He's not the boy she used to know
wherever in the world did he go
nor the man we once knew
but it only goes to show
time and tide took its toll
for all that he's become
and just one look will soon tell
if he'll maintain or succumb
as overwhelmed by numbers
and totally surrounded
through all weather can he ever
remain steadfast or grounded
Rumple Stein returns with a
chilling watching about the
true price of a mission tooth.
Rumple Stein steps from the
dark corner of the room,
His crooked hands weaving a
tale of deep doom.
"Listen close, little child, as
you drift off to sleep,
There is a terrible price for
the secrets you keep."
He points a long finger at the
gap in your smile,
"The Tooth Fairy watches
your bed all the while."
"If you hide a lost tooth
underneath the white sheet,
You must leave a shiny silver
coin for her treat."
For she is no angel with soft
glowing halo wings,
But a pale, bony phantom
that silently clings.
If the coin isn't there when
she slips through the air,
She will twist all your thoughts
into frozen despair.
With sharp rusted pliers and a
cold, breathless hiss,
She will take every tooth for
the coin that you miss.
She will yank out the top and
rip out the bottom,
Leaving empty red guns
where you completely forgot
them.
Without any teeth, your soft
voice will just fade,
Trapped in the silence of the
bargain you made.
You will never speak words,
you will nevermore shout,
Once the cruel bone collector
had cleared your mouth out.
The Crocked souls final Toll
In the veil of darkness,
There creeps the crooked ugly dark soul
Who opened Hell’s door
With a key stolen from the gate keeper
Hiding so nobody sees it
Looting anything worth coin and pure
With a dark plan within its soul
How to resurrect its self
As an innocent soul
As it envisions itself as dignitary
Throwing its sulphur glare
At folk who challenged it
It couldn’t hold its contempt to long
As Hell’s bells rang
Then folk’s sudden realisation
It was stealing from them
They took the key and prey tell
It got caught and thrown back into Hell.
The Hollow Toll of Hell
Old witch plucked out every hair
To weave her wicked snares.
But a deal demands a spirit pure,
And hers was beyond repair.
She traded a thumb, she traded an eye,
Yet still she paraded on
Seeking the key for the gate, the hidden escape,
Before the rise of dawn.
With nothing left of flesh or bone,
No gold left to toll,
She reached the brink and paid the price:
The sale of her hollow soul.
Hear the tolling of the bells -- Iran lives!
As the danger ebbs and flows,
in the clamor of a fragile ceasefire,
the sobbing of innocent victims,
collecting their belongings in the rubble
of bombed out buildings,
away from the mad extrapolations of a one-sided victory,
hear the jingling of the bells,
heralding a new beginning,
a new chapter in Eastern civilization,
holding the barbarians at the gate, no matter how they encircle them
like hungry hyenas proclaiming a blockade with a pilgrim's shadow.
Cyrus stands amid the roar
and holds within his hands the tighter clasp of a civilization,
a luminous point peering deep into the darkness of Western civilization.
Ready for change to take place,
I face the challenge with grace,
Chasing away the fear,
A new year calls me near,
I can hear the whispers,
Little whiskers tickling my brain,
Ingraining a need to be freed,
I've already agreed to comply,
Indeed I know why I should,
It's a good deed to proceed with,
Withered and wilting spreading a seed,
Pulling bad habits like weeds,
Succeeding in my endeavor,
I end every year in my favor,
A new flavor waits to be tasted,
No longer wasting away inside,
The ride is gliding along,
A strong wind at my back,
I picked up the slack,
Putting wheels on the track,
Stacked with information,
I station myself in position,
I'm my own opposition,
The decision has been made,
I played a serious role,
It almost stole my soul,
Until I rolled over,
And see who paid the toll,
I relinquish control to the whole.
In debt
with a dollar’s
down payment
on lies
Veracity
hiding
the truth
in disguise
Intentions
repaving
the highway
to hell
With blood
on the toll booth
and lye
— in the well
(Dreamsleep: November, 2025)
The Golden Toll
His hand, a gift, they called it then,
The goose, a feather of shining rust.
