in a yellow woods
i chose the path less leaf strewn
as beauty still clung
reds and oranges mixed
browns swirled in last minute
as autumn breathed
Reign of pearl shell hub haunts,
red rose bud scent woodsy,
riddle strewn engraved close,
redeems a gold throat verve,
relay sun cast tinctures,
rainbow spectrum gladden,
rousing spark, shrewd ethos
refuge bound coffee dock,
relish swirled oe’r fruit pie,
rekindles twin core fire,
rainy day swift chase off,
rejoice amid town cluster,
rank thumbnails on eclat,
resound a mirrored spell
As light ineffable illumining form,
with heart that feels, mind that thinks and senses five,
caressed by the breeze, currents both cool and warm,
the vehicle ensouled seems to be alive,
though it is but dust, swirled about in the storm,
wherein formless presence is he who does jive,
so as that, not this, polarities rotate,
where from the void, we watch torrents in full spate.
Every mother's prayer calls home
in this hut
morning smoke billows upwards
holes in the door and roof gasp
a mother's tear-streaked face
over the burning coals
empty clay pot
who will provide enough food
today?
Ahead, the wet dust on the paths
it's hard to tell whether it was last night's rain
or a drop of blood
but the remnants of water on the road
and the remnants of light in the vision
seep into the womb
becoming pus and blood.
Children fall asleep listening to stories
now they rub their eyes
to ponder
that there is no more fairyland
no wind
to carry them away
and if they try to stand
their heads hit the black sky
their eyes burn
their hands burn
their stomachs burn
are they roasting themselves?
A voice rises up
is it from the sea?
from the valley?
from the mountains?
from the storm?
from the wailing of many voices?
it continued to soar into the sky,
but in the trees,
the branches
and leaves remained motionless.
Smoke swirled like any other day,
only the mother slowly lifted her face,
tears streaming for a moment,
and the children peeked out again
—and again.
Atambua—Indonesia, July 9, 2026
teardrops are shape-shifters,
changing the instant
they slip free~
tiny pilgrims
already seeking
what they’ll become next.
spiders collect some of them,
drinking them delicately,
then spinning our sorrow
into silver webs
that glisten like forgiveness
in morning light.
some harden into marbles~
miniature worlds of color
swirled from emotion~
grief becoming something
you can hold
without breaking.
some rise as pixie dust
soft as breath,
bright as mischief~
the raw material
of small miracles.
some drift upward as moonbeams
their heaviness forgotten,
their ache turned silver
as they join the quiet
of the night sky.
some sew themselves into wings
effervescent, glowing~
the soft architecture
of angels
who know what it means
to fall and rise again.
and the rarest tears
vibrate together~
a trembling chorus
that becomes stardust,
then dreams,
then the gentle light
that guides us home.
Once a friend of mine invited me for lunch,
a celebration he planned for his culinary book launch.
I was hesitant to join for my stomach was upset,
but he pleaded with me, he couldn’t change the date.
I decided to not enter into a friendly row,
but to go and occupy a chair in the back row.
While the fervent food rested untouched going stale
we proposed a toast to his success as a chef of style.
Matching the rhythm of our warm and lyrical whine
rosy wine swirled in pallid glasses with metal sheen.
I was delighted to see on the table dishful curd,
so much good for my stomach, with no discord.
The fragrance of famous basmati rice I saw rise,
I favored to have it instead of bread at any price.
Spring onion shards with smell of spring in fish curry
added to the gastronomic delight, a treat far to carry.
Meat in gloomy gravy with emerald layer of basil leaf
met the cooking acumen of any expert chef.
My friend’s hospitality won the hearts of one and all,
we departed before dusk thanking him without fail.
For the food we expressed abysmal appreciation loud,
as much as our bountiful minds could sincerely sprout.
Arcing in the blue,
the beach ball rose~
light as a whispered spell,
bright as the lifted tip
of a conductor’s wand
calling the morning awake.
It swirled above the yawning sands,
a sky-born ballerina
swollen proudly
with oceanic breath,
turning slow pirouettes
in the hush of early light.
Then, as if summoned
by some gentle, unseen command,
it drifted down
into my outstretched arms~
a small miracle
wrapped in peach-colored dawn.
In that tender glow,
I felt the world beyond
lean close enough to speak:
Be patient.
Wait.
All will become right.
A wet crinkled brown leaf skimmed my face,
when absorbing the mild milieu ahead,
this peep of day random leisurely,
meander amidst the stunning wild life,
mirror to olympic onset of proud,
major town and its spirited clan,
in an inkling a cascade of hue tinged,
thoughts, reflections, insights, life questions,
swirled in a bright lustrous swathe profound,
inside this brain of mine attuned to spheres,
I commenced to ponder on matters,
meaningful, mystic, mind enhancing,
cheerful cyclist with heartfelt greeting,
jogger in deep breathe whose sudden halt,
despite his schedule to engage with,
me, this being they scarcely even knew,
fixed a slot for sound red ruby witness,
warm shepherd folk smile whilst their kin gaze at,
bees, butterflies, songbirds, cute insects,
children have this innate facial expression,
as adults do when reflecting quietly,
fountain sprinkle of hum and haw linger,
countryside in blue sky urban realm,
that sunshine ray to my blissful muse
Mirrored by smooth sea,
swirled colors in scattered clouds
shift yellow to tangelo;
with pink-blue afterglow,
sunset ripples its reflection
The air stirred
Just enough to hold my attention
An eerie warning
A subtle summons
No hint of witch or wizard
The subtlety of a sensuous
Mortar and pestle
Drifting through the room
Crushing my resistance
Seeking the presence
Of unknown feelings
The air swirled
Easing my resistance
Succumbing to her wiles
Captured within her aura
I rose to greet her
Somehow
I had become
Addicted to your alchemy
We have a day like this
To celebrate workers deeds
What shall we celebrate
When welfares aren't well calibrate
Between the retired and working ages
How great our nation has honoured the sages
If nothing is to be happy of
Lets celebrate our perseverance despite the tough
A time will come when workers will jubilate
When wages will inflate
May be to that of the senators
That's isn't greediness or some stutters
It isn't good when we have workers
As professional competent hawkers
Happy labour/workers day to the world
Be grateful when to us the table swirled
I flipped on the bathroom light
a flicker in the tub swirled my head
there were three teensy tiny gremlins in there
I could not hear their words
If I got closer, would they disappear?
I hesitated not wanting to frighten them.
One of them pulled a teeny bullhorn out of his satchel.
“Please keep this viewing to yourself” he said into it.
This came out as a whisper.
I shut out the light and tiptoed out of the bathroom.
The Irish in my veins respects the privacy of the fey.
History
Will tell
His story
He gives hell
To everyone
And to the world
As he lies and lied, he swirled
Like the leaves of autumn.
Everyone has a story
History will not absolve this one
Who is guilty
Of so much: racism,
Sexism, nepotism
Hypocrisy and weapon
Of mass destruction
No reason
To abuse power and position
Since both are ephemeral
This short-lived role
Will pass like any other season
Only God is eternal
All wars are illegal
In accordance with the Scriptures
Said the High Priest along with the vicars.
History
Will tell
His story
Ring the huge bell
Of the Cathedral
Only God is eternal
This is only a short summary
Of his biography
And not his one-page eulogy
For insulting and hurting Humanity.
Copyright © April 2026 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
I extend my humble hand
out toward its delicate glow
Sparse, inky bristles await
note I will ask them to paint
The message is sweetly short
Dear blank page: brighten our night
Shine on! shadows swirled with light
A squirrel named Sunny Sip
found brunch on someone’s trip~
a glass of bright mimosa
left sparkling by the chair.
He took a tiny taste,
declared it quite first-rate,
then chattered to the blue jays
about citrus in the air.
Soon he was swishing proudly,
tail swirled and lifted loudly
the forest’s tipsy bruncher
preferred his brunch with fizzy flair.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.