in your dovelike eyes?
Giving up, I still can hear the echoes
Of hurrying footsteps clopping over the wooden bridge
As you left me forever!
15. Ridiculously small but nevertheless persistent ants.
16. It rained in the desert. A dandelion came. So did my neighbor with his hoe.
17. After the floods came the sharks. After the sharks came the crabs. In a few weeks, there’ll be nothing but white sand.
18. Presence. That’s all that’s required.
19. Yes, careless men laugh in board rooms. But careless men have always laughed—like that, with chocking fat tones. Men belittle other men who care. Yes, but hardened men have always done so—like that, with sharpened words. Still, there are Roman board rooms buried in Pompeii—their baths, ashen coffins.
20. I pretended not to hear the woodpecker peck the armored palm. He came closer and closer. “Prescience,” “Presence,” he said.
21. I come with reason, an open mind, and facts. The other side is high on polemics, maintains the status quo at all costs, and dehumanizes me. It is time to change our tactics. (Reminder: Next time, bring fresh horse to the fight.)
You planted something in my heart and it still grows without you tending to it
How ridiculously wild my garden is
It blooms without rhyme or reason
It blooms without regard to your heart or mine
The ache continues to spread with every dream left on the vine
But my , look how beautiful all the flowers are
It seemed like a long almost endless trip,
one that could leisurely
circumnavigate the world,
or rocket through the years,
fuel never depleting.
There was never any plan,
just notions, impromptu journeys
into the unforeseen, and of course
unintended consequences.
Looking through the reverse end
of the telescope of time,
each one act play
now seems ridiculously tragicomic.
Over one hundred arrivals later,
I got there.
Yesterday I bought new sneakers
they are not for going anywhere.
I aim to hang them up
at the foot of my old bed,
their mouths wide open
in amazement.
the dog is muddier than I feel
we are both grimy
gritty
ridiculously filthy
the dog and I
He’s been mudding
I am super casual
in my pajamas for the sixth day
we are a smelly matched set
my potential, an entity I've put on a pedestal
I spend my days climbing her ridiculously high ladder with gift-wrapped handmade blades; only leaving when her skin is ripped & her dreams for me fade, little by little
The cruelty of my actions is but merely protection from rejection
I need her to let me go,but she craves; she lusts over the idea of intertwining our abilities, without my blades of insecurity
"What if this is all that I am?" a question too hard to answer, even for her
Admittedly, there are times, when I allow her powers to flow through me, but I almost always end up killing her
Like a dead, dried flower placed in water; her trust in me is actually just suicide disguised as hope.
We are two flames,
Colliding and clashing,
Eroding our names,
Each other, slashing.
Merging miraculously,
In some eternal timeline,
Vowing velvety love variously,
Flowing and floating as fine as wine.
My hand longs your hand,
Our hands meet and then
We turn into slipping sand,
A poem by a perpetual pen.
My hands are cold,
Struggling to keep hold,
Your hands are burning,
Holding and yearning.
My eyes, as silent as cold night,
Yours are loud and alight.
"What are we?" Asked thee,
"Pretty paradox, you and me"
Said I, ridiculously.
You, it's you, I admire thy worth,
Prettier than ethereal earth,
Beauty reaches its zenith
When men are in love,
Shinier than the stars above,
Alluring are the men in love,
Dreamier than a divine dove.
Appealing than ardent Adonis,
Men in love are a beguiling bliss.
Bewitching beauty that makes
Coy even the luminous lakes.
Swains, beauteous boon,
Ravishing than the beaver moon.
Ominous thunder, prophecy or merely a warning?
God’s hands clap loudly, oak tree or transformer must have been hit.
Portentous night has turned still and bleak, silence as a warning
Menacing clouds are moving ridiculously fast toward the east
This is an evening for witches, gremlins, warlocks and bats
I expect to see brooms in the sky; I feel threatened
The moon weeps, there are black clouds of thunder
I cringe at the noise, feeling more threatened than ever.
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