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April unveils proof,
within the course of fate,
during the days of downpour & rain,
frightening showers forge new ways,
for vibrant May flowers
to bloom in place.
Somewhere between words and a phrase
And images that waltz on a page
Naked or masked, with a ** and a hum
Read me in the lines of a poem.

Curled up with flair in cursive ink
Or in italics that make one think  
In bold scribble of soulful blues
Meet me in a syllable of haiku.

In sounds and rhyme, in free flowing feet
In rolled up, crumpled paper sheets
On kissed ends or in couplets terse -
Trace me in a little verse.

Midst damp and broken metaphors
In sentences loud or hushed whispers
Hidden behind some quaint smilie
Find me in poetry.

Poesy — a world large enough to hold
Sordid moments in its fold
Sweetness of life and broken hearts
Harsh reality and runaway art.
Every poet is an old soul
with the remarkable talent
of carrying the centuries
of all poets' legacies
with just a pen
and a piece
of paper.
Being an old soul is a good thing. It means that you are wiser beyond your years and see the beauty in things that this current generation may fail to notice.
A top theme of poems,
Is loneliness.
Are we as poets destined to be alone?
Or is there a chance for some of us to pull away,
I hope there is.
What if being accompanied now,
Means I'll sit by myself tomorrow,
Please don't let this leave.
I don't do well by myself
Aarya 7d
Yes, his eyes are beautiful,
But I died drowning in yours
Yes, he will keep me happy,
But my happiness was,
Gifted to your soul
Yes, indeed, he can provide,
With everything I will ever wish,
But what if I wish the,
Missing piece you,
Which, maybe I have lost
Yes, his voice might be mesmerizing,
But yours held me in a divine spell
I am afraid I will never untwine
Yes, he might take me to
Expensive restaurants and dates
But I am  still held back,
With the handwritten letters and flowers
You wrote and picked, to see me smile
Yes, I might like him,
But I loved you……….
All poems and proses are unfinished
Only those in sonnet are finished
Completed, done, and terminated
A poem or prose can still be edited
Revised, retouched and rewritten
A poem is a powerful tool or weapon
Leave alone my unfinished poems
These are my spices, my stars, my emblems
You don't understand their symbols
And the words used to fill up the bowls
You just have to read my poems ten times
To fully comprehend them. Ignore the rhymes
To pay more attention to the vernacular
They are not bizarre; they are just particular
They are not regular; they are unfinished
They are not strange, they are simple. Kabish!

Copyright © July 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Agnes de Lods Mar 21
I will never taste
that exquisite flavor.
You are immersed
in language,
while I admire,
from my balcony,
your collocations,
your state of being,
expressed with juicy metaphors
that will never be mine,
even though I long for them.

I build bridges in the wind
strange in form.
I can offer nothing that
my sincerity and passion,
torn rather than beautifully woven.

Thank you for stopping by
reading them with wonder.
Please think warmly of me
if I fail to ignite your intellect.
I came to experience
I am a freed soul,
finding words in a foreign tongue.
I reconstruct myself
between the lines.
Thank you so much for accepting me into this community. I’m truly happy to meet you all in this virtual space
Gh0ski3 Mar 20
Unwritten words dancing in harmony
How do you do, my diary of diction?
Disappeared into a palace placed objectively
Oh the vocable, structured like an architect
Amuse me with juggling dactyl
Dearest, I'm amazed!
Articulated literature from your hands
Harbored lines of eye catching structure
Seek no other, than the poem.
Position yourself in punctuation, darling
Do not disappoint!
Damsel in distress is what I am without your ellipsis
****** teasing of sentence frames
Fervor a fire, like loving locutionary vows
***** author, put my skim to shame!
Read me beauty in writing
Won't you? My glorious poet
A love poem for poets, kinda funny.
Spurious correlation is when two random variables line up,
Such as shark attacks increasing with the amount of ice pops sold,
Unfortunately for health nuts, ice pops don't cause shark attacks.
But what is truly spuriously correlated is this bullet board,
That I am using to unravel the secrets of writing today.
Such as the number 122 lining up with severely different artists,
As well as well defined writers turning into many missing cases.
If I was ever offered a job as official poet detective,
Of course I would take it, but I would run circles each day.
Official Poets' Association Of Detectives
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