in a night so dark and sea so deep,
on the sandy shore we safely sleep,
yet far out on the rolling wave
fishermen on tiny boat venture out brave
a weather-beaten lantern is shining small
against shadows brooding and tall.
the tumultuous sea rises like a wall
threatening to engulf them all
the full moon above penetrates twilight
and kisses the sea with her silver light.
meanwhile, there are jagged rocks ahead
where the violent black sea portends dread.
there are two streaks of light on the foam
one from the sky, the other far from home.
a fragile shell of wood and twine
is tossed by the constantly churning brine.
nevertheless, they row on against the gale
with trembling hands and cumbersome sail
despite odds against the restless sea's might,
the fishermen battle on as they wait for light.
the irate alarm clock loudly beeps
springing him wide awake.
funny though, as time
continues to stand still
in the nothingness of twilight.
lying supine, he looks up at the ceiling,
caged in his dark and grim thoughts.
in the hush, an ocean of anxiety churns
in the pit of his stomach,
but it's all in his head.
meanwhile, dirty laundry sprawls across his bed.
the flicker of a moribund light
has burnt out between his eyelids.
stretched shadows pretend to be demons.
the conquered spirit...
tucks in its weather-beaten wings,
numb to the cold, dreadful uncertainty
that tomorrow brings. with each breath,
it feels like a slow, mundane death
where hope is only a faint whisper.
The difference between ‘to borrow’ and ‘to bum’
~ a weather-beaten book or a fresh stick of gum
Rain-streaked slippery street
Wet dull sun instils melancholy
In the air, lamp shimmers on drenched pavement,
Weather-beaten souls in a variety of hats.
Pretty Girl in long flowing skirt holding
Bouquet of radiant yellow flowers,
A luminous aura of elation surrounds her
effervescent existence,
Gentleman passing by with minimal care.
looking
worse for wear
at the mercy
of winter's harsh elements.
a stray dog,
sad of eyes,
clothed in all black
to match her mood.
emaciated and weather-beaten;
a labrador retriever
with her tail
tucked behind her hind legs
softly whimpering
shivering.
oh, you poor thing...
how far is your home?
scared
untrusting
of strangers;
perennially running
from rescue.
with a looped leash,
I approach, again....
she takes a step back
I come closer...closer....closer...
she turns
and sprints away.
I won't give up,
I'll do my best...
to help bring you in...
from the cold.
Though all the ways our paths may roam
The goal of every journeys end
Where calls the heart to hearth and home
Through wending weather beaten bends
The welcomed warmth of hearths embrace
Whose comfort cloaked in threadbare wise
No longer wields the power to chase
The moody rain from autumn skies
Human body, like a town, can be ravaged by time. ~ by poet
My streets are weather-beaten and desolate
my sun often flickers and glows but hazy
lone flashing yellow traffic-light is my moon
the Town Square has fallen ruefully apart,
Tell me, how can I take you on a tour of my town?
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.
His hands, weather-beaten, stained
adventures buried deep ‘neath veins
Blisters, wounds speak of hard times
when his pocket lacked a single dime
How did he, she, they, and them come to be?
Diminished, reduced, and ignored in society.
Relegated, or perhaps delegated, to busy city streets and desolate byways,
Street souls somberly paint landscapes with a myriad of overlays.
Barely decent soles, or none at all, cover these souls' feet,
Yet they endure daily tramples on sordid sidewalks and weather-beaten streets.
Cold nights meet cold stares in the daytime,
Oftentimes, the human connection is disjointed and can be quite unkind.
How did he, she, they, and them come to be?
No one knows, but compassion and love should be the reality.
Her great grandkids found it in the junk corner of the attic. An old weather-beaten trunk, leather handles, a spring lock, an invitation to meet her.
They laughed as they pulled out some lost toys, that hat she always wore to church, and pictures, lots of old, faded, crumpled edged pictures.
As they reached the bottom of the chest they found a dingy green coat with chevrons on the sleeves. They wondered why it was in Great-grandma’s trunk. There were pictures of a very pretty young girl wearing such a coat. She was not alone. There were many wearing the same.
Grandma found them rummaging in Great-grandma’s trunk. She sat with them explaining that Great grandma was a veteran, had served in the military during wartime, came home and started a life that we are all blessed to have been a part of.
Tattered and dusty
Faded secrets laid to rest
Fulfilling a dream
Follow the red dirt road.
Take it slow, walk it,
this is not an exploration
nor a pilgrimage,
it is a short tour around
the beginning of an idea
and its end.
Move along
past the few rural homesteads,
pass beyond the shacks
and the weather-beaten
tumbledown cabins,
the double and single wide
not so mobile homes
with their rusting trucks.
Hurry past the gypsy encampments.
with their gangs of wild dogs
until that dirt road ends
in a dry long uncultivated field.
This is where the dust
covers the old road maker
and beside his sunbaked bones
see how his maps and plans
are rolled up tight
never to be unrolled again.
~ a sad, harsh transit ride through the vale of tears - weather-beaten old shoes ~
The enclosed porch framed a weather-beaten door.
The door was slightly opened when I knocked on it.
I slowly set foot inside the musty dark drawing room;
little light shown through from the stained-glass window.
I reach and slowly move my fingers over the flower rosette
carved into the old elegant red oak staircase railing.
I do walk up the stairs to see the same as on the door frames.
Passing through in the nostalgic silence of the empty house
I could hear the echo whispers of life of its past.
4/8/2023
Writing Challenge - 'S' Words, Poetry Contest 10. staircase
Sponsored by: Constance La France
With a feathery smile on her chiseled face
she looks as angelic as the real ones in the sky
adorning my window ledge she fills up every space,
like any proper angel would normally do;
I hear her whisper at the edge of night
secrets that were meant for me alone
She quietly supports my every prayer
this little angel of God, who never goes abroad ;
She is a stationary idol of the highest order
she comforts me each night with her presence and grace
and although she cannot see my face,
she knows every hidden feeling I encase,
every hope, every desire, every fear that I misplace.
I, a weather beaten traveler of life's weary journey
gives ode to this lovely altar Angel, she is a reminder
that Angels do exist, she may be made of plastic but to me,
she is a living, breathing, object of great valor
when I pray.
Feb 27, 2023
Sponsor Jeff Kyser
Contest Name Write an Ode |
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