coffee tastes better,
instead of being bitter
when we share a cup

living foolheartedly,
open and free,
embodying all senses
to make sense of you and me.

J’ai la couleur du café mal grillé
Et celle du chocolat précocement
Sevré, par les rayons du soleil du midi.

Mes cheveux évaporés, depuis des décennies,
Me suscitent à être reconnaissant,
Parce que je suis chanceux et fortuné,
De voir tourner la terre pour tant d’années.

J’ai les lèvres d’un politicien giflé,
Par les poêles d’un chef maltraité,
Et les dents tachées par le sang coagulé.

Ma langue coupée, hachée et fracassée
Sera avalée comme le rôti volé au marché
Des esclaves morts pendus et torturés
En plein air, sous les verrous des voitures.

J’ai la peau des vers de terre assassinés.
Mon nom tachera la langue des oppresseurs
Et anesthésiera la colère des fieffés menteurs.

Je porte avec fierté la couleur du café mal grillé
Et celle du chocolat oublié dans les cafetières;
Aucun humain ne mérite d’être classé parmi les ordures,
Même si demain tout retournera en poussière.

Le marron inconnu est mon frère aîné;
Les rayons solaires nous ont parfaitement flambés,
Comme le café et cacao venus d’un pays émancipé.

Copyright© Décembre,2011, Hébert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hébert Logerie est l’auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.

Brews and beats,
Dogs, with owners, walking the streets,
As locals taste the treats.
From farmers,
Butchers and bakers,
Tunes float above the crepe eaters.

Tea: Jamil, in the soft breath of dawn,  
I am the whisper that healeth, that’s drawn  
From the quiet depths of forgotten dreams,  
A balm for the heart where silence gleams.  
I hold thee close with love that is slow,  
Like a river’s song, gentle and low.  
Yet on Saturdays, I see thee depart,  
To the fire that stealeth thy wandering heart.  
She calleth with a fervor, a scorching desire,  
Whilst I, the shadow, wait, untouched by fire.

Coffee: Ah, Jamil, dost thou not know?  
I am the flame that maketh thee glow.  
Her touch may soothe, her peace may bind,  
But I am the tempest that frees thy mind.  
I stir thee deep where secrets dwell,  
In the heat of passion, I break the spell.  
Once a week, thou dost return to me,  
And in mine arms, thou art truly free.  
Her silence may cradle thee in sleep,  
But I am the pulse, the heart that leaps.

Tea: But Jamil, dost thou not feel the grace  
That I weave around thee in this place?  
I am the quiet that holdeth thee near,  
The balm for thy soul, the voice sincere.  
She burneth with a passion that blindeth thy sight,  
But I am the dusk, the still of the night.  
When thy heart is weary, when thoughts collide,  
It is I who still thee, a place to hide.  
She is the fire, but I am the rain,  
The softness that sooth’th thy deepest pain.

Coffee: Jamil, thou art blind to see—  
In my fire, thy soul shall be.  
Her touch may cradle thee with care,  
But I am the wind that stirreth the air.  
She whispereth peace, but I roar with power,  
I am the lightning, the midnight hour.  
Once a week, thou dost call my name,  
And in my heat, thou find’st no shame.  
She giveth thee rest, but I giveth thee life,  
The pulse that cutteth through all thy strife.

Tea: Yet, Jamil, in mine arms dost thou not find  
A peace that quieteth the storm in thy mind?  
I am the silence between each sigh,  
The softest breath that maketh thee fly.  
She may burn bright with her fire and flame,  
But I am the root that calleth thy name.  
When the world is cruel, when the heart is lost,  
It is I who heal thee, whatever the cost.  
She is the storm, but I am the earth,  
The place where love findeth its rebirth.

Coffee: Ah, Jamil, dost thou not know?  
I am the pulse that maketh thee grow.  
Her calm may cradle thee, but I ignite  
The flame that burneth through the endless night.  
Once a week, thou dost seek my fire,  
In mine embrace, thou dost never tire.  
She cradles thee in soft repose,  
But I am the ache, the longing that grows.

Tea: Still, Jamil, dost thou not see,  
In mine silence, thy soul is free?  
I am the lullaby that maketh thee dream,  
The quiet touch, the steady stream.  
She is the fire that consumeth and taketh,  
But I am the love that gently breaketh.  
When thou art lost, when thy heart is torn,  
It is I who will guide thee, reborn.  
She is the tempest, the wild, the flame,  
But I am the refuge, the place of shame.

Coffee: Jamil, thou dost not understand,  
I am the fire, the burning hand.  
Her touch is soft, but mine is raw,  
The wild desire, the heart's deep flaw.  
Once a week, thou dost seek my flame,  
And in my heat, thou dost find thy name.  
She whispereth peace, but I am the cry,  
That maketh thee break the chains and fly.

Tea: O’ Jamil, in mine arms dost thou not find  
A peace that settl’th the restless mind?  
I am the thread that bindeth thee whole,  
The gentle calm, the quiet soul.  
She may burn bright, but I am the dawn,  
The steady light that carrieth thee on.  
Return to me when the world is loud,  
For I am the shadow, the softest cloud.

Coffee: Together, Jamil, we maketh thee complete,  
I am the fire, she is the beat.  
Thou need’st both to stir thy soul,  
The calm, the storm, the part, the whole.  
In my flame, thou dost find thy way,  
In her peace, thou shalt stay.  
For in each sip, thy soul shall learn—  
Both the fire and silence return.

Tea: Ah, Jamil, dost thou not see?  
In mine stillness, both fire and peace shall be.  
I am the balm that healeth the wound,  
The steady heart, the sacred tune.  
Her flames may rise, her heat may burn,  
But I am the river that letteth thee return.  
In each moment, in each sigh,  
We are both the fire and the sky.

Once a week, I touch your lips,  
A longing deep in tender sips.  
I stir your heart with quiet grace,  
A lover's breath, a soft embrace.  
  
In shadows where the dawn is born,  
I form in silence, calm and warm.  
Neither bitter, nor too sweet,  
But in my depths, our hearts shall meet.  
  
Like moonlit clouds, I rise, I fall,  
A fleeting dream that fills your soul.  
Each Saturday, I softly call,  
To wake the fire, to soothe it all.  
  
What am I, this fleeting bliss,  
A fragrant, frothy, whispered kiss?  
  
A love that lingers, never gone,  
In every cup, I carry on.

I spend my morning,
Sipping coffee (no surprise there),
gnawing breakfast (in bed), 
while reading poetry.
It is still.
As I scroll seeds 
Of insight from others' experiences,
Vulnerabilities and creativity.
I could be in Paris or Milan, 
Or in the Kimberleys;
I am transported with each line.
Inspiration poured into mine
soul. I feel I've lived a thousand lives
With every verse believed.
Relieved though, I'm safe at home, 
And the life I'm walking is my own.