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I am dying to be by you, at your bedside
Mon amour, I yearn every second to be by your side
To soothe the pain, to give you a good massage
To mesmerize you and to send the right message
To your body, to your soul and to your enduring heart
Darling, going forward, you and I should never be apart.

I am dying to be with you at night and day
Throughout your rehabilitation and your stay
At any medical facilities. I miss you very bad
I miss you all the time. I am both sad and mad
That I am not with you right now and today
I’m craving and dying to be by your side right away.

I will see you soon. I will be with you all the time
I will be the sweet healer who will happily rhyme
For you. I had been waiting for the perfect occasion
To come. I am eager to see you smile and laugh again
I am dying to be sitting and standing at your bed side
Sweetheart, I miss you like a sad lover, like a poor child.

Copyright © September 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
Il était très ****, dehors était noir
Comme un maudit soir
Qui allait porter: angoisse et tristesse
Pour une mère soudainement tombée en détresse
Les escadrons de l’obscurité viennent d’exécuter
Son enfant de vingt et une années
Il avait prétendument un couteau en main
Et l’innocence d’un jeune matin
Fatal dans sa pensée. La technologie
Peut, par hasard, améliorer ou détruire la vie
Plusieurs cartouches tirées, le jeune homme est tombé
Criblé de balles réservées pour des condamnés
Les assassins nocturnes ont abattu une autre victime
Ce qui est pire, c’est qu’ils ne vont pas payer pour cet horrible crime
C’est abominable, le noir est souvent injustement ciblé
Le racisme est un cancer qu’on doit éradiquer
La mère est inconsolable
Ses douleurs implacables
Ses larmes intarissables
Et ses peines incommensurables
C’est triste et amer, la mère va enterrer son enfant
C’est drôle, affreux, criminel et méchant
Les malhonnêtes « foliciers » sans remords
Viennent de causer un autre mort
Ils ne connaissent pas les souffrances
Endurées par une mère pour donner naissance
A un bébé en bonne et parfaite santé
Quelle tristesse! Quelle calamité!
C’est une autre tranchée forcée
C’est vraiment déchiré un cœur jadis farci de fierté
Voir une mère pleurer dans une telle condition
Est écœurante pour toute la famille
Et les amis
Qui brûlent dans un enfer imbibé de pénibles émotions
L’ignorance et l’immaturité sont deux plaies
Qui jamais ne sèment ni l’amour, ni la paix
Les pleurs de la mère sont intarissables
Ses douleurs inimaginables
Ses peines incontrôlables
Et la mère inconsolable.

Copyright© March 2011, Hebert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hebert Logerie est l’auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.
Kenshō Sep 5
She followed the trail like braille.
She bound bending turns by feeling.
A long journey, kneeling and frail.

Was there always one cloud
in the sky?
Do the birds in one direction
fly?
Who can see beyond the shroud?

She left the footpath
And listened to songs
in the wind,
Toward the home
of the homeopath.

Arriving, no one there.
Time took a moment
to stare.

She must be out.
She must be there.

Beyond: a sign of being.
She must of left a note
for me to be seeing.

No one ever came.

But a dusty mirror shown:
One blind human alone.
Then, she was healed.

What is soft?
To what do we yield?
Can it speak our language?
Is the barrier translated beyond the breakage?

Just then, a bird sat beside.
And, the bird and I need not share.
We just sat and stared.

Until it flew again.
And I wondered,
if both our minds were bare:

Could I be up there?
Ken Pepiton Sep 5
begin
become
believe
happen
the four two sylabble verbs most used in English they have cognates in all Wiki languages, we think kindly with practice
Ken Pepiton Sep 5
In my steady state, my confident mind,
with fides claimed as good,
by my word,

with faith, I stand convinced I am upright,
as any standing stone or pillar, perpendicular,

straight up, a concept humans
in agreement make, prepositioning
at places that testify
of whole groups forming made reminders
at gathering places, lest we forget, how
great we are, as a people… except

on the Washing ton monument peak aluminum
historical worth weigh talents
by psalm fifteen, boom

deflation in awe, did you see that salute
precision, in awe whose parade wow'd

rebel patriotic grand old party, boom

exceptionalist nation,
by god and hermeneutics

each day has sufficient ra' energy
wisdom is only peaceable, never
disruptive nor disagreeable,

general Earthly common man food,
Mom's once a year favorite casserole.

of one's peace
of mind

easily entreatable…oops bacon, sorry

the pride, the flaw flow lost,
who stole my dream, tell me my

dream, scream the maniacs, on autotelic

triggergnosisniggersnot said it any way sosume, unami

in us all, me first, self sense children
have flavors they each
develop,
in cultures akin
to Sparta, monastary ish
relishing a rather Spartan life
where selfishness and cunning
were tested
in life prior
to inclusion
among the affairs
of the community adults run,
on ***** boys pay
to play

"That deaf dumb and blind kid,
    sure plays a mean pin ball"

end games during the age

of fire
before coal mining or petrokeneum fuels,
which may have been used oli outsnfree techos
echo verbiage greasy gofer gut messenger routes
from thunder, hear yechos here, that sounds just the same
in Babylon's biblical
furnace which used science
to heat any ore seven times
hotter than the previous methods, indicating tech
advances… making me wonder

what fuel was that furnace using.

