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The color of my Skin.
My deep, dark eyes.  
The curl of my Hair.
I can feel your the heat vindictive stares.
The twist of my tounge.

I speak my language with courage,
Not with care of your fears
Illigal Alien, They call my kind.
All I want is a place thats mine.

Nomatter, I'll continue to stick out
Like a sore thumb, I will not run
from your vengance.
I'll stay here and take it.
You held power over them
but never over me.
My curly hair runs long, wild, and free.

You have lost the fear held
in the eyes of my uncolonized ancestors.
Now I face you with strenth
My dark eyes like stone cold pools of depth that
you tried to breed out.

Como un bailador,
I'll twist away from your nasty tricks.
I'll thrive, Child of the sun.
Brown I am.
Brown-eyed children of the sun is a song by Daniel Valdes written about the injustices toward farmworkers. I drew insperation from the ballad as the farmworkers rights is what set off the Chicano civil rights movement which I hold very dearly to my self-identity.
Moo Jan 6
The land is calling for me absurdly,
To be loved and exploited no more,
I must drench in this blood spilled earth,
Encharging me to reclaim it as my purpose,
The sky,a gazer,
And oft a weeper for the lands man,
The world has never felt so woven,
And melancholy slipped itself back in this sinners hand,
Alas,
My world has never felt so scattered ,
I felt so shallow and all felt so bland,
Though in these marshes I find,
An escape for a life time,
The path unfollowed follows my mind,
The path unfollowed mocks me blind,
And entrenches deeply in my wound,
Now in the path of the wild I must swoon,
To reclaim my sight,
To dream of nature is to dream of youth,
Although the flowers and their wilting ways have me doubt my days,
She is held so high,
And her wilting has me escape a sigh,
She awaits as if betrayed,
From the remedy that the nature has made.
I think I love nature truly
Mays Benatti Jul 2017
Words can be described,
But when they’re felt, they become magic.
If I felt sunshine, would it be magic
Or have I just described another word without knowing?
This poem reflects on the balance between understanding and feeling. Words can describe so much, but their real power comes when they evoke emotion—when they feel like magic. I used “sunshine” as an example to question whether the experience of something so simple is inherently magical, or if it’s just another word we assign meaning to without fully grasping its essence.

It’s a reflection on how language often falls short in capturing the depth of human emotion, leaving us to wonder if true meaning lies in the words we use or in the feelings they inspire.
The end of anything comes rather easy,
Time is not like a clock, time is freaky.
The sun does not come and go,
The moon does not come and go.
I doubt of the true shape of the sun,
Thinking about eternity is not fun,
And the moon and the earth are not round;
They are shapeless. We are bound
To fail exponentially and to succeed moderately.
Time never leaves, time is funny,
Unlike the clock, it follows a straight line,
Never stops, never breaks and is always fine.
Death is the end of the retirement,
It is the beginning of a new testament.
The end of something is the beginning of another,
Should we remember how many times
That the child has been a sophomore, a senior?
At birth, we were reminded by countless chimes
Of life, that there is an end to everything,
And there is always a new beginning.
The constant ending of matters sends the wrong message,
Always remember that life is a passage.
We move on from one state to another,
It is mind-boggling that we’re always thinking about the future.
A new day
Comes every day
With a morning, a noon
An afternoon and an evening
It's day and it's night
Across the countryside.

The first day of the year
Is as special as the last
Man creates days of feast
To distinguish himself from the beast
That says that all days are the same
Like the wind that dances and sows.

There is a beginning
To smile and laugh
And an end of time
To cry and die
The animals are right
A new season does not matter.

A new year, a new day
A new week, a new month
A new night, a new noon
A new sun, a new moon.

Copyright © January 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Hebert Logerie Dec 2024
Mi patria es el hermoso sol
Mi país no es el invierno duro
Mi país es un edén a menudo verde
Siempre lánguido y tropical al amanecer.

Es un país donde el canto de los gallos
Revive a todos cada mañana
Es un país amueblado con aguanieve sucia y rocas
Donde la naturaleza es un vasto y miserable jardín.

Es un país lleno de historias horribles
Donde los esclavos y la gente decente se rebelan
Contra colonos codiciosos y bucaneros sangrientos
Es donde solo existen recuerdos macabros.

En este ambiente horrible y malhumorado
Donde bromeo todo lo que es negativo
Construiré monumentos positivos
Soñaré y recitaré fábulas.

Mi patria es la luz de la luna
Que da esperanza y fuerza para luchar
Contra los bastardos enmascarados
Y zonbificados. ¡Vaya! Dios, no guardo rencor.

Mi país es la imaginación siempre positiva
Actualmente, no quiero denunciar a nadie.
Sin embargo, silenciaré las campanas que repican
¡Vaya! Es triste ver a mi gente en el éxodo
Junto a las costas de evacuación.

PD Gilles Vigneault, este poema es
Por ti y por nuestra gente.
Copyright © Enero 2023, Hébert Logerie, Todos los derechos reservados
Hébert Logerie es autor de varias colecciones de poesía.
Hebert Logerie Dec 2024
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.
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