#jackson
A man of merit
Has left the scene
Jesse J helped those oft forgot
Be seen.
‘You are somebody!’
Rev Jackson did preach
Lifting their hopes
A lesson he did teach.
‘Keep hope alive!’
Was his rallying cry
Under a rainbow banner
That did proudly fly.
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 6:38 PM UTC
Non, ce n'est pas une question rhétorique
Si tu es quelqu'un, dis-le à voix haute
Répète-le souvent. Sois heureux et fier
« Tu es quelqu'un ». « Tu es quelqu'un »
Ce poème est souvent récité par l'homme d'action
Notre regretté frère, le révérend Jesse Jackson
Un leader, une légende, un héros qui a lutté pour nos droits civiques et de vote pour l'égalité
La liberté, la justice, la démocratie, le respect, les opportunités et la compassion
Pour tous. Aux côtés de Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Medgar Evers et d'autres, il a combattu le racisme,
L’apartheid, l'injustice, les préjugés, l'inégalité, la violence, la brutalité, le sexisme et le cynisme
Frère Jesse nous a appris « À ne jamais abandonner »
« À garder l’espoir » et « À nous inscrire sur les listes électorales ». « Tu es quelqu'un ».
Le poème écrit par le Révérend William H. Borders Jr.
Les larmes aux yeux, je ne l'ai pas encore lu
Mais je ressens les émotions, l'énergie, la force et la passion qu'il dégage transmet et propage avec force
Je suis sûr que tu ressens l'inspiration, l'électricité, la chaleur qui brûle jusqu'au plus profond de mon être
Es-tu quelqu'un ? Oui, tu es quelqu'un
Lève-toi, dresse-toi et crie-le haut et fort :
Tu es quelqu'un. Lève-toi, et sois fier
Oui, oui, tu es un être humain magnifique
Oui, tu es un être fier et magnifique
Merci Jesse d'aimer tous les enfants de Dieu
Merci aux révérends Borders Jr. et Jesse L. Jackson Sr.
Pour ces mots simples et puissants. L'inspiration vient du Dieu Tout-Puissant
Qui es-tu ? Es-tu sûr d'être quelqu'un ?
Oui, oui, tu es quelqu'un, tu es quelqu'un
Moi aussi, je suis quelqu'un
Moi aussi, je suis quelqu'un. Je suis quelqu'un
Nous sommes TOUS ‘quelqu'un’.
P.-S. Traduction Du Poème « Are-You Somebody? » Par Hébert Logerie
Ce poème est dédié au révérend William Borders Jr.,
Au révérend Jesse Louis Burns Jackson Sr., à nos familles et aux enfants du monde.
Copyright © février 2026 Hébert Logerie. Tous droits réservés.
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs recueils de poésie.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 11:40 PM UTC
Completed Jimmy Dean Breakfast
Sang to the tune of Micheal Jackson's original song Billy Jean-1983
Verse 1
With the milk poured-bowl of cereal, hash-browns and melted cheese
I said, "got coffee grinds, sugar and cream and a cinnamon bun-
a fried egg-on your toast golden brown.
Yea a cinnamon bun-with
a fried egg-on your toast golden brown."
Said "I just added sour cream, to the bagels with Philly cheese,
These pancakes almost burned, flip em' now-with a cinnamon bun,
a fried egg-on your toast golden brown."
Pre-chorus
Someone once told me, "be careful what you do,
Syrup goes terrible with salt... (Hee-hee)
And melted butter drippin' "be it food that's on the grill
And just add chives to as well, cold pizza's
Good breakfast to!"
Chorus
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
Bacon and Chorizo-just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
I just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
Verse 2
For forty danishes and for forty pies, granola on the side
Choice of sausage or oatmeal with jam? Pineapple and ham
And a fried egg-on your toast golden brown.
So next some cream of rice
Some croissants should do just fine
(Yea, real nice) Do just fine! (A-hoo!)
I asked could we have blueberry muffins (please?) lemon cakes with whipped cream
Maybe even Frittata's and strawberry's on the side, they should do just fine (Oh, oh)
With a fried egg-on your toast golden brown.
Pre-chorus
Someone once told me, "be careful what you do,
Syrup goes terrible with salt... (Hee-hee)
Whatever kind of pasta you eat
Huevos Rancheros with chili's
Beef hash and sauteed mushrooms
Even got egg omelette's too
Chorus
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
Bacon and Chorizo-just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
Bacon and Chorizo-just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
Just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
(Break)
Woo! Woo!
Chorus
Just put the griddles on, uh
Ya' know the waffles are almost done
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
Bacon and chorizo-just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know the waffles are almost done
No-no-no, no-no-no-no
Just put the griddles on,
Ya' know the waffles are almost done
(Outro)
Just put the griddles on
Waffles will soon be done
Put the griddles on
Yeah, yeah, Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
yeah, Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on, uh
yeah, Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on, uh
yeah, Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on, uh
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on, uh
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast
Jul 17, 2024
Jul 17, 2024 at 8:50 AM UTC
~**My portrait was painted by Jackson *******
<|>
“***there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and perception is only your truth.
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips, you make them into paintings that hang in your own private museum,
but signed by me as first passenger***”
<|>
when did I write these words?
can’t recall, though undated,
they seem all too familiar, and thinking that if I didn’t,
I should have…
for the title of this ‘poem painting’ has lain in quietude,
a resident in my file of
“someday writs, awaiting,”
when the itch demands you will
essay
**the admixture of words and swords
that will cut a newborn corded reciprocity of thee and me,
an unbound bind that ties and frees us
from and by our shared senses…**
today, an inadvertent blinding sunlight stumble is demanding a
fulsome scratching
<|>
the portrait of each is the irrational intersectional of splats and drips,
each viewer, reader, filters the image through a common
uncommonality,
which is as it should be,
**for if we are each created in His image,
how glorious is the diversity of our deities,
each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau
of a small planet, insignificant but
uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,**
human
<|>
the précis of this conundrum conversation bewilders,
a single word drops,
of plaint, paint, blood,
a seconds blush blurred
that is the building blocks of imagery
I state is mine,
but now realizations swiftly fertilize,
**the portrait is not of me,
but of me blended into thee,
and this poem,
is our composition**
that hangs in each of our primary
museum,
newly re-titled,
A Passenger, Realized
Sep 14, 2023
Sep 14, 2023 at 7:10 AM UTC
Reading All My Stuff On Hellopoetry Makes Me Happy
Man I Miss This H.P
Having Time To Myself Reading.
Smiling At My Crazy Self From The Past.
Of How Crazy I Was Over Him
Gabriel
Fukk I Miss That Guy.
I Got Now Two