Pleroma good intentions, best wishes collections
jiggle in the jellow wave, I saw you,
your little lite stood out
from dead friends
on facebook
in fully dementably conceivable
long lost ever anybody may remember times
each letter let a sound be hear that let a word
form
from learned recognition, remembered,
frames
from when
to now, tech wise, duty,
in all possibility, lifetime good memories,
we agreed

if we got this far once,
and Janet sneezes, and she did
sneeze
quiet, left side east,
we hear thunder, those

are not artillery, far away,

we hear thunder,
I am
in between that
on this side
of an imaginably peaceable approximation
of as fine a SYTF grained peace
as ever has been imaginable online,
on Earth, live wave
in the ether pleroma
during a thunder storm
with hail, precursors just two days ago,

woe, it's us,
we made it rain, we made it rain, we all agreed,
we sure could use some rain, won't you agree,

my friend?
Fine day imaginable just about any where sometime
just looking at the stars
my curiosity reaches its high and
tells me to fly through them

i will enter the interstellar space-
a place between the stars
that will send me love for coming trillions of miles apart

the love which is different
from the one that you get on your planet
where bodies are buried everywhere and ashes in the soil

the love which is different
that will never hurt you and
one can dream of it after death

just looking at the stars
makes me want to fly through them
for once i can't wait for everything to end
Written on- February 9, 2024
This poem has been sitting in my drafts for over a year now and i never tried to finish it until today. I had to edit some lines to match the setting of this poem. This poem is about escapism, the kind of escapism one can have through death where i feel like their soul will fly through the stars. Whenever i look at the sky, this has always been my wish.
Fiona Sep 2
I was never chosen for belonging.
Not by the world, not by blood, not by any hand that ever touched me.
I walk among the living as an exile,
a phantom dressed in flesh,
a vessel meant only to pour itself empty
so others may drink and leave.

I am the altar and the offering.
I tear my own spine into kindling,
set myself ablaze just to keep their shadows warm.
I hand over my ruin as though it were holy bread,
because if love will not have me,
perhaps sacrifice will.

And pain;
pain has been my only covenant.
It baptized me.
It married me.
It crowns me each morning with thorns
and cradles me each night in its iron womb.
It is not a wound; it is my inheritance.
It is not a visitor; it is my god.

Yet still;
there is a howl in me.
A storm that wants to rip heaven in half.
I want to pound my fists against the firmament
until the stars rain down like glass.
I want the earth to feel the shudder of my grief,
to know that I am here,
bleeding, burning, begging..
and no one sees me.

But I know the sentence.
They will spit their verdicts like venom.
“Attention seeker.”
“Coward.”
“Spectacle.”
They will say despair is a theater,
agony a mask,
death a performance.

So I swallow the scream.
I choke on silence until it poisons me.
And I rot.
I rot in daylight,
smiling with dead teeth,
while my insides collapse like a  set on fire.

Tell me—
when does it end?
When does this body, this prison,
finally crack open?
When will my lungs sigh their last,
my skull quiet itself,
my eyes close not in weariness
but in deliverance?

I curse the sleepers in their graves.
I envy their soil, their silence, their eternal stillness.
I despise their peace even as I crave it.
Why should they rest while I remain chained,
dragging myself through the days like carrion?

I am tired.
Tired of this cursed breath,
this endless theater of pain.
I have known nothing but wounds,
and I desire nothing but the abyss.

If there is a god,
let him hear me.
If there is a hell,
let it open now.
If there is mercy in this universe,
let it be the mercy of oblivion.

Because I am finished.
And all I have ever loved,
all I have ever trusted,
all I have ever worshiped—
is pain.
The quiet heart is softly mended.  
A breeze whispers, the soul extended.  
Each moment bends, a gentle prayer.  
In stillness, I find answers there.  

Peace hums within the fleeting hours,  
A garden tucked with hidden flowers.  
No noise, no clamor, walls recede
Solitude fills the only need.
Kings Cross, where city lights ignite,
Once home to wild and painted dreams,
Now whispers songs through neon gleams,
A vibrant pulse in fading night.

Two paths divide the busy street:
One flashes bright with coins and fire,
A burning urge, a strong desire,
Where eager hurried footsteps meet.

The other, dim and hushed and low,
Where weary faces find their space,
To shed their burdens, slow their pace,
And let their heavier feelings go.

That quiet, second road I chose,
Away from glitter, loud and bold,
A different story to unfold,
Where inner stillness gently grows.

Then from the corner's deepest shade,
A whisper breathed my very name:
"Why did your spirit shun my claim?
Why did your heart become unswayed?"

My voice, a fragile, trembling sound,
Replied, "My Lord put a small light there.
No grand display, no worldly share,
That inner gleam helps me feel sound."

The shadow asked again, with sigh,
"Then tell me, why are you still here?"

I answered, "Just to make it clear,
To check my path against the sky."

The shadow wept, a gentle plea,
Then whispered soft, "You walk the truth,"
And vanished from my gaze, forsooth,
Leaving the quiet night to me.

Yet fear still tapped within my chest,
As I turned from that tempting lane,
And walked where peace begins again,
Towards a path of certain rest.

For those whose faith holds strong and true,
The gifts the Lord has given free,
Already calm the heart, you see,
For this brief life, fresh and new.
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