A silence that sings, that is a constant hum through the leaves.
Cleansed clear throughout the vents and carried around the eaves
As the incessant rain is forbidden to touch, needed silence as I grieve.
A reservoir of infinite elliptical emptiness left inside.
The graying, cold, empty rooms of this home linger as longing grows.
As my aging holds to the sorrow of the stalwart gray figure that slows,
Bows, its touch, and weakens my soul as we dance, as I doze.
To sheer nothingness and immune to the shattering world.
The silence never stops singing as lonely, grieving
Tears fall on the smooth, unlobed edges of the leaves.
Mountains were made for poets --
for dramtic scales and harrowing descents. For
lofty subjects and deeper, fumarole vents -- many
are volcanic you know. Some active,
others sleeping, as those creative dry-spells~
no word-glows with the ashes. When carefully
placing my dots and dashes, counting often unruly
syllables, contemplating scriptor's tempting easy-rhymes,
word-candy, for poetic sound-effects, reminded I am of canned
laughter, not needed when Saturday Night
Live was yet funny. Had real entertainment substance.
My first book of mountains admittedly needed
more height, did not adhere to principals of careful oversight.
Honesty with self, and stacks of rejections have been
my maturing lifts and refining propellers. Don't give up. Lots
of knowlegeable-beans and more spicy life-seasoning has helped fuel my
linguistic evacuation. As Poe may have also been implying
when he said, what we "see and seem", do not necessarily equate
to a publisher's eclectic ream. What do they know anyway?:)
It began low,
in the damp cellar of the sea,
where star-ash soured into brine.
Alchemic mud heaved upward,
vomited from vents and wounds,
a million drifting scraps of almost-life
black streamers waving
as if testing for breath.
I was there
or something that would become me,
salted and blind,
carried inland with the silt
of forgotten shores.
Angel-hair filaments brushed past
like nerves learning pain,
snowflake cells stumbled and split,
tripped over themselves
in the green dark.
The cauldron churned,
rain-beaten, fever-swollen,
and beneath its scum-slick skin
an eye squinted open,
not knowing what it saw.
The vessel woke.
The universe shuddered,
and the sea rocked itself
as if soothing a crying child,
webbed with light,
heavy with wanting
each of us a note
from that first wet music,
each of us carrying the ocean
in our blood,
remembering, dimly,
it was me.
spring air
flows flair
plants’ womb
buds bloom
tints fling
painting
design
divine
grand shows
lilt glows
breeze vents
spring scents
minds blue
change hue
"Lucky me - I grew up by the Pacific sea" ~ quote by poet
Its depths and vast breadth suggest a mystery.
I've pondered it from airplanes, boats, and shore -
the Pacific Ocean in all its glory,
from its gentle lapping to its mighty roar.
Underneath the unchanging blue expanse,
lies a wide-ranging world of features -
magma oozing from deep sea vents,
blue whales, giant squid, and all kinds of creatures.
Earth's biggest site's fascinating history,
from Polynesians in palm leaf canoes
to the battles of recent generations,
and the many lives we had to lose.
More than that are personal memories
and evocations of sites and smells,
as my eyes well with salty moisture.
I am with Mother, picking up seashells,
And it's to the Pacific, I must thank
for the sunsets and moonlit nights,
promoting long lost budding romances.
Oh, how I miss those sweet delights.
You’d mind us kindly once again,
for our good health, and the wealth
of the nations.
You mean … you’ll mine us,
ours will be the running sweat,
the burning toil to unshutter the breathing vents,
drain the dark shafts, pump the carrying oil, then
back to work with bright canaries
strapped to the buckling back.
We’d sing our bowed-head, whistling songs
underground in the damp earth of memories,
where we’ll again be wed
under the stars of your crosses and banners,
our dry roots will knot like twisted longtime lovers.
The grand old parents left seawards so long ago
taking the deep gold and crown diamonds
with them, and we were left, lonely
children in the wilds to fight it out
with dusty dingoes and the lion prides.
Now the proud, younger lords return
to exact their blood inheritance, tax free.
A century of tomorrow’s sunsets
will see the grandchildren abandoned
on these seething shores, again to kindle
fires against hungry tigers and slinking panthers.
Show us the canary.
we rise
although gravity and time
may hold us in the cupping
of their hands
we rise in a plethora of dreams
escaping above the vents
of circumstance
we rise into the tent
of all embracing;
and as if, and but, and still
we rise into each contemplation
new as the reckoning
of togetherness
draws us to the breath
of our existence;
rising, always rising
to meet the air of every day
to stay through every
active play and to meet
what will become.
the beauty of this world so much,
that I must blink with astonishment
to hold back tears.
If I could not blink I fear,
sixty per cent of who I am,
would leave me, in abject eagerness,
to kiss the earth.