A simple gift for a simple man,
A tale of virtue, turned to dust.
But from the goose, the gold would crawl,
A living vine of burning chill.
A slow and creeping, heavy pall,
That climbed and clung and had its will.
First, the girl, her fingers gripped,
Her scream a gilded, silent plea.
Her vibrant skin, it slowly stripped,
Of warmth and life and memory.
Then the baker, and the priest,
Their eyes still wide in terror's thrall.
They feel the cold within their breast,
Before the shatter, at his call.
The simpleton, he walks the road,
His mind now humming with a fear.
He feels the chill of his golden load,
He feels the whispers in his ear.
He sees their faces, frozen wide,
He hears the silence of their hearts.
And in their gold, he sees them hide,
The hungry goose tears them apart.
For now he knows the truth he holds,
The golden goose, a feathered tomb.
Its voice, his mind, now it controls,
And leads him to a gilded doom.
A bell tolls — with a single chime.
Igniting the spell of dawn’s regret.
It halts the breath, suspends all time,
Foreboding with threats you can't forget.
You flinch—one foot on the stepping stone,
The wind's first touch scalds your face.
Just one finger grips your hand alone.
You wait for relief from bell’s disgrace.
The silence palls where echoes die—
The ring bell toll fades with no reply.
There's no sign, no sound, no reason why,
You're left here dangling from the sky.
A bird attempts one fragile note.
Bashful in the spelled applause.
The breeze catches breath in its throat.
Afraid to continue through the pause.
You toll the haunt of some unspoken spell,
A pact with ghosts to stop the feeling.
While winds and seas rise on the swell,
Sending your hopeful plans reeling.
A lone bell tolls—no one answers now.
So old scars and doubts take the blame.
For dismembered memories you can’t avow.
In the flinching cringe that has no name.
Immortality
a panacea
if not for the cost
— mortality
(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)
We beat our drums to the sound of the bell
But we can not copy the sound
So we'll dance, and sing in celebration
For peace has finally come
With the fog cleared up
We can see the truth
Together we wait
For the islands' singing voice to sing again
When the bell tolls
The story will repeat again
Over and over again
As we sing till our voices reach the sky
My soul’s confession knows no ordinary
penance—nor knows, nor feels, another mind
the nebulating sorrows therein maligned—.
I doubt my own can judge the cemetery
of bygone thoughts, dead dreams, and funerary
pathways—twisted in patterns twice entwined
through one and another—lurking behind
my steeple-belled conscience. On the contrary,
sermon is held just out of sight of that
sinister scene. By holy spirits spurred,
and righteous indignations, high exactions,
my preaching psyche’s overzealous word
inflames my anxious system’s charged reactions—
Leave it to the black cat to catch the rat.
To cross the bridge to paradise you must pay the toll.
to pay the toll, you must have money.
To get the money, you must work all day.
To work all day is to have no time.
to have no time is to have no passion.
to have no passion is to have no joy.
To cross the bridge to paradise, you must sell your time, passion, and joy.
but paradise is worth it, right?
Hallow here the toll bell ring
The ferry man has my name
Beware the lies Lucifer brings
You only have free will
I tasted just a little bite
Now he comes with all his might
Slowly cancer sinking in
Oh the price to pay for sin
You can't hold back the universal debt ,a price to pay,
I always knew about this day
Was it worth the pleasure thrill
Here he comes in for the kill
I am but just a man I give no excuse for actions
In every road a chain reaction
Listen God can you here my prayer
I am lost in the great nowhere
My love runs deeper than I ever show
I was never taught open expression
From a child I was fed depression
But I have no excuse
I see only now the clear reality of truth
Forgive me father for I have sinned.
The last breath
The last death
The last phone call
The last fall
The last funeral
The last burial
The last roll
The last poll
The last smile
The last style
The last flight
The last rite
The last crap
The last stop
Alas! Somewhere
There is a last
That we can bear
We need the past
To move on in life
After a barmy gaffe
We weep and we laugh
As we sail solo on the life raft.
Copyright © July 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
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.