Senses relay perception,
mind translates as conception,
so is not the world but thought:
nothing; not even a dot?
Trump’s top gun that has been tariff
That caused him to skid off the cliff,
He, unwise of its woes,
Gung ho, gaga who goes,
Still hopes for vain waah and taarif!
Now, his move gone haywire,
On reverse gear, rear fire,
Mighty worried he’s of what if.
__________________________
Happenings | 13.09.2025 | USA, humour
Note: waah (Hindi) translates as bravo, well done, and taarif (t pronounced soft) translates as praise, admiration, approval
Frantic meows and urgent leading
show me the way to the food container
"Meow, meow, meow" translates as
"Feed me, feed me, NOW!"
So, I do and give him a few head rubs
as he devours the food and begs for more
Line of inquiry:
"hearts set up a vibration
echoing as wordless intent
mind translates in symbols
flight of our soul’s ascent
is intent then a stirring
of soul with God conferring"
My one heart as a part of humanity's great heart,
spiritually holds the indwelling God presence as sought.
A human hold shiftily slants and grows knots tied fraught
with false-held, gloomy feels that egos and fears impart.
Divine truths dawn in our souls thru imagination,
not from human workings but graces gifts in-working.
Imagination can stop fears from falsely out-working
and foil mankind's believed limits of false accreditation.
In still solitude, spiritual truths as held in our being
meet our consciousness, our divinity's hidden place
in which our indwelling Christ gives ALL with God's grace
and intellect joins intuition too seek a soul's true freeing.
Through spiritually held faith one is belief aligned
in God's power, greater than any fear episode
man may encounter or engineer to earth upload.
No one or thing can malign what our Father designed.
My faith would never crumble feeble as styrofoam
when the worst that could happen is I'd get to go home.
"Heart sets up vibration echoing wordless intent, mind translates in symbols
the flight of our soul’s ascent ! "
Where does the wind blow through when the soul is having its drink?
Intent on learning, living, giving, receiving, how does it come to glow?
If the stirrings of the soul are mayhap God's way of conferring, lets sink
into the abysses of His love agape and sip from the fountain of His know!
Does ascension of the soul happen while on earth or does it begin up there?
Are we aiming to grow like wild weeds, between the cracks of a sidewalk?
If the waterwheel of life is being turned by an invisible hand from thin air,
then we must be Kenetic energy, just like the water that falls by the clock.
Oh how our lives glow when we choose to take one single step for mankind
Oh how our hearts grow wise as we choose to live through Avian connection
Where does the wind blow through each time we are being loving and kind?
If stirrings of the soul mean ascension then we better give it good direction !
It's my first love he said,
majestic Tahoma*
they named it long ago
before white men settled
and claimed it as their own~
now misty as our tears.
*Mount Rainier is called Tahoma by Native American tribes.Tahoma translates to "mother of waters".
For: SOME KIND OF MISTY Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Date: July 5, 2025
Sodden residue forms a slippery grin,
asperous fingers caress so gently.
You tilted my neck to get a word in,
the alien touch is so foreign to me.
I’m so used to things that are vicious,
this method comes off a bit too benign.
You possess me as if I am precious.
My titanium side is extremely assertive,
but I have so much softness to give.
You mix telepathy with a mandolin,
this dimension of language a key.
Connection gets a seraphic spin,
that tenderness translates to carefree.
Becoming acquainted with courageous,
our two spirits merge and intertwine.
I no longer feel believing is treacherous.
In the past I have been so combative.
Now with peace? I am frankly, explosive.
Found another man whose name also translates into moon.
I long to be a part of his own spiritual boon.
I hope that he will want to have a date night with me again soon.
His name beautifully translates into the word "lover."
Him leaving makes me sad whenever a date of ours is over.
His love for me so tender I am embracing starting over.
I won’t ever bank on trendy,
I am here striving for timeless.
That crowd with a vision of me
when they see a little black dress.
Hair and nails display the finesse
that translates to each pretty word.
