The nonstop negative news or publicities on Haiti
Hurt tremendously and disturbingly
The relentless or constant bashings of all Haitians
Twinge and twist my heart like cancer patients
On their death beds, who are resigned, hopeless
Penniless, helpless, and spiritless.
Haiti needs a mega break from all the powerful parasites
That are still exploiting our precious resources at countless sites
While concomitantly exploring and impoverishing our peasants
Our innocent siblings who perilously work for crumbs and cents.
It is time that all truths are spoken or be told
It is time that we unearth, unfurl or unfold
All vile plots so the world can witness the premeditated lies.
Papa Noël is a well designed invention in disguise
At Christmas time, the hurts are excruciating
And the misery is objectionable and nauseating.
Copyright © December, 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Bereft and alone since love was lost,
she sits in deep shadows
humming the same song
sipping claret from a Lismore goblet
Day and night, in silence she dwells
Time no longer sifts through an hourglass.
Heartache has cast a wicked spell
cursing her into a void of loneliness
She's drawn the drapes,
praying an eclipse will fill the abyss
into which she's fallen
Hoping it will swallow moonlight's glow
keeping it hidden from sight
Entombed as though in a sepulcher,
her insipid soul sits spiritless
on this night, cold and bleak
No spark of life can be roused
in her vacant eyes
as if blood no longer flows in her heart
Naught but darkness does she seek
Only that and to be left alone
away from pitiable stares
She sits in deep shadows
humming the same song
sipping claret from a Lismore goblet
I'm standing on a fragrant lily field
by the serene bay towards midnoon,
falcons gather by the splashing rocks
with eyes that scare away hungry larks;
they must catch their prey and be fed:
they'll attack with their claws a buffoon
who laughs and breaks the stiff stillness,
stumbling down the shell-strewn dunes!
One can see the wide wings of geese
that flap hard against the spiritless air
before encountering the menacing storm;
they faintly honk over the grove of fir...
then, they vanish from sight to divert fear:
happy was their spring and they did perform
eloquently to delight senses and release
a sound merrier than that of a flycatcher!
The sea-breeze turns into violent gusts,
they roar bending beeches and spruces;
drowsy seagulls feel the blast of incoming rain,
they refuse to leave their haven huddling closer....
thinking it won't last to endure useless disdain:
should I heed the warning and run faster than a deer?
I have a half mile to go before I can defy the insidious threat;
my clothes are getting drenched, but I don't show any fret!
I was glad to escape the school run by demon spawn
thrilled to extricate myself from this hell-hole
disengage from a hateful situation
distangle myself from the mess they call normal
I am pretty sure the students feel the same way
Their “no hate” campaign is working.
Brain research shows that if you say “don’t climb that tree”
a person must picture themselves climbing the tree
before they can visualize not climbing the tree.”
No hate is certainly working.
I limped out of there in a listless spiritless way.
Unable to save anyone but myself.
“Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.” Rumi
Life can be an incomplete glossary,
speech a haunting ghost,
in search of a perspicuous poem -
to express unspoken thoughts.
I remember when she said,
"Cue me poetry"
So, I became her perpetual poet,
engraving sweet soulful words
upon her bitter spiritless lips.
Fate had turned her into the Queen of Darkness,
but my heart glows in the dark.
Together we illuminated like a trillion twinkling stars,
outshining the enigmatic effervescent moon.
Her essence infused a refreshing presence,
like morning sunshine after a night of rain.
Slowly she became a pilgrim of my poetry,
and I, a sojourner lost within her soul.
As I wandered through her secret chapters,
my word weaving revealed her book of scars,
each drop of ink resembling her tepid tears.
Each vexatious verse purified through
a catalyst of catharsis, healed her wounds.
We are like quill and scribe,
vowels complimenting consonants,
completing an impeccable vocabulary -
without her there is no muse.
Fire
spiritless, muted
freezing, dragging, dying
Laughter, Heart, Tears, Soul
burning, raging, melting
excited, intense
Ice
A marionette to the mind,
Whispering fading schematics,
Deluging the heart and soul, in a
Juxtaposition of good and evil,
Betwixt Heaven and hell, amidst
Snowdrifts that swirl before my eyes, while
Spiritless shadows restlessly carouse;
Discordantly, far from reach,
Vagrantly ambling across
Deadened Arcadias, glimpsing
Floating embers, in wake of
Vivid firestorms, swallowing me whole,
Faltering with every step I take,
Decelerating towards the escape I seek,
As it rhythmically scars my timorous nature,
Awakening the monsters hidden deep within-seeing red-
Bleeding out miasmic toxins, as noxious
Spores erupt, immersed in a haze of austerity,
While it seeps and saturates, throughout
Malignant wounds exposed, undulating between
The storms of push and pull, as daunting
Tasks, of rippling sequences, splits my
Chasmic core.
Soulless footprints are all that remain, as
Moon tides wash ashore, ebbing away
Towards dystopian depths.
We see a "prisoner's" despair
With vacant eyes that blankly stare.
He's lived his life from day-to-day
And lost perspective on the way.
He wanders through days that repeat,
Sent spiritless on trudging feet
And settles into drab routine -
No spark to his life can be seen.
He needs to open his eyes wide,
Reform his outlook and decide
To change direction and change course -
To leave the past without remorse.
But, if change comes, it must be soon,
The stage has long been set for whom
Too many habits linger still -
Ingrained, refined and honed with skill.
A change of thinking must ensue,
His attitude he must renew
To reconnect - a true rebirth -
His self-esteem must tout his worth.
While yes, it surely can be done,
The coming battle's far from won.
Now, time will tell which way he'll go -
To change his life or leave it so.
