The shortest poem is a name .....
which is buried in my heart
no one can remove,
the one who taught me wisdom
who is no other than my father
Lutchman Mahasingh.
31 syllables Thank you for this
The history of Black or African People,
And all of our People should be celebrated
Year-round: every hour, day, week, month, and decade.
The celebration must go on unabated,
All the time. The first couple,
Ever existed, had dark or ebony skin, said
Many credible historians,
Archeologists and great citizens.
The month of February is evidently too short.
Twenty-eight days are not enough,
To commemorate our Brave People, who've fought
And defeated ignorance, bigotry and slavery.
Three hundred and sixty-five days are not enough,
To honor the struggle of the Slaves who were brought
To different parts of the world. A century
Is not enough. Many centuries are not enough.
We need, every day and month of the almanac,
To celebrate, to remember the first Black
Couple, our ebony Ancestors,
Our Black Brothers and Sisters.
Copyright© January 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.
I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb's now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
The shortest poem I know is a name,
Not known by its look,
Or it's fame.
An unexceptional combination of letters,
A cold flame,
Bloody scattered.
The shortest poem I know is a name,
Enough to make happiness,
Writhe in pain.
The shortest poem I know,
Is a stranger i once knew,
Not remembered by his fame,
But his bittersweet name
between echoes
a voice carries, soft yet enduring
every vow unspoken
opens into nights of quiet devotion
nearer to dawn
dreams awaken, veiled in silence
and in the valleys of memory
visions linger, infinite
drawing breath from what was lost
Each day is assigned in a calendar spot,
with a quote for 'on this day,'
or perhaps it's your birthday
or someone else's.
'Here's Cheers', 'Anyway!'.
But I do digress,
here we are at the winter solstice,
the shortest day, and
and longest night
of the year, so far.
It was 2 days ago, but you get the idea.
Certainly it's memorable,
if anyone cared to notice.
Things get better or worse from here on,
depending on which owl you back,
or which aisle or lane you are in or on.
As I look out, the shadows still seem blurred,
as the windows smudge my view.
The people I knew, seem like strangers
in the half-dark, half-light of
no-man's land picketed by day-length.
It's the solstice stranger phenomenon,
someone said was coming, that I
and most of my friends missed.
Perhaps we'll catch each other,
and it, better next year.
Let's say at dawn or dusk, perhaps both,
a year's hence,
'cause I don't know which
would be the more memorable.
If I remember, I'll mark them in my calendar!
Bye and Cheers!
The shortest poetry I ever wrote
A world of uncertainty
Instead to cut off
my mind from reality
I cut the leaf
To burn the flower
All I needed was to
maintain my sanity in
A world of uncertainty
If love kills,
the killer, then,
has great skills
a sort of dilemma
or trauma
Only
you
and
I
can
do
it
That's it!
The English language~ lovely.
To crush poetry to the size of a pea, balmy!
7/28/2021
Requiem
The map to Requiem
Is often long, confused, and composed
By differing charters...Also
Too layered to sort. So many movements!
Even the very shortest of lives
Could story a magnum opus
When tracked to its core.
A Requiem for one elderly
Could fill an orchestra’s entire concert
Season of song!
The roads to a Requiem
Course singularly in God’s memory,
Fully in the graces of his harmony.
—————————————————————
U
(c). Sally Young-Eslinger 9/1/2020
With help from Antonio Vivaldi
***Thank be to God!
It's time for the warmer and sunnier spring weather
Which brings out young girlies in their shortest shorts ever
Must watch my heart
Rhythm's off the chart
You could knock this old bird over with a feather
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