Breath
For a taste of
my active pond breath whisper
anything up at
your air vents.
I know you are sensitive,
not sentimental,
but it has been four years,
that's one thousand
four hundred and sixty one days,
since enlightened tides kissed
those island shores.
My soul was wrapped in worn ribbons,
mourning my misplaced muse
and you were a whispering rose,
wilting at the slightest touch.
Bleeding 3am vents,
with conflicting vowels and consonants,
the sirens of your ink screamed
for a silent troubadour to
compose cathartic bloodstreams -
but life is not as pretty as petals and poetry.
A mistress to moonlight,
I found you crying at an apathetic moon,
so I cracked open your volcanic cocoon,
to open your eyes to cinnamon
and persimmon horizons -
now you float like an empyrean butterfly.
I hope you soar forever and know
I could have written for you,
as many verses as you have seen stars,
but we cannot cultivate in fields of unfairness,
where only dead blooms now decompose,
as you keep ignoring Cupid's cries.
Despite contradicting crossroads,
my heart is deep rooted
in wayfarer's wisdom,
knowing when there are no more beats -
you will honour me with a
requiem for an artist.
Simple Musings
Let's talk about the picturesque beauty of autumn
Of the chiming bells of the Angelus
Of the flowers once pretty and strong, on the lawn
Oh! Autumn, you are a very superb season!
Let's talk about the petals and sepals fallen from the sky
Where the trees are stunned and almost undressed
And the astonished birds which have fallen from the clouds
Oh! Autumn, I love your wondrous and natural smile.
The season of autumn has a sensational scene
A warm and comfortable freshness and a solemn tone
It is the gold of the evening that falls all day long.
It’s the multi-colored leaves and flowers on the vents
Oh! Autumn, you give us much to imagine
And show us how to mimic mystic and golden moments.
Copyright © October 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous collections of poetry.
An edifice built in gray stone
by careful hands that are long dead,
the mortar gray from decades known,
insides soot-stained from blazes red.
Mantle stone broad across the top,
sporting nick-knacks and curios,
small nails stick out, from them will drop
the stockings, come the Christmas snow.
Long vents draw air the blaze will warm,
then force out to heat half the house,
to give respite when raging storms
knock the furnace’s power out.
The crackle inside beats back the gloom,
this fireplace makes the whole room.
She is with some taints:
Her nose has some scents;
Coming from some paints,
Her neck has some dents;
Shown by hidden vents,
But she looks like saints.
For real love, she eagerly waits,
All she could get were several hates,
Her lips even have many open gates,
That deliberately close lates,
Her eyes have several inbuilt baits,
That still could not find her good mates.
She is actually hell-bent,
That it's true love she really meant,
Even if it's just for a rent,
At least love will be in her tent,
Her beauty needs no lick of paint,
But the voice of love is still faint.
For long she has remained a chaste,
Her face, with a nice beauty paste,
Yet real love, she still wait to taste,
And old age knocks her doors in haste,
She fears fallen for a love heist.
Since there's no true love near her sight.
She's one of the heavenly saints,
Tho' covered with several bad taints:
Her neck is with several tiny dents;
Many of 'em were seen thro' many vents,
And in her heart she has a pain,
That, she will have to forever feign.
1-934 on license plates
Ciro Gargano
obsession to my life
actually hacking into
tele health calls hidden
cameras in ceiling fans
ac vents smoke detectors
sadly arson murder of 9
people Ciro Gargano
12-3-1934 unauthorised
access to classified data
documents being
exploited over unseen
mafia wire taps exploiting
disabled Americans
victimization discrimination
terrorist threats back
off scum blackmail
returned to sender
America be vigilant
when using tele health
at home signal fail camera
freeze you’re hack your
conversation is being
played over mafia
criminal groups
hacking into disabled
persons disabled families
information cyberattack
retrieving data exploited
disabled veterans military
service members and
their families thanks for the
veterans administration
for alerting my family
this has caused emotional
stress anyone in crisis
please reach out awareness
saves lives god bless America
One may think the walls must be tired of staring
at one another in that empty room.
its total emptiness has a void unique,
like silent remains of a memory lost,
a love that once was but now gone,
voice of a child that called to mother,
that relationship now is photo in an album.
bright light fills it from glass vents all around,
bouncing from wall to wall on to the floor,
like it is searching the occupants of past.
That room reminds me of my own heart,
that still glows with love, beats of a fervour
of a distant vision, a smile, a gesture and
a laugh receding into timeless vastness!
Please, leave this room empty.
Its own memories are its charms!
hang no pictures, or scribble a thought
on the walls. The faded paints are imprints
of hearts that once touched them,
that smudge is a kiss that she once left
on my lips.
Still so fresh!
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