I speak, they listen—wide-eyed, still,
as if I bend the world to will.
Yet all I do is state what’s there,
but truth is rare—so they just stare.
I just speak what sparks my brain,
it isn’t deep, it’s just explained.
The things that sting, the truths I fear,
I lock away where none come near.

...But I am not some guiding star,
Just tired of how lost they are.
And wisdom’s just a hollow throne,
When no one's speaking in your tone.
They crave uniqueness, desperate to glow,
yet fear the depths they’ll never know.
I wear my difference like a scar,
standing alone, for what we are.

I am not profound—just alone,
It's a dialogue I'm longing for.
My entire life, just been searching for equals,
Instead—empty echoes of applause and sequins.
I never asked to lead the way,
'Cause if I had the chance, I'd never stay.
Someone, somewhere, speaks like me,
Without a need for poetry.

At my prime time
I surely rhyme
I write countless sonnets
Like numerous poets
I tell it like it is
With everlasting ease
I remain calm and kind
To speak my mind
As a free man in control
Of my destiny, I play that role
On a daily basis with success
God grants me health and happiness
So far, I am blessed to be alive
I am lucky and I thrive
At my prime time
I weep because I am happy
And I assuredly rhyme
In front of so much beauty.

Copyright © February, 2022, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.

In moments of quiet, pen becomes my guide,  
With ink I trace the thoughts that softly flow,  
Each line a truth that I can now confide,  
In written form, my inner voice can grow.  

The page, a canvas where my heart takes flight,  
In verse I find a language known and dear,  
A structure formed, to shape my dreams in light,  
An accepted frame that draws my vision clear.  

To weave my stories in a rhythmic dance,  
Is freedom found within the written word,  
In every sentence, there's a second chance,  
To paint my soul where only silence was heard.  

So let me write, for here I truly stand,  
With every phrase, carved by my own hand.
In desperate hope that some others understand, that the importance of words is surprisingly grand.

<>
"And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul
And you did open that day you came back to the garden

The olden summer breeze was blowin' on your face
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you
Sat beside your father and your mother in the garden

The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden"

In the Garden,
song by by Van Morrison
<>
This touches me deep in the chest cavity,
the palpitations of its internalizing echoing cavitations,
a warning, go slow, choose your words wise and
accrue, the mood,
for the ache of creating, hurts, fevers me

for I am but steps away from the garden,
and its violet hues infused with fresh sunrising golden hazes,
with kindly warmth, with warming kindnesses,
touches,
caresses my shoulders, begs me to stop crying,
overcome, for I am overcome, eyes dropping wetting droplets,
for find myself at the intersection,
interlocking crossroads
where perfect perfection
begins and must
meet its natural endings

thoughts of capture, retentions, preservations,
all impossibilities, challenges,
see me, begging itinerant
muses
in the neighborhood
to guide my hand, teach me newsome words,
mine feel so old, so unworthy of this moment,
hearing me solicit their
Treasure of Summery
Words
but they won't,
excusing themselves,
that this in particular human has exercised, exorcised,
all the tools in his ever diminishing capacity,
time insufficient to learn a new calculus of
addition

and bid me calm my heaving chest,
seize my tears, just add them to the brackish salted waters steps
awaiting away

live in this moment
live within this poem,
revisit it frequent,
weep no more,
your stilling heart weakened,
take fast what is given now,
and be contented,
your treasury chest is full,
overflowing with this summary of
summery


but I am not, cannot…

7:48:am
jul 22