crimson sky collapsed
in trance ~
distant shore swooning —
dissolved baleen …crescent moon landed
in sunset s p l e e n ~
narrowing focus to locus ______
____________________________________
Bronze Winner: Shortform Poetry
Prompt : crimson haze
Allpoetry. com : May 26
There are beautiful things in your heart
That I love and adore: pride, joy, love
Beauty, common sense, and the hope of happiness.
Woman, woman, you are the sunshine of my days
And the moonlight of my sleepless nights
Yes, you are the fresh glow of my morning upon waking.
Oh! No. I am neither insane nor artful
Perhaps a little ambitious and smooth
For I want you to warm my liver
My veins, my spleen, my neck, and my whole being.
At dawn, I picked beautiful roses for you
In exchange, I will grab, with love, beautiful things
That have transformed into a sweet smile
A charming laugh
And a long sigh
For the future
Of joyful memories.
P.S. This poem is dedicated to my friend, the ‘Great Lady of Heart’.
Translation of “De Belles Choses De Ton Cœur’ by Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © December 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
Money does not bring true happiness,
This does not exist. Money releases and smoothes
The daily burdens and responsibilities;
It is a relief that diminishes the worries.
Being healthy is the ultimate state of happiness;
Being wealthy is the hollow state of happiness.
The concerns of securities show-up on the screen,
Attack the consciousness, and destroy the spleen.
The fear of death makes it impossible to enjoy life fully.
Money is a well made-up chameleon, a toxic honey.
Money vanishes deceitfully and consistently like hot air balloon.
Money is full of surprises; it is indeed a well disguised buffoon.
Relax, do not live beyond the means; be simple and natural.
Be relevant, normal, more spiritual and less emotional.
Hebert Logerie
October 2013
Spleen
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The roses were so very red;
The ivy, impossibly black.
Dear, with a mere a turn of your head,
My despair’s flooded back!
The sky was too gentle, too blue;
The sea, far too windswept and green.
Yet I always imagined?or knew?
I’d again feel your spleen.
Now I'm tired of the glossy waxed holly,
Of the shimmering boxwood too,
Of the meadowland’s endless folly,
When all things, alas, lead to you!
Paul-Marie Verlaine (1844-1896) was a French poet and a prominent figure in the Symbolist and Decadent poetry movements. Verlaine has been called "one of the most purely lyrical of French poets." Keywords/Tags: Verlaine, French, translation, Paris, spleen, rose, roses, ivy, depression, despair, sky, sea, blue, green, red, black, holly, boxwood
Yellow and red
carpet of leaves,
clothes are wet,
oh, don't fall, please,
drops of the grief,
tears of the rain,
vibrating leaf,
and all is vain.
Summer is gone,
warmth fades away,
trees lose the crown,
birds do not play,
they do not sing,
tweeting's no more,
oh, do not bring
sadness and bore.
Give me your kiss,
skyline is grey,
carpet of leaves
lies on my way
yellow and red,
I've got a spleen,
clothes are wet,
just let me in...
No matter how much comes out
I keep vomiting up memories meaning nothing
I can't take all of this silence
This emptiness burns my skin
I'm choking
I'm dying
Why are you letting this happen?
How can you stand by and let us die?
Why did you create me?
Is there nothing that can be done to stop this?
We're drowning, J
You're letting us die
Everyone has a giggle trigger it seems
If you pull it, just watch the happiness beam
Their smiles will be broad
Like a big old bullfrog
They'll wind up howling and busting their spleen
I never cut
I barely cry
So how can
It be spleen
You had me
Almost die
The sun has shifted, it's now on my screen
Must close the curtains, who could have foreseen
But whatever sol wants
I'll join in his dance
'Cause sun makes me happy, without venting my spleen
Everyone has a giggle trigger it seems
If you find it, just watch the happiness beam
Their smiles will be broad
Like a big old bullfrog
They'll wind up howling and busting their spleen
© Jack Ellison 2015
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