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In my poem, I'll grasp the handlebar with sweat-drenched palms
& unfocused eyeballs as they blur through the evening spectacle.
I'll clench death at the knot of my fingers,
& the grease oozing out from me like life itself.

The door creaks covertly, as I focus on the evening grey,
my face sliding into the shadows, unmetered and unseen.
No solace can be found at this moment,
neither can Papa's gentle smile cradle me in hope.

I'll climb onto the bridge rail, watching as people
are sliced into silence, emptied onto the deserted bridge road.
The water's blackness beckons me,
and I'll answer with my legs, climbing,
assisted by some unseen force.

I'll dissolve this fleeting hope and sink into that blackness,
where consciousness dissolves into nothingness.

~Mikelson
#poem #hope
#shadow #speactacle
#death
Hebert Logerie Dec 2024
The year just started;
Yet, it is almost over.
Today is the second day of the year;
Yet, it is with anger,
Fear, impatience, and horror
That we want another year
To show up at our door.

Give ourselves a chance.
Before we dance,
Let's pray first,
And stop the frivolous lust.
Let's quench our thirst,
So we can enjoy the party,
And be more relaxed and happy.

What's wrong with human beings?
We refuse to take it slow. Things
Should not be happening like that.
Of course, we're going to be fat,
And ugly, if we're not being careful.
'Cause we gobble everything down in full
Force, like gluttons, like fools in the pool.

Take things easy, little by little,
Step by step, stop being frugal.
A year just ended;
Yet, it is with anger,
Fear, impatience, and horror
That we want another one to start;
Please chill out and have a heart.

Copyright © January 2017 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
neth jones Dec 2024
my boots  by the door
wait patient  to be let out
the cat's less stoic
early version :

my shoes wait silently by the door
to be let out
more patient than the cat
Valentin Eni Nov 2024
Sometimes beating hard, sometimes at rest;
my heart knocks softly at the door of my chest.

As if in pain, as if to die,
As if it begs to break outside;

As if it fears the weight of my sorrow,
as if it hopes to see you tomorrow.

My heart knocks softly at the door of my chest;
sometimes beating hard, sometimes at rest.


a. (Literal Translation)

Listen to My Heart

sometimes stronger, sometimes softer;
my heart beats at the door of my chest.

as if it would hurt, as if it would die,
as if it would ask to come outside,

as if it would fear to die with me,
as if it would want to see you tomorrow too.

my heart beats at the door of my chest;
sometimes stronger, sometimes softer.

b. (Original poem in Romanian)

ascultă inima mea

când mai tare, când mai încet;
inima-mi bate la uşa din piept.

de parcă ar doare-o, de parcă-o să moară,
de parcă s-ar cere să iasă-n afară,

de parcă s-ar teme să moară cu mine,
de parcă ar vrea să te vadă şi mâine.

inima-mi bate la uşa din piept;
când mai tare, când mai încet.
The poem explores the interplay between physical sensations and emotional experiences, using the heartbeat as a metaphor for love, longing, and the vulnerability of existence. It conveys an intimate dialogue between the heart and the self, reflecting fear, desire, and hope.

The repetition of the opening and closing lines creates a cyclical structure, mimicking the constancy of the heartbeat and reinforcing the poem’s reflective nature.

The poem reflects the human condition—torn between fear of loss and the longing to love and be loved. The heart becomes a symbol of both physical life and emotional depth, embodying the fragility and resilience of existence.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2024
Doorkeeper,
where can I find an attention spanner?

Wrenching the nose, brings forth blood,
so it don't freeze, yawn and rub eustacy
from your wide open heavily hooded eyes

Eutopian Earthian Mind Schemes,
not dreams, moral equivalency resets/upgrade

Free any ostiarius,
and find doors open
in the realm of curiosity,

the bane of short attention,
at tenere, eh, stretch

the fabric of reality just so far, the bubble
we be sayin' wagwan like a password, pops

and what is going on, lets any enter, imagining

this exclusive, exceptionalist aweformed bubble…

when a reader re ads attention tension,
pop, the idea that was the weasle,
offers a way to say this and get free. An ostiarius,
freed from slavery when we read the idle teacher

of decolonizing clogged cognitive colons…

and the sweet persuaders remind us whose time\

Yours, we took this much attention,
but you can still use it, we sorta cloned you.
I did not know this, now we both do:
An ostiarius, a Latin word sometimes anglicized as ostiary but often literally translated as porter or doorman, originally was an enslaved person or guard posted at the entrance of a building, similarly to a gatekeeper.

In the Roman Catholic Church, this "porter" became the lowest of the four minor orders prescribed by the Council of Trent. This was the first order a seminarian was admitted to after receiving the tonsure. The porter had in ancient times the duty of opening and closing the church-door and of guarding the church, especially to ensure no unbaptised persons would enter during the Eucharist. Later on, the porter would also guard, open and close the doors of the sacristy, baptistry and elsewhere in the church.
Hadrian Veska Oct 2024
The key circles round to the lock
A lock which is known needs no key
A door that only faces inward  
On the outside has nothing to see

To open the way is to find yourself
Staring at the firmly locked door
To find the key is to notice
You've not needed a key here before

The way to ascend is much lower
Not up or through but behind  
So that door and its lock will remain
Until we let them leave our mind
Àŧùl Sep 2024
A door is a door,
Whether you adore it for it's made by a doer.
Keep procrastinating and let the defect stay,
or get it replaced.
A poem about a misfit door.

My HP Poem #1984
©Atul Kaushal
Jia En Sep 2024
It never occurred to me
That is was a door–
Not a wall
At all.
It’s something I can’t unsee:
The door’s not a wall anymore.
Though physically,
This can be;
Why can’t my life be full of doors
Instead of dead ends on every floor?
Ylzm Jul 2024
That knowing freedom is beyond the door
Suffices not that you get up and walk
For there must be light and you've eyes to see
And you're not chained nor door's a devious trap
To tempt an escape to increase the sin
And fear whispering of uncertainties
Of vast unknowns and stranger unseen yet
And perhaps the door leads to just more doors
Better well-fed and cared-for but a slave
Then free, hungry and lost, and soon all dead
For freedom is for the living and free
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2024
The same rose, still ablaze scorching red,  
A ****** from realms yet untread,  
That unfolds upon the ancient, earthen bed—  
But heed the thorn; this way one cannot tread.

Every morning the nightingale sings her song,  
Leaps into melody, ere the day grows long.  
Down the moon’s open eye, once strong,  
To unlock the door, one must belong.

In the quietude, beneath the moon’s aged grace,  
Maybe lies a key forged in shadow,
The sun slides down, lights a candle at a silent pace.  
Who claims this boon, who dares to embrace,  
Must know the rose’s fire, the nightingale’s chase.
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