I'm neither talking about the turkey
Who’s running for President
Nor the one which is a country
Now embroiled
And roiled in turmoil
I am talking about the huge pheasant
That we all like to fest on the last Thursday
Of November every year, and on New Year’s Day.
I can’t wait to enjoy its thighs and wings
I can’t wait afterwards to make the swings
Squeak and cry, because we all weigh more
Than before: the skinny, the rich and the poor.
Happy Thanksgiving Day everybody
The President already pardoned a gorgeous turkey.
Copyright © November 25, 2015, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Waiting for ice cream
And looking around,
All versions of people
Are there to be found:
The old and the toddlers,
The skinny and fat,
The bald and the bearded,
The full-bodied tat;
The neat and the slobby ,
The antsy and calm,
Each there for the ice cream,
A sticky day balm.
I doubt we’d be sharing
Political views,
But united deciding
Which flavor to choose.
I know I should not care
About the skinny ribs of a pear
But when you are eating one
And your tooth gets hurt, it is no fun.
I thought they did not have bones I said.
Who told you that? Asked my neighbor Red.
I had some before, and there was nothing hard inside.
Maybe they took the ribs out, suggested Mr. McBride.
The door rings,
I look up,
someone with someone else,
back to my eggs and hash browns.
The door rings
Spatulas knell the griddle.
The skinny cook yells in Kentucky Yiddish.
Flapjacks slap in midair,
syrup dongs in jug and jar.
*The very first, I ever wrote about myself using my birth name and title.
To Atbin.
Another flick, a spark,
Once more awakened the past
Illustrating memories
Are alive and always last.
I recall your visage with
Its veins, its charm, and grace
Some invisible griefs,
Behind of that bony face.
Your tender artistic look,
At a silly Rubik’s parts,
Made your endless affection,
dwell in our empty hearts.
You were our J. Keating of
Weir’s ingenious mind
And that "Remembrance Fest"
That you held: one of a kind.
To our liveliest friend,
We had toasted, and cheered
But I saw a bloody band
On your thin wrist appeared.
You smoked and you spoke,
With your own personal tone:
"A dead soul would never need,
All of these; to be well known,
Look at the living, hey kiddo!
And cherish their real worth.”
I stared at the white band:
Accessible, open source…
I thought it should be a band,
You could have tied it with care
Upon a pretty girl’s
Glowing and blonde hair.
Not as a merciless rope,
Tight around the skinny neck
But just like the sign of love,
Danced by the wind in a lake.
Hey, my friend! don’t frown,
Let me exactly define,
Not a regret for the dead,
But as an amity sign.
There is a story
Told of old
Of Jack and Jenny
Wild and bold.
Jack was first
To play the fool.
He ran off
and made a mule.
When jealous Jenny
Heard the skinny
She ran off
And made a hinny.
Or so the story goes.
strewn thoughts
The skinny dog
snoozes on the graveyard's lawn
at ease with the stillness of the night
The fruit of the carob tree
looks like a cotton pickers hand
on an autumnal beach
a bottle of suntan oil
tells how the summer was
A lone streetlamp sways
a drunk staggers home
he used to be an actor, stops and sing
A seagull fancied to be human
used lotion and combed feathers shiny
Alas, it was hacked to death
by those that resist any change
"The Velvet Touched Feathered Quills of Mysterious Books"
Escape arrives easily
when everything’s ugly
deep diving into the swelling
pursed lips of smooth purring magi
seen naked in the skinny dipped
honeyed pools of pausing poetry
kissing the tongues
of mysterious books
tracing fingers
over their soft
flimsy pages
their velvet touched
feathered quills hooked
removing covers slowly
imprinting new movements
like scoring symphonies
Escape arrives easily
deep diving into the swelling
pursed lips of the smooth purring magi
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Those three must not eat at all, we corpulent cats said.
It was class reunion time, and our backsides were spread.
They are still stuck up observed my friend Toddie Tedd.
I bet they don’t eat sugar, salt, chips, spaghetti or bread.
They dress too fancy too, they think they are all that.
