#crib
Un de ces jours,
L'anse de mon amour,
Je viendrai te voir,
Je viendrai sur ma pirogue,
Comme on fait à Venise le soir.
Sur un tapis, sur un rug,
J'apparaîtrai dans la rade,
Où une myriade de spectateurs,
Rameurs et vadrouilleurs
Feront partie de la parade.
Dans mon cortège, je serai accompagné
D'une classe de requins,
D'une école de marsouins,
Et d'autres fruits de mer déguisés.
Ce sera la fête de la Saint Jean-Baptiste,
Où des centaines de nymphes s'amuseront dans la piste.
Sous l'influence d'un rythme chaud et sucré,
Je fêterai avec les esprits oubliés.
Un de ces jours,
Anse d'Hainault, mon amour,
Je viendrai sur ma gondole,
Je viendrai te visiter,
Ville natale, lieu unique, terre idole,
Je t'embrasserai,
Avec le cœur enquiquiné de doux souvenirs
Et avec l'espoir d'un heureux et glorieux avenir.
Copyright© Juin 2010, Hébert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de quatre recueils de poèmes:
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 10:39 PM UTC
i wish i was a
better daughter
for you.
i wish i knew
what it would do
to you.
i wish i wasn’t
so afraid
and i wish i never
stayed
in that orphanage
where i barely left
my crib like a
cage.
i wish i grew up
before today
because now it is
much
too late.
May 6, 2024
May 6, 2024 at 10:02 AM UTC
So, our hero of tha day waz DJ Herc
He b driven’ lil Mizz Dazze ‘round, in a pimped out Merc
Queensbridge waz tha birthplace of Hip-Hop
Red alert, it just won’t stop
It will hurt uz a bit
No more than a **** wid a hit
Wee all thank Merc 4 puttin’ on dat show
Smokin’ sum **** n angel dust, wid sum real blow
A bro named, Coke LA Rock, waz also a financier friend of mine
Handin’ out goodies 2 tha children in-line, all tha time
Nickel bag half n ounce, quarter pound pow, now wee poppin’
Az long az tha music izn’t stoppin’ and tha rocks r still droppin’
If champagne waz still a flowin’, then tha freaks wood b steppin’ in line
Hotel, Motel, u don’t tell, wee don’t tell, one-time root 9
There’s notta man dat can’t b thrown, a horse dat can’t b rode
A bull dat can’t b stopped, a disco dat can’t b rocked, can u decode
Were u @ dat famous house party, thee dope
Spinnin’ tha holy crates of hip-hop, wee hope
A1 B-boy from every known neighborhood, wid a scent
From JC, Tony D’, Sweet n Sour, 2 super DJ ‘Fcukin’ Clark Kent
Sellin’ nickel bags of cannabis, 2 miss layD hoes to mi crew
Made mi coin roll into notes, helping outta few dat I knew
Hip-Hop waz made 4 peace, love, unity n fun
Still b countin’ mi riches, retired n still layin’ in tha hot sun
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 1:50 AM UTC
These are Christmas poems by Michael R. Burch. Some are darker Christmas poems and heretical Christmas poems.
The First Christmas
by Michael R. Burch
’Twas in a land so long ago . . .
the lambs lay blanketed in snow
and little children everywhere
sat and watched warm embers glow
and dreamed (of what, we do not know).
And THEN—a star appeared on high,
The brightest man had ever seen!
It made the children whisper low
in puzzled awe (what did it mean?).
It made the wooly lambkins cry.
Not far away a new-born lay,
warm-blanketed in straw and hay,
a lowly manger for his crib.
The cattle mooed, distraught and low,
to see the child. They did not know
it now was Christmas day!
***
Christmas Wishes
by Michael R. Burch
My wish for you, with Christmas near,
is troubles fleeing, fleet as deer,
and peace encompassing as snow,
bright merriment in brilliant flow.
I wish for you, with Christ’s Eve here,
a silver moon should skies seem drear,
white stars to light a festive sky,
sweet warmth caressing from on high.
I wish for you on Christmas day
a tree enchanted, festooned, gay . . .
and Christmas night, as carols play,
bright candles lined in white array.
But most of all, I wish you well,
and so much more than words can tell.
For this and every coming year,
Noel, Noel and Christmas cheer!
***
Late Frost
by Michael R. Burch
The matters of the world like sighs intrude;
out of the darkness, windswept winter light
too frail to solve the puzzle of night’s terror
resolves the distant stars to salts: not white,
but gray, dissolving in the frigid darkness.
I stoke cooled flames and stand, perhaps revealed
as equally as gray, a faded hardness
too malleable with time to be annealed.
Light sprinkles through dull flakes, devoid of color;
which matters not. I did not think to find
a star like Bethlehem’s. I turn my collar
to trudge outside for cordwood. There, outlined
within the doorway’s arch, I see the tree
that holds its boughs aloft, as if to show
they harbor neither love, nor enmity,
but only stars: insignias I know—
false ornaments that flash, overt and bright,
but do not warm and do not really glow,
and yet somehow bring comfort, soft delight:
a rainbow glistens on new-fallen snow.
I had Robert Frost in mind when I wrote this poem, and thus the title. Frost was fond of the word “arch,” and it’s here because of that fondness. The poem imagines him as an old man and a skeptic, but one who never really made a complete break from his childhood faith. The rainbow created by the “artificial stars” was not something I had planned ... in fact, I believe I wrote that line before I understood that the Christmas tree ornaments were creating the rainbow.
***
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year
by Michael R. Burch
Merry Christmas!
Best of wishes!
Hugs and kisses,
Carolyn.
Don't do dishes
or eat fishes.
You're delicious,
happenin'.
Happy New Year!
Hope to see yer
'round Springwater
once again.
You're a treasure,
such a pleasure
(that's for sure),
a **** friend.
Now I'm learnin'
all 'bout yearnin',
and I'm earnin'
it, I guess.
I'll be stronger,
live much longer.
If I'm wronger,
I’ll confess.
Had to tell you
that you're swell; you
ought to sell you
for a mil.
If I could,
I'd (knock on wood)
be just as good.
I never will.
Still, I love you,
thinking of you;
I eschew to
tell you why.
If you're ever
in the market
(or hard up)
just call this guy.
***
King of the World
by the Child Poets of Gaza, an alias of Michael R. Burch
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child free, for my people’s sake.
And once I had freed them, they’d all run and scream
back to my palace, for free ice cream!
Why are you laughing? Can’t a young king dream?
If I were King of the World, I would banish
hatred and war, and make mean men vanish.
Then, in their place, I’d bring in a circus
with lions and tigers (but they’d never hurt us!)
Why are you laughing? What else is a king’s purpose?
If I were King of the World, I would teach
the preachers to always do as they preach;
and so they could practice being of good cheer,
we’d have Christmas —and presents—every day of the year!
Why are you laughing? Some dreams do appear!
If I were King of the World, I would send
my counselors of peace to the wide world’s end ...
But all this hard dreaming is making me thirsty!
I proclaim Pink Lemonade; please bring it in a hurry!
Why are you laughing? Mom’ll make it in a flurry!
If I were King of the World, I’d declare
a year of happiness, with no despair—
only playing allowed, for my joyful subjects!
Not a toy left behind! Repair all rejects!
Why are you laughing? Surely no one objects!
If I were King of the World, I would fire
racists and bigots, with their message so dire.
And we wouldn’t build walls, to shut people out.
I would build amusement parks, have no doubt!
Why are you laughing? Should I use my clout?
If I were King of the World, I would drive
a red Ferrari, like no man alive!
But behind would be busses for my legions of friends:
we’d party like maniacs; the fun never ends!
Why are you laughing? Hop aboard! Let’s be friends!
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child blessed, for my people’s sake,
and every child safe, and every child free,
and every child happy, especially me!
Why are you laughing? Appoint me and see!
***
White Hot Christmas
by Michael R. Burch
I’m back from my jog;
it felt like summer
on Christmas Eve.
What a ******
Forget the sleigh, Santa,
hire a Hummer.
***
Christmas is Coming!
alternate lyrics by Michael R. Burch
Christmas is coming; Trump’s goose is getting plucked.
Please put the Ukraine in his pocketbook.
If you haven’t got the Ukraine, some bartered Kurds will do.
But if you’re short on blackmail, well, the yoke’s on you!
Christmas is coming and Rudy can’t make bail.
Please send LARGE donations, or the Cause may fail.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short on cash, the LASH will fall on you!
***
Trump puts the X in Xmas
by Michael R. Burch
Christmas is coming; the Trumpster’s purse is flat.
Please put a billion in Fat Cat’s hat.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short of cash, well then, the yoke’s on you!
***
Trump’s Christmas Shutdown
by Michael R. Burch aka “The Loyal Opposition”
The Grinch is quite proud of his friend Trump tonight:
To see Whoville shut down? “An enormous delight!”
And old cranky Scrooge approves of Trump’s whims:
“Who the hell cares about all those dark Tiny Tims?”
Meanwhile in the Kremlin a ***** glass clinks
As a pale being smiles at his latest hijinks:
“Merry Xmas to all my AmeriKKKan friends
As the bright lights go out and democracy ends!”
***
Economical Fall
by Michael R. Burch
The time to make love is autumn;
so kiss your sweethearts (if you’ve got ’em).
Seek ways to keep warm
but observe this norm:
by Christmas be sure you “forgot” ’em!
***
Yet Another Unmerry Xmas Poem
by Michael R. Burch
the Shepherds should have tended flocks
of sheep, and not become them.
the Wise Men should have used their heads:
religion numbs and dumbs them.
the Angels should have saved their praise
for saviors who can save us
from ludicrous superstitions
and Profits who deprave us.
***
What happened to compassion;
did it go out of fashion?
Or do Jesus and his Profits
prefer to line white pockets
and colorize dockets?
—Michael R. Burch
***
Malpractice
by Michael R. Burch
“He needs a new nose,”
Ma said, “suppose—
one that glows!”
The doc agreed
and worked with speed
on Santa’s steed.
The surgery done,
Ma told her son—
“It’s posh, and fun!”
But Rudolph wheezed
and cried and sneezed
with disbelief.
“It should’ve been red!”
the reindeer said,
pale and distraught in his hospital bed.
“Doc, what did you do?
Alas, boo-hoo!
It’s K-Mart-special chintzy blue!”
***
What Would Santa Claus Say?
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and plunder?
For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
Published by Lucid Rhythms, Poet’s Corner and VYBRANÉ PREKLADY BÁSNÍ Z ANGLICTINY, where it was translated into Czech by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava
“And I will **** her children with death; and all the churches shall know that I am he which searcheth the reins [kidneys] and hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works.” (So much for grace according to Revelation 2:23, where Jesus, or someone putting words in his mouth, vows to personally ****** specific children living at the time for their mother’s sins! To make matters even more macabre, one of the “sins” Jesus vows to ****** children for is eating foods offered to idols, which Saint Paul, author of most of the New Testament, said was fine and dandy! According to the gospels, Jesus himself said that Christians could eat anything they liked, because they were not defiled by what they ate. Was Jesus a murderous Indian Giver, or were the writers of the Bible making things up to suit their beliefs?
***
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
Published by Philosophical Percolations and The HyperTexts
Will Jesus Christ cause or allow Albert Einstein and Mahatma Gandhi to be tortured in an "eternal hell" for guessing wrong about which earthly religion to believe? What about Jesus's parable of the Good Samaritan, who put aside religious differences to practice compassion? Did Jesus, who saved all his sternest criticism for hypocrites, talk the talk but fail to walk the walk himself? Or did Christian theologians get something very, very wrong? And what would Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny say about such intolerance and infinite cruelty?
Keywords/Tags: Christmas poems, Christmas day, baby, Jesus, manger, crib, Bethlehem, Star of Bethlehem, star, lambs, children, cattle, oxen, donkey, straw, hay, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, Magi, Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Jesus Christ, Revelation, homosexuals, harlots, Christianity, heaven, hell, salvation, Gandhi, Hindu, saint, knees, kneeling, prayer, mercy, compassion, grace, toys, games, candy
Keywords/Tags: Christmas, day, lambs, star, children, baby, Jesus, manger, crib, cattle, oxen, straw, hay, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, Bethlehem
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 3:54 AM UTC
Job seeking is a white chocolate circus
Gets one feeling harassed and nervous
You get one and you're happy one day
Then you crib and toil your life away
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
When yer high on a streak
And no doubt its a freak
Aint nothin can beat yah
Not luck bad ner good
Dont doubt its a bet
A streakers regret
Tho yah aint beaten yet
The times surely set
Not by fate or yer odds
Ner the whim of the gods
But by an incredible drive
To keep going
Then die.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC
We've been anticipating this moment for the last nine months,
I feel our spirit force watching over this child that's about to take a bow.
Our eyes wide open as we see him for the very first time,
And Family spirits past fill the room to honor this special moment.
Thoughts of family ****** features start to become visible,
Pepaw's ears, Memaw's nose, Dads Chin, Moms cheeks and an exceptional heart.
Memaw and Pepaw love you Hunter!
Born: 11/4/ 2016
8.2 Lbs
20" tall
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 9:53 PM UTC
In the small kitchen,
A toddler sits near the window,
Laughing at the older woman across
The pile of cards at the table’s center.
The girl is older now,
Pink hair and heavy makeup
Playing a game of rummy with her
Grandmother, who looks at her with only pride.
The older woman’s hair is streaked with gray,
The girl has traded her colored hair
For black and her makeup is simple.
She has moved on to playing Poker.
The table is a mess of wedding magazines and notebooks,
The girl holds one of the magazines in her left
Hand, diamond glistening as her grandmother
Smiles to herself from behind a notebook.
The grandmother wears a lavender dress
As she fixes the girls veil.
The girl is fussing with the bouquets
Of flowers that cover the table.
The old woman sits alone at the
Table in front of a computer,
The girl is chatting excitedly,
Palm trees visible in the background.
They both sit at the table
More serious than ever as the
Girl’s hand rests on her bulging stomach.
She wears a suit while she sits
By the window, a pink car seat
Rests on the table in front of her.
The grandmother is small and shaking
With every hand she puts down.
The girl has cut her hair shorter than ever,
The same color as that of the little girl
Sitting on her lap and toying with cards.
The girl sits alone at the table,
Her eyes red and puffy from crying,
Knuckles white from clutching her cell phone
And a crib rests next to the chair.
The table is covered in flowers and gifts.
It’s surrounded by sobbing people in black.
The girl does not cry as she fixes her daughter’s
Hair by the window.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Caught myself amidst the wilderness
Where I was neither born nor raised
It always appeared so, so strange a place
No place for a child
My heart resided in the certain and familiar
Now I wonder where it longs to take me
Desire's inbound with unflinching insistence
But perceived reasons stake me to the ground
Curious odors, pulsating flashes, prickling noises, voracious appetites
The atmosphere overwhelms me senseless
Am I here to enjoy or to observe?
My chains answer with invisible weight
Now comes the rainbow-colored mist
Is this a magician's home--a flourishing disguise?
Sparks and shadows scatter into the expanse
All I see is a vista like the blessing skybox
Desire will you take me?
Lead the boy out of his crib built by the safe
Who are one and the same
Sitting, allowing the box for forge us
A light of the mist careen's my way
Its pleasant sting spreads, boundaries finally disintegrate
Remains litter the ground, I'm finally free
I'm finally lost
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
sleeping mellowly
proudly, imprisonment squirms
sleepily, prey squirms
© 2013 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
You play three.
Me, seven.
Fifteen for two.
This is where I lose you.
Your phone vibrates,
You leviate
Sitting across from me,
Making me an unwilling audience
To all the drama.
You vibrate. Your shoulders droop
Like the gape-toothed village idiot.
You gesticulate,
Fading in and out
In a semi-conscious awakening.
You're trembling under stones
Sitting on your chest.
It shows in your tembling hands.
*Twenty, for two...
Twenty-five, for six...*
I overhear your child is truant,
Another wants a ride,
Another a car, doctor or lawyer.
You're shuffling in your seat.
Not to worry.
Affter the stones are lifted,
And you're properly pegged
In the stink hole, the game's over.
Thirty, for twelve and a go. Game.
So deal with it.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC