knowing grasped but not assimilated
sees myriad doubts rise unabated
a blush which we hush by thought cessation
returning back to bliss-meditation
assuming our heart is satiated
we shed our mask and don a cloak of light
commingled with bliss beats unabated
that thus beyond space-time drenched in delight
we look at the world afresh with clear sight
but although now diminished is our fear
we nurture desire so we are still here
in moments when unfocused is our gaze
yet our attention is animated
the veil of space thins wherein if we laze
with no agenda by presence stated
the pulsations of bliss unabated
positions us in peace tranquil and deep
readying us for a consciousness leap
Walking backwards till we are here again,
the illusion of space-time was dispelled,
with life seen as a movie, the truth plain,
yet cat of curiosity’s not belled.
At the stillness point, though we are complete,
spontaneous intent causes action,
fulfilled instantly, so we’re bliss replete,
yet deep down there is dissatisfaction.
Ego erased, one with the universe,
within the whole, although integrated,
desire simmers, for better or the worse,
causing movement of tides unabated.
Scriptures affirm truth as love, light and bliss
but till desire’s quelled, something is amiss.
Written: May 2nd 2026, for contest sponsored by Brian Strand
********************
I could trace you
through the tremor of your hesitations,
read the rippled residues of moments
that tried to make you smaller.
I could catalogue the crenellations
carved by old ache,
the tensile tenderness you carry
like a secret you never meant to keep.
But beauty is not a ledger—
It is a lucent lilt,
a soft antiphon rising
even when you feel moribund inside.
It is the way your presence
festoons a room with quiet gravity,
how your stillness holds
a vernal vow of becoming.
And though I can do nothing
about the ache that shadows you,
I can witness you—
unabated, unwavering—
and be undone
by the simple, staggering truth
that your beauty
does not ask to be seen
but still
shines.
We tote the burdens of old of new
‘neath big-blue’s unabated leer
the pressures that build and brew
the world it bruises, its rain, a salty tear
Day by day the ocean washes with waves
the weight we bear we’ve lost at sea
The Earth Moon’s despair She braves
when endless seeds of courage we weave,
via lanterns, the pathway endless and vast
Still dusky are the sky clouds that grieve,
Earth's magnetic field's spin pulls us past
Lucky flames shone from within, lights
Upon duress Earth Angels’ spirits rise
and stars are the healers in broken nights
Angel breath sprinkles dreams God size
when the weight of the world feels like heat of embers
The Sunrays purify as does the ocean salt water
The Sunset a resting slumber in silent chambers
From wounds that whisper of lament we cauter
the weight of the world we’ll feel burden no longer
As a Kenya-born child
when it comes to mankind
happily for me
I arrived colour-blind
never force-fed beliefs
prejudice discrimination
nor pre-conceived ideas
am not above my station
yet my internal radar is set for idiots
and always on the lookout
to avoid their ignorance rudeness arrogance
as there's a lot of them about
and altho' we know 'love is all you need'
their taste for violence goes unsated
and the insanity of man's inhumanity to man
continues unabated
The history of Black or African People,
And all of our People should be celebrated
Year-round: every hour, day, week, month, and decade.
The celebration must go on unabated,
All the time. The first couple,
Ever existed, had dark or ebony skin, said
Many credible historians,
Archeologists and great citizens.
The month of February is evidently too short.
Twenty-eight days are not enough,
To commemorate our Brave People, who've fought
And defeated ignorance, bigotry and slavery.
Three hundred and sixty-five days are not enough,
To honor the struggle of the Slaves who were brought
To different parts of the world. A century
Is not enough. Many centuries are not enough.
We need, every day and month of the almanac,
To celebrate, to remember the first Black
Couple, our ebony Ancestors,
Our Black Brothers and Sisters.
Copyright© January 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.
Self realised but not yet assimilated ~
matters not since rise of bliss is unabated
Recognising we are the universe,
one with God, as His spark within each heart,
we play our role with no need to rehearse,
deeming all souls as one and none apart.