This came from a really Rubenesque gal, I think her name was Pat.
We stared at the skinnies, wishing they would be a little more fat.
Angry at their lanky svelte ways, I acted a bit like a brat.
The pretty red hair girl
at the Houston Station
gave me heart palpitation,
but she got all my revered admiration...
because she resembled a Barbie doll;
and I became so emotional!
Across the platform
two green eyes smiled;
was it fate or coincidence?
I turned into a maniac without a norm,
or control, I waved at her twice
and spoke too loud;
I didn't notice the skinny cop named Bob
had a look not so preppy,
he surely was kind of creepy
and said, " Stand still, show me your id! "
I froze trying to find
an excuse to avoid
a summons for harassment or disturbance,
" Ok, Fred...you told me the truth, I assume!"
The red hair girl at the Houston Station
could have gotten me in serious trouble,
I slickly got out of it
with a silly lie bursting a big bubble;
sadly, I lost a good chance
at an unexpected romance!
Every afternoon I stand at the exact spot
waiting for her apparition,
not trusting my admonition...
feeling the intense pain of a deluded heart!
Without a hint of her name,
there's little I can do;
will we meet again
at the Houston Station?
Neither of us is to blame,
we'll be feeling so blue!
It's in the suburbs
it has crawled out of the concrete towers
the 'it' men, the skinny rat-men
killers mostly but good boys.
They want a Glock
a black time-bomb ticking clock,
they want to be loved so badly
they will rape heaven to find it.
I call this wave 'it'
for it is a human crime to be them,
and an 'it' fits into the cracks
in the roads we roll over.
Now its out of town
now its in our leafy lanes
our backyards
our bedrooms.......
we wake up from a troubled sleep
and there an 'it' looms
and you know,
you damn well know
that you let your guard down
and 'it' has your gun
in your mouth and his.
She has skinny legs the elderly elf king said.
But her stripes are darling- green, blue and red.
She is the queen of the mushrooms I am sure.
Her motives are kind and her heart is pure.
His spoiled son Chester who knew very little at all.
Wanted an elf princess who was voluptuous and tall.
She is truly amazing, his father said, talking her up.
If he had his way, she’d arrive in a loving cup.
Chester had his eye on a gnomette with a goosey grin.
If she did not suit his needs, he would date her own twin.
The skinny legged queen of the mushrooms felt a bunch of relief.
She was empathetic and kind. They shared not one belief.
It worked out well in the end, they both got their way.
Chester got his twins, who were giddy, merry and gay.
The Queen of the mushrooms had a life full of love.
Best scenario for both, orchestrated by the angels above.
The door rings
I look up
then
back to my eggs and hash browns.
The door rings
I look up
nobody I know,
my first time here
why should I know anyone!
Back to the eggs.
Two sunny-side-up,
the busting of yellow yokes
with a tip of toast --- O Lordy.
I look up
the waitress has bodacious tats,
a phone bursts into song
another vibrates
as loud as a sleeping panther.
The door rings
creamy salutations
of comfort and grease.
Spoons jangle on tinkling handles,
spatulas knell upon the griddle.
A buttery booth crush
a flush-faced coffee klatch.
The skinny cook yells in Kentucky Yiddish.
I look up
flapjacks slap air
syrup pours and dongs in jug and jar.
The door chants and chimes -
Hallelujah for this ring-a-ding diner
and our Waffle House hunger.
Jungles scream at night.
The air is liquid lead dipped
in green fur.
The village has a lamp on a pole,
when the dark rushes in
that one light
makes a yellow circle of light
that we would run to
if danger pounced out of nowhere.
Insects are thickest
around 2 in the morning
they blanket ears and minds
deaden the soul.
Our savior arrives early,
dawn struggles up
from the reek and mire
to clear our heads.
Now it is the howling time,
a monkey chorus
proclaiming victory
over the snakes and panthers.
The village stirs,
they go for water,
feed the skinny chickens
and the hairy pigs.
The make-shift clinic opens
its straw eyes,
they come.
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