Our Opossum Has a Strong Propensity for Crime
By Frank Daub
Discovered in a backyard nighttime check –
an opossum wandering behind our garden shed.
Pin-pointed face, squinting eyes.
It did not run -- to my surprise.
Only staring, lighted softly by the porchlight.
Little.
Sleek in a white-gray-tan-straight-fur-slicked-down way.
The streets around are not friendly to its kind.
This unfair truth made up my mind.
I should let the shed-bottom harbor it.
This would require: FEEDING.
I decided the feeding plan -- without data-based reference --
would be workable.
I tried every sort of natural vegetable.
Walnuts added when the berries nurtured
hordes of ants --
Not
the opossum.
The dietary effort proved it.
Our opossum has a strong propensity for crime.
Particular it is to nighttime
sneaking forays - for food of course.
(This assured the legality of it for me.)
Our opossum was not particular to dietary do’s and don’ts;
Being just inclined to FEEDING its necessary wants.
The animal had a penchant – not a preference --
an exceeding zest for anything edible.
Incredible.
Every evening I cuddle up
on the sofa and watch the News:
different stories, same crimes,
I'm better off catching flies,
while coffee is perking up,
I definitely need a cup
for a healthy heart
and think straight;
will all promises
turn to dust?
Happiness is gone from this city,
moods are soberer than misery;
get me a beer, it's comedy
on stage: drunk is Vinney!
Hey, the deficit is sky high,
wages aren't enough to buy
an Armani suit to look sharp
and avoid these horrible blues:
I hate the ticking of the clock!
If I think that everything is fine,
I'm being taken for a ride,
who can afford a ticket
to a musical show?
The only choice is a cigar
and I'll still miss the game at the bar,
wandering streets that are dark,
until I hit the empty park
and start sobering up;
watch out for that cop,
he'll tell you, " It's past midnight,
go home, sleep tight! "
I am a paranoid
with feet so cold;
at this hour, nothing is loud!
I have never had a sense of belonging, I have always been strange to a common Joe in the streets, I have remained resolute in my weirdness, a courageous individual of note, I have always chased clouds, my pen has been a friend to me, a loyal friend indeed, powerful beyond measure, I use it to strike the nerve in this resource driven society, the most outspoken genius Outcast in the history of outcasts.
Together we played on those streets during our infant stages, during our regless youth days we nearly died on those streets chasing quick cash, you have seen and been with me in my lowest, and you have seen me in my prime, to me your more than a brother, this ain't friendship, this is family bound by shared struggles. #Artistic Ronald
In the shadows of the city, where the beats collide,
90’s underground, raw and bona fide,
Biggie’s flow, Tupac’s fire, blasting through my mind,
Graffiti on the walls, stories left behind.
Gritty streets, heavy bass, drums hit like a punch,
Respect the roots, the essence, the lyrical crunch,
Pure and independent, underrated and true,
This is dope times ten, nothing else will do.
From West Coast G-Funk to East Coast grind,
Every lyric a gem, every rhyme defined,
Chopped samples, stories woven tight,
Hip-hop’s heartbeat, alive in the night.
The Last Poets, Black Panthers, voices of the past,
Echo in the rhythm, built to last,
Raw, gritty, nostalgic, a head-nodding trance,
In the underground’s embrace, we dance.
Heavy gratitude for the real, the raw,
Mad beats, heavy truths, the soul’s in awe,
This is the sound of the streets, unfiltered and bold,
90’s underground, forever gold.
Bikes clattered down our street,
summer ringing in our spokes~
a chorus of barefoot days.
Sidewalks warmed beneath our feet,
chalk ghosts fading as we grew~
the block our first small maze.
I am weary of conflict,
arguments battling across
bloodied ground.
The dead
always come back
as ghosts to haunt
the dark arena of sleep.
Life has become defined
by armaments.
I shall find a place
in the lull of an evening
where the wind quietens
into prayers whispered
along leafy avenues
and storms no longer claw
at the stone walls and pillars
of the temple
but become gentle rain
soothing the City
with its long fingers.
There, on the steps,
I shall leave a fragile
offering for you.
If you come, come quickly
for the sky carries
a reddening glow
and the hearts
of many are beginning
to darken with despair.
Chaos is about to enter
the gates of the City.
Meanwhile the mad Emperor
admires his manhood
reflected in a golden urinal.
Note.
Rewrite of previous poem.
the wretched burnt-orange sun
beats down on my broken car
as she thumps mindlessly through potholes
with windows down
we gaze at clowns
and the derelicts
and the dirty tricks
as they crawl
across the pavement
the lively beauties walk
amongst jackasses and Gemini's
confused hooligans steal
from random pedestrians
to feed addictions
fulfilling a need, though
they mean you no harm, indeed
despite their transgressions
we're all devoured
by our own deceptions
Another gritty grimy old town with echoed din
who sees how many secrets it keeps within
where at day's end amid traffic's sound
some head for home some run around
with rain-washed windows in hotel rooms
whenever there I do roam
through wind-swept streets at midnight
and hold long-distance conversations on the phone
and that dirty old river forever flows
who knows how many places it goes
as the ships come in and the tide rolls down
some make it safe some run aground
and oh those winking blinking lights
filled with promise of earthly delights
will take you shake you
make you feel all right
I want to be like a spirit free
Of hazel hypocrisy like helium
Blowing up egos and
Puffing up chests
I want to be more but I am not
Born in sin of faulty men
And women who love them
Until they don’t
Then the scales fall from their eyes
Wails build walls tall and emphasized
Love is a crime of passion
Cranberry flavored and rationed
To the green eyed monsters of envy
Seeking what they think is romanticism
Reeling after a taste of pickled realism
For to cherish truly is to sacrifice
Thinking acting in the interest of
Lover despite all the cherry challenges
Keeping vows weathering clouds
With a lavender lyric hidden in heart
I watch the amazing feat of such beauty
And respect realizing I may never really
Destroy the thorns around my red heart
That I’ve decorated and celebrated as
Amethyst art
I am cowardly set in my own ways
A phantom of licorice streets old days
Freely loving old roses pressed pages
For they speak to a heart of safe places
Memories sweet as marmalade
Streets love me
I am the one
Who works
During the weekend
Planting flowers
In the community garden
For every to enjoy
Yes the community
Garden is a show of colors
Crowded streets awaken,
Coffee cups clutch tight,
Shoes tap a morning rhythm.
Rush hour, red lights
Glare down, impatient.
A sea of faces waits.
Greenlight, then a surge,
Let’s go!” the crowd exhales,
Pushing, never touching,
Horns a symphony
Metal snakes inch forward.
Wide chorus line forms,
Moving to the beat,
The subway doors hiss open.
Bustling atmosphere,
Shoulders brush, a glance,
Words lost in the murmur.
Serious or smiling,
Eyes locked on glowing screens,
Lost in private worlds.
Arms jostle for space,
The air, thick with exhaust,
The city hums its song.
Yellow light’s slow brake,
Another wave arrives,
The crowded street churns on.
Spring is around the corner
Pretty soon
There will be no more ice and werewolves in the streets
Gone will be all types of fire power and terror
Gone will be the bullies, the thugs and the creeps
In the nick of time, when the soil is hot and steamy
All the goons, bandits and henchmen will be gone
Disappeared and dysfunctional like a dirty
And rusty gun
I cannot wait, I cannot wait
No more executions, tears, chaos and hate.
Copyright © January 2026 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
As I walked out in the streets of Manteca,
as I walked out in Manteca one day,
I spied a young cowboy asleep on the sidewalk,
when prodded from slumber these words he did say:
"You are wearing a Stetson, spurs, chaps, and a six-gun:
I assume then you must be a cowboy like me;
come sit down beside me and hear my sad story,
then try to guess which shell is hiding the pea.
'Twas once in the saddle I used to ride gaily,
albeit I had not a horse to my name,
but down in the basement my dad had a saw-horse,
so I rode a steed that could never go lame.
O bury me holding a King and five Aces
with a pint of good whiskey to keep my corpse warm,
and a pair of my custom made dice in my watch fob,
for I'm a young cowboy and I've bought the farm."
I once received awards and lost them its a sad thing.
It would be a blessing to get them back, is the best thing.
Contest publishers,sweepstakes publishers,lottery publishers is the best thing to receive.
So many lost rewards came threw the mail, its a shame i lost them as well. I would love to move foward in the industry and become a representative again as well.
To receive a award is the greatest thing in life i would love to be awarded for great insight.
Might i get this lucky chance to success in the industry is my only advance.
I love the world and what it has,awards can make me free atlast. Lost audit awards its a shame they passed.
Receiving the reward of riches could set me free at last.
Awards awards awards for poetry what a blast.
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