Simple clean lines but nonetheless
cursive’s curled drama is inferred.
"As she drinks nectar from a flower, sweetness from heaven falls like dew
anointed with a gentle rain amidst sun showers she appears as if on cue
Lifting her wings she lands on a Zinnia beneath a tinted sky of April blue
flight of fancy fanning fast, fabulous marvel, she is beauty true on true"
Mystic Rose Rose
Observe the busy blue butterfly, using no words, can you not hear her speak?
like flowers, she blossoms, she is beautiful and her bearing is meek.
Kitty eavesdrops as nature translates, like a magnet, their shared joys attract;
butterflies and kittens, are soul mates; just by being, their lives interact.
Kittens' antics express delight and freedom; butterflies inspire without contact.
Lessons learned from these jewels, might we poets freely speak with such impact?
Drawing wisdom from nature's critters who have a Creator they can trust;
might we too seek His inspiration? Humbly recalling He made us from dust
In a room stitched with silence,
she stands—face painted, lips sealed—
mirroring worlds with invisible walls,
a language of gestures no one translates.
Here, speech is a fragile rebellion.
Her fingers sculpt stories midair,
but the crowd wants laughter without edges,
pantomime without questions.
She remembers classrooms—
words trapped in chalk dust,
voices pressing her into corners
too tight for dreams to unfold.
But tonight, her throat hums with risk.
A single word—listen—
spills into the hush,
breaking the rhythm of practiced quiet.
They stare. The room inhales.
And she, unmasked, speaks again—
a voice cracking through the glass of stillness,
rewriting the script they gave her.
Now the walls dissolve.
The stage blooms wide with sound and breath.
A mime no more, she claims her noise,
filling the silence with her own story.
Windswept
Over sheet music, harmonious movement of sand.
Droplets of rain dance - time swooning on sea and on land.
Cupid’s arrows climb, descend strings of the violin.
Heartthrobs, side by side, in best dress, on seasonal spin.
Fingers up and down long necks, in obeisance of song,
as bow ties glide along knightly, mounting music, strong.
Ultra concentration as the conductor gyrates,
creates, weights, debates, elongates, plaits and translates.
Unity in mass, jealousy laid aside, except
for the audience who longs to climb inside, windswept.
Ebb and flow of tears, patiently are kept and foreswear
allegiance to current marriage with hasty prayer.
Silver fox-french horns, don’t withhold their breaths, breasts pounding.
With lilt, rapturous, they’d give up their lives, resounding.
White pages, pristine ties, good looking manners of tides.
Hourglass climax expires. Silence shatters. Faith abides.
The sun disappears much, much later, an hour later to be exact.
This translates into having more daylight and a longer afternoon,
To watch the strolling peacocks in the park, and to have more fun
Admiring the baby bulbs metamorphosing into flowers at night.
The lily flowers are most of the time ephemeral, lasting hours,
Rarely a few days before changing into leaves, which eventually
Will be dried up by the warm air or the rays of the sun. Beauty
Is temporary, so enjoy the spring season and the summer flowers.
I have vivid memories of the shedding cherry tree, which brought
The beauty of spring in front of my house in the dead-end street.
Oh! I miss the atypical moment, when the green lawn was not neat.
Sometimes, the entire top of the hill was littered with falling flowers.
It was strange to sniff the unusual scent of the weather-beaten petals.
Oh! I miss the hours sitting on top of the window like a distraught cat.
Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
While my heart breaks,
here in this unsteady silence,
before the first snowflakes
the gentle autumn light fades…
while my spirit abides,
here in the turbulent stories,
before the darkness divides
where hope meets faith…
while my heart hesitates,
here in the weakness of a tear,
God’s love gently translates
so I know the love who is real…
while my spirit sings praises,
here where there was once fear,
I remember how much He amazes
those who believe He surely saves…
while my heart trembles,
here where the light stands still,
there is the courage that resembles
the sweetness of God’s perfect will.
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