Hoeing there and
trying to
make the fake food
stuff grow i
found inside a
cracked line some
specimens of
unarmed rat fish
that had
futon sponges
glued to
them along with
all the other odd sermons
about
blundering humility
and how
the thin react to knights in
white sat-
in sheets when the weak end bend-
ers play to come dribbling out
their un-
locked crates and great granny nook
holes.
EXPRESSIVE INTENTIONS
small
separate
precise
&significant
sublime
laconic
specimens
unfold
&encompass
vestiges
of
obscure
imagesless
dialogue
of
the spatial
realm
in
delineated
defiant
visual
contemplations
of
perverse
illusions
of
stimulated
sentiment
an idea was born
So we are at the beginning, green ackers
yellow sand , blue sea, all in festive
bright colors except for the rest of a cloud
drifting about looking misplaced
The evening glides into night, but when
morning arrives two body awakes under
a tree, they are the last specimens and
hitherto the best work done by a hand
unknown; that as we later shall hear of
by it its demand to be worship
So, what happened to the less perfect
where they left to populate the imperfect
And now we come to the special cases:
You know, they are at the edge of the living,
Questionable that they fit the classification
Just a little red gristle at the articulations
Very desiccated, like pampas grass
Flopping like straw umbrellas
Non-speaking specimens,
What can they be thinking -
If anything?
Cradle one in your arms;
Isn’t it sad
What you think of them
Someone thinks of you
Under the aegis of darkness,
they trespassed narrow-edged ways —
wayward musicians;
spectre-framed and so pronto the
afflatus of restless painters and
hungry poets.
Mute and stout,
they seemed agnostics,
reclining on image-powers; thoughts
and dumb instruments facing earth;
such clout among them,
and countenance —dim —
turning them into a cluster of
strumpet-begotten specimens.
Moments of silence.
In their string-fashioned phalanx,
Untaperable fraternity.
We lie in our class,
Not really intrigued or puzzled,
By the mundane subjects that keep us muddled.
Some may admire the beauty that surrounds us;
Of the trees swaying in the winds,
Of the cherry blossoms that drop,
In the never-failing cold wind.
The light which comes through our open doors,
The light, not brighter than the people we have in store.
We all are specimens alike,
But, behind our mask of mischief lies,
A little drop or maybe a bead,
Filled with sincerity and virtue so sweet.
The little drop that burns and shines,
In all our hearts it lies.
We are not mindless wanderers,
We are not without destination;
Some folks can’t understand,
The intensity of our situation.
We have a goal,
An aim to be great,
But some of us haven’t uncovered our little drop,
The drop that can seal our fate.
The teachers say we’re a nuisance,
How we trouble their conscience;
But how they will miss us,
Miss our shenanigans;
How we will miss each other when we leave,
To the calling of our little bead.
We must de-industrialise i hear..By some pallid strange
Specimens; let this be clear' in order to devolve to sustain'
We must resort to mass slaughter? Oh the idiocy.' And such
Strain the cattle are creating co2.. its the stuff of creation
And part of it.' Is that not true.? Yet still we must strive to
Mine lithium ore..Quite a destructive passtime.' To obtain
From raw.? Yet the goal is sustainable farming and such
Like ploughing with horses? And lighting candles well its
Not really that tough.' It can be done.' I'm not saying it
Can't but we'll need all the livestock.' About which some
Rant.' To do the impossible mankind ever tries.' And fads
Are ubiquitous as are callumny and lies.'
Just how green is my valley
Below those dark satanic hills?
How many familial bones
Lay there molding to greyish dust?
Do the words of my forefathers
Echo on beyond my ancient head...
So that future ears clearly hear
What wisdom they actually said?
I long to see the rain fall
On those grey slag built mountains,
Where trees are straggly specimens -
Sometimes misted by the clouds
So low that their moist kiss remains
On my upward stretching hands.
It's where the belly trembles
And my heartache truly resounds.
But how much better would it be
Were this a sun drenched paradise,
Where everything was plentiful;
Where everyone was fulfilled
And could afford their daily bread,
Where cries of pain became instead
Joyful smiles with ease instilled?
© Allen Ansell 2025
Last night's storm
has left its artwork on the beach,
a postmodernist exhibition
of brown seaweed strewn in clumps
like hair on a barbershop floor,
broken seashells
and a fallen rainbow of plastics
strung out along the shore
where now an exhausted sea
licks the leftovers of a meal.
Chaos has been distilled down
to washed up artifacts
and red bottle caps, drinking straws
and spoons buried deep inside a ball
of yellow twine. I cannot make
much sense of what is on display
or glean from this haphazard art
a hint of meaning
other than in its making.
All seems uncoupled, specimens
torn from lonely souls, bits
and pieces coughed up
out of the exhaust of a huge machine
whose pistons pump and drive
a spinning wheel that has no purpose.
I pick up a plastic sandal
and wonder whose foot
it once belonged to, then put it back
and walk home
alone.
I gathered up the remains
of all those poems
that somehow fell exhausted
upon the page, the ones
that ran out of breath
and never quite found
the words my mind
wanted to speak.
Some were no more
than a line or two, others
managed to scale the heights
of a stanza before falling back
into a terminal silence.
Some were just silly,
specimens of a moment
when my brain fell apart.
In the past I simply tore
them up into tiny pieces
and put them in a bin
or used as fuel to feed
an open fire. It was like
getting rid of the evidence,
purging what was not fit
to survive.
And so I sat before a box
of my stutterings,
page upon page of times
when my poor soul
couldn't speak and make
itself known. Some
barely made a mark before
shrinking back into shame.
I seemed to be moved
by a hope that I will
one day weave
all these fragments
into a poem and let a darkness
out and speak a freedom.
There is still time to mend
and make new.
red flower gathering monster landed in the field with care
A sweet smell of lilac, persimmons and roses in the country air
He gathered some posies to take back to his planet to share
a snake passing by asked to go along, and said “it’s not fair…”
because he was refused a ride to the planet Bon Jarno Au Pair
Posies were the only specimens gathering monster was allowed to share
Snow swallows us with discomfort,
as we tramp across the moor
bent on a visit, a weekly mission
to see your tomb.
We arrive near the marble plaque
the place where you expired
the fault of an unknown murderer:
mad and unknown.
Last week's flowers have been stolen,
a common enough occurrence;
it matters not. For now
you must be playing peacefully
in a garden where birds
play such melodious songs,
where pools glisten and reflect
the gracious fluttering dragonflies,
where exotic flowers thrive and bloom.
You need not our poor earthly specimens.
Pancuronium Bromide can be detected by
Evaluation of the fluorometric determination
in blood, serum, and urine.Pancuronium can
be detected in blood and urine by ion-pair
extraction and fluorometry.Materials were
taken from dead body.The initial pancuronium
concentrations were 81 ng/mL in blood and
532 ng/g in liver.urine specimens were obtained
from the victim shortly after the suspected assaults.
The samples were initially tested fluorometrically
using Rose Bengal dye as a pairing agent.Both were
presumptively positive for pancuronium chromatography.
Grenpc5 and Slapkov7 had a huge intergalactic argument.
Grenpc5 wanted to take the four-legged animal as a specimen.
Slapkov7 argued that the two-legged were more unique, more intriguing.
On their planet almost all creatures had between six and eight legs.
By the time they figured it out, the potential specimens were gone.
The girl and her dog were safely inside their house, eating supper.
Neither aware how close they had been to being abducted.
They would have been encased in air bubbles.
Xendrendites by the thousands would have stared at them.
They would have been fed tasteless wafers.
The boy next door and his cat Gomor were not as lucky.
They disappeared from the face of the planet that night.
Let’s take a long walk
So we can have a long talk
About everything under the sun
And anything on earth, hon.
Let’s take an afternoon walk
Baby, we need to talk
About common sense
And all specimens of nonsense.
You and I must stay together
Honey, you and I must gather
All pertinent information
So we can have an honest discussion.
I loved you then and I love you now
I am talking for myself. Let’s wow
Each other as we stroll on the sand
Let’s talk, chat and laugh in the wind.
Let’s enjoy the long walk
Until the sun disappears
Let’s remain friends and peers
Let’s remain lovers and let’s talk.
Copyright © January 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
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