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Best Poems Written by Logan Holder

Below are the all-time best Logan Holder poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Logan Holder Poem

Honest As A Drunk Man Gets

I was 468 miles away,
thinkin’, “Baby, would ya catch me on the next one?”
The hairs on her arm would stick up
and she’d think to herself:
Ain’t no way he’s still thinkin’ ’bout me.
Well, listen, honey,
I know I’m a ramblin’, self-centered little prick,
but I gotta be honest—
I shoulda been the one to marry you.
Weeks pass and I forget
the smell of you,
the texture of your lips
and what they did to my soul…
but that’s not what I’m tryin’ to say.
My fiancée is in the other room,
likely entertainin’ a funner guy
who’d offer the moon.
I kill a pint of whiskey,
pass out,
and here I am, dreamin’ of you.
Morning comes, my head throbs,
but my heart hurts worse.
468 miles away,
yet moments ago we danced on the floor.
I kiss my ole lady, one eye open,
guardin’ my throat.
The light peck she gives lets me know
I’m not guilty
for clingin’ to hope—
the hope of seein’ you again,
down on the bathroom floor,
wishin’ you’d come around 
just a lil bit more

Details | Logan Holder Poem

Slow Drip Monk

Coffee is a reasonable substitute
for spirit possession.
Surely your heart will tremble,
open the gateway
for earthquakes to exist
within the fault lines
of your fingers —
but at least your pants will be piss free
when the officer asks you
to dance along the straight line.
And when he asks, “are you nervous?”
you’ll respond in the affirmative.
Explain how since 1996
you’ve been waiting for the day
an asteroid directly impacts your car
as you sip espresso
heading southbound on the I-10,
on your way to work.
And you won’t have to explain to your coworker
why your pants are missing,
ass in the air,
bad decisions spilled
on the fresh mopped floor —
dreading the ride in,
knowing he knows
you’d never compete
with his fresh ironed shirt.

This morning I chose slow drip,
because life moves fast enough.

Details | Logan Holder Poem

The Hands of a Broken Clock

I stumble towards the sunrise
dragging ghosts that flow through my fingers 
clenched fists not enough to maintain a grip,
yet they keep their grip on me.

Staring blankly at the living.

A thousand eyes speak curses
I was never meant to hear.

Where am I to drink,
to quench this thirst
and dwell amongst them?

I divide and merge
with the hands of a broken clock 
each thought ticking, creeping
towards time’s end.

As the shadows surround me
I withdraw into myself 

there, beneath the overgrowth,
I hear my spirit speak:

Where am I to turn
when nothing makes sense?
I linger along the river,
chasing hope around the bend.

The wind speaks in whispers.
The night crucifies.

Sister moon, forgive me 
hold me close in your holy hands.
Keep me from the echo
of all I can’t withstand.

Father, could you save me?
Is this all that I could be?

Through the gaps of dying trees
I hear my mother scream for me 

and I wake.

The childhood oak outside my window
sways in the morning wind.
Light pierces through the branches.
Mist glistens like constellations.

And yet 
I cannot tell
if I have found my way home
or only dreamed it so.

Details | Logan Holder Poem

Of The Living

When I was younger
the world was full of wonder.
Forests were kingdoms.
Following the wind was freedom.
Children wielded branches
like sharpened swords
There was no separation
between dream and reality 
no border to defend,

Blanket forts were impenetrable.
The monsters in the closets
could not reach us there.
We ruled from treetop towers.
We danced in the rain.
We needed no permission
to believe in the sacred.
It was simply everywhere.
It was simply
everything.

In those days 
we were of the living.

Details | Logan Holder Poem

The Salt That Kept Me

Spring is here,
and for the first time
the air smells like living.
Standing in the golden rays,
I feel a weight lifted —
like shackled stone losing its chains,
floating back towards the surface of the ocean,
carried to and fro,
dancing with the waves
as they carry me towards the horizon.
My lips begin to crack,
dry from the salt
that preserved my spark.
I sip from the freshwater spring
that bursts forward —
a ship with tattered sails,
hemming the threads
one seam at a time,
secured at the helm,
navigating west,
chasing the sunset.

Details | Logan Holder Poem

With Hands That Remember

This heart of stone—
crystallized rage, fractured, shimmering to the surface.

Love languished,
longing to embrace the dead.

Hands digging into the flesh of the earth,
reaching in desperation for the corpses beneath.