Misaligned from love, some souls go astray,
yet we’re all entwined in a oneness field
and so with each breath we soundlessly pray,
oozing bliss mists that in time all be healed.
All worlds are but thought forms, just like a dream,
a dream we may say, we have created,
where sprinkling joy whilst atop love’s moonbeam,
pulsation of bliss is unabated.
Dwelling in our true home, beyond space-time,
we are poised in the pause betwixt love’s chime.
I strengthen the ailing and the weak,
I bring forth a time of refreshing,
I give hope to the barren and bleak,
Invigorating and replenishing.
I aid those who are lost in the night,
I strengthen the ailing and the weak,
An aglow in the radiant light,
There’s a return at its joyful peak.
I open the door not just for a peek,
It’s the unveiling of a colourful room,
I strengthen the ailing and the weak,
An emergence from the gloomy room.
Lost vitality is regained,
Sometimes, I let go of myself for a week,
Unabated, but I’m not any pained,
I strengthen the ailing and the weak.
December 17, 2025.
In cavernous Swiss bank vaults
Slavery, is a word filed under anecdotes as valued as gold caught
By some inbred morons I’m told
To be resuscitated, wasn’t evil then
Elated? There was power to be
Used, unabated they put leaders; into
State shoes, ‘no matter if they chafed em’ paid for like goods
To lead, astray whole nations
Unto tangled brambles of fanciful
Climate alarmist notions, sickness was their remedy
In fact; they even introduced the maladies!
With them it’s all just theatre and hype; they have a
Consistency like tripe. Just a body of
Flatulence…..Craving much
Opulence, descendants of nazis
With all that old nonsense if you
Just tease, the narrative of disasters, you’ll find they
Are fully plastered; zonked out on toxins
Remote of awareness, default locked
Of cognition' lacking, no empathy;
Just histrionics; is all I see is big
Plans they sure thunk-em, yet
‘Twas. ‘All the bunkum that sunk em.’
©Joe Maverick 4-12-2025
Black clouds writhe, winter dancing Waka Waka
tumultuous River flows where rainbow trout jump
far in distance she waved with our babe
now both are gone with orange Spring daisies
my legs become logs in this turmoil of liquid
Remembrance ~
Remembrance ~
let legs do the walking across the dried up River
where orange Spring daisies bloom nevertheless
women with babes walk slowly along its banks searching for buried Love letters
primitive trout have laid down their backbones
Waka Waka is unnecessary ~ the war is no more
Wars continue across the planet unabated
human spines under bushes or frying eggs
Love still rules the roost at varying depths
babes are both fat and starving
daisies but for one day orange and white
Rivers run torrents of tears at Spring
he watches rugby team doing a Waka Waka
Remembrance ~
woven into nervous networks with dances
____________________________________
Written: November 22, 2025,
***********
I cherish the solemn stillness of the night,
where veils of mist cloak the moon's pale face.
Its threadbare curtain, a tiara slight,
of sanctity and shadowed grace.
There, catharsis prowls in whispered tone,
a voice that has faded yet still unabated.
Though death has seized its throne,
hope's luster gleams, amaranthine, fated.
Wretchedly wilted, the petiole lies,
hubris humbled in dismal decay.
Yet dreams, those viceroys of disguise,
transform burdens into light’s array.
And only sleep, at fate’s silent behest,
Unbinds the soul’s relentless, stubborn chain.
From hecatombs of grief confessed in chest,
To wisteria’s bloom, soft peace regained.
How then shall I sleep and dream,
when I close my eyes those scenes stream unabated clip by clip
from memories of the times I wasted?
Youthful follies say the wizened old
who lived in times of long ago when paths were certain
with well-planned markers paved upon the way.
Dreams were simply monsters pushed back into closets
and hidden under beds;
prim and proper ruled the day and eschewed the night,
forgotten whimsies used to frighten wayward children.
Obligations interfered when the storm of you came rushing in
to crash against the breakers on the beach of duty to my class,
with walls of aristocracy preventing breaches ~
There is no room for pauper poets in those mansions
far above the stormy shore.
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