I close my eyes
So I can see you
That I'm still in your heart
I clench my hands
So I can feel you
That I'm still inside of you
I rub my heart
To ponder... that you still care for me
I call my soul
To wonder... you're my home in me
You opened my eyes,
Covered and blinded
Under the dark skies
You softened my hands,
Rough and burnt
Under the sun that dries
You revived my restless body
And lifted up my spiritless life
You brought back
The smile in me
And laughter, long buried
Inside of me
You are my home
My heart and my soul
Wherever I am
I carry you with me
I walk in your footsteps
Holding my heart with your forceps
My strength in my biceps
My shield above my triceps
Your shoulder
Is my armor
Tempered with ardor
Your heart is my home
My heart that dwells in chrome
I’m listless as a lazy river
barely lapping at the shore.
I wanted once to find the ocean,
but I don’t care any more.
Would I even make a ripple
if a stone were tossed my way?
Even with the frogs and fishies
I no longer wish to play.
I’ve lost my course and lie inert
inside my riverbed.
Had I legs to help me run,
I think they’d be as lead.
So spiritless and dull am I.
I’m like the kite I see
motionless each breeze-less day,
stuck and hanging from a tree.
Languor sure did overtake me,
for this humid, hot July
sucked out all my energy.
I think perhaps I’ll simply die.
Posted Aug. 3, 2022
For Hilo Poet's Simile Poetry Contest
Submitted Jan. 31, 2023 for Julia Ward's
Your Favourite Rhyming Poem From The Second Half Of 2022 Poetry Contest
My poor heart aches as my mind cogitates
upon the deep desires of my dark soul,
and searching for profound truths that can be
expressed in mystic subtle syllables.
Alas such thoughts come at the worst of times.
I dream of them, elusive to extreme.
I wake and these abstractions spiral up
into nothingness of infinity,
ethereal concepts lost into space,
misty spectral reveries, brown studies
of doubtful natures, devious musings
of negligible earthly happenings.
All lost, unattainable conceptions,
leaving me spiritless limp and listless,
a ramekin of moronic despair,
riding a foamy crest of frustration.
Until my looking glass is tinted rose,
the black clouds break and faith is reassured.
Then I shall take up my pen and paper
and scribble all my endless worthless thoughts.
Alas that holy day is still to be.
I Am Not a Zelig
By Sy Roth
If not now, when?
The Zelig resides
Quiet, undefined
In my dark corners.
Like a chameleon, it rests on the warming rock
Inert, cold-blooded creature
Sunning itself
As the ages revolve about it.
In the room, they come and go,
All the merry Zeligs,
Awash in their obfuscation.
They blend in so well.
I watch them and my brain meanders,
My colors a steady stream,
While their kaleidoscopes
Are a whirligig of activity.
The warming rock gives me comfort
While their cold stares
Wrap me in a crinkly, aluminum sheet
Preserving what warmth escapes me.
The music of their voices
Play discordant songs about me
And I wonder,
Wondrous thoughts that slither among my dreams.
I’m warmed into somnambulance
Of time, while Zelig souls
Eat them hungrily
And their color fades into nothingness.
I am not a Zelig
And I should be happy about it
But I frown at the intransigence
Of my spiritless, colorless climax.
Here wood-shedding in the cave,
my mind seems to have gone into
an eerie state of suspended animation;
leaving words sitting around and chatting
as if they were in an induced drunken stupor.
When aroused, they seem to rise up
and hop onto a lexical merry-go-round;
or just sit there screaming as if in a dangling
seat of a stalled fairish wheel jammed in mid-air.
Being poetically comatose is
a revelation of the vacuous nature
of spiritless weaving of words void of
purpose—whorl pooling emptiness sinking
deeper into illusionary nothingness.
Pregnant poetic minds do not just exist;
rather, they are living realities of the fertilization
of fertile wordings anchored in endometrial
contemplative cognitive growth.
The poem is not merely a mental ejaculation;
rather, it’s the result of spiritual incubation in
the mind’s womb and when the Supreme Creator
deems so, it is delivered:
the she-shed and man-cave are mere waiting rooms.
I Am Not a Zelig
By Sy Roth
If not now, when?
The Zelig resides
Quiet, undefined
In my dark corners.
Like a chameleon it rests on the warming rock
Inert, cold-blooded creature
Sunning itself
As the ages revolve about it.
In the room, they come and go,
All the merry Zeligs,
Awash in their obfuscation.
They blend in so well.
I watch them and my brain meanders,
My colors a steady stream,
While their kaleidescopes
Are a whirligig of activity.
The warming rock gives me comfort
While their cold stares
Wrap me in a crinkly, aluminum sheet
Preserving what warmth escapes me.
The music of their voices
Play discordant songs about me
And I wonder,
Wondrous thoughts that slither among my dreams.
I’m warmed into somnambulance
Of time, while Zelig souls
Eat them hungrily
And their color fades into nothingness.
I am not a Zelig
And I should be happy about it
But I frown at the intransigence
Of my spiritless, colorless climax.
Bereft and alone
since love was lost,
she sits in shadows,
sipping claret
from crystal.
Day from night
cannot be told.
Time no longer sifts
through the glass.
Every hour
is measured
by emptiness.
She's drawn the drapes,
praying an eclipse
will fill an abyss
by swallowing
the glowing moon.
Entombed as though
in a sepulcher,
her insipid soul
sits spiritless.
No spark of life
can be roused
in vacant eyes
or hollow heart.
Naught but the dark
does she seek;
only that and
sipping claret
from crystal.
April 11th, 2021
Anacreontic Verse Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
Sub Categories
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