The seasons turn—
grinding the fragments of life to dust,

until he sets fire to the things he loves
just to dance with the ashes,
to animate what’s been lost
with one last burning.

A hopeless romantic,
clinging to his lover as she seeps like smoke through his fingers.

He inhales in desperation,
wishing for her to fill the void once more—

and with the wind, she fades,
drawn to a place beyond the reach
of hands that still remember how to hold.

Details | Logan Holder Poem

Before The Birds Go Quiet

There’s somethin bout death
that don’t sit right with my soul.
It’s a bit much
to think that one day
the draft won’t flow,
the birds won’t sing,
and the feel of her smooth skin
against the callouses on my fingers
won’t feel like magic.
There’s somethin bout death —
the way it creeps into memory
the same way high school sweethearts do,
sudden and smooth,
leavin in the wreckage
that old craving
to taste life again.
Ya see, I’ve spent my life
fillin the hourglass
with love notes and apologies,
makin sandcastles,
leavin footprints
on the shores of hearts
I couldn’t reach.
There’s somethin bout death
that feels like a song —
and I’ll sing out of tune
till it all makes sense.

Details | Logan Holder Poem

Beer Caps and Rosary Beads

50 cartridges of Nitrous oxide
the old drunk called it hippie crack
One spun case after another
dozing in the bed
His brain pulsing, blood starting to boil
Menudo from the spiritual Mexicans cured his hangover
smoked some weed
covered the stillborn kitten with a laundry basket
Sipping bottom shelf gin
Eyes half open
slurring words through crooked grins
cracked teeth exposed..
He kisses the sacred heart of Jesus
And chugs the backwash 
From the empty cans
Lining his bedside
Lola comes home from saturday mass
He can smell the familiar smell
Of pork adobo creeping through the vents
Half asleep
He joins her at the table
“BLESS US O LORD, AND THESE THY GIFTS, WHICH WE ARE ABOUT TO RECEIVE, FROM THY BOUNTY, THROUGH CHRIST OUR LORD…”
And before he could say amen
the feeling of vomit coating his mouth
Stops him in an instant
She makes his plate
And stares at him in silence
As if knowing
But never says a word

When he wakes up
He can smell the lit candle that sits
In the corner of the wall
Where she prays  
Next to his bedroom door


Ave maria, Ave maria!
She looks to the holy mother
talks to the statue
about the sins of her sons
And goes to bed with a tired heart

Whiskey bleeding through his pores
He feels a pull
toward the tiny baptist church
Near the center of town
on the corner of Pecan St
He throws his shoes on
slurs the act of contrition
and goes to sit amongst
the honkie kin of Luther
The thought of communion crosses his mind
still unsure whether its withdrawals or the spirit
pulling him to partake in the sacred blood

He invokes St Joseph
reaches for the rosary in his pocket
fumbling its beads
as they collide with beer caps
from the night before
After the service
he walks along the hwy
committed to the act of penance
each step a pilgrimage
going nowhere in particular
faithful to the spirit 
regardless..

Details | Logan Holder Poem

For The Lovers

For the lovers

Every decision
I ever made
was for the sake of love —

love of something,
love of someone,
love of somewhere.

If you were to ask me
what love was,
I couldn’t tell you.

It’s simply
the why
of it all —

why we exist,
why we keep going,
why even the calloused heart
screams for its presence.

Love life.
Love death.

Love something,
love someone,
love nothing —

love it all.

Details | Logan Holder Poem

If There Be Love

If there be love,
let us marry our heads
to jagged stone —
surgically carving the hearts
hidden within our depths.

Let us sow what could’ve been,
take chance with all our vanities
before passion turns to consequence.

Let us dig our graves this very moment,
arrange the canvas bloom,
hasten the stones along our waists
and submerge our young —
a mercy we were never shown.

Delicately placing our lips
on the wielder of memory,
casting the seedlings
to the depths.

Let us bathe in boiling wax,
hardening our skin —
so that when it comes
we are already gone.

But if love not be…
then why need we suffer,
if passion and fire
never graced us
their wound?

Best Poems Written by Logan Holder

Honest As A Drunk Man Gets

Slow Drip Monk

The Hands of a Broken Clock

Of The Living

The Salt That Kept Me

With Hands That Remember

Before The Birds Go Quiet

Beer Caps and Rosary Beads

For The Lovers

If There Be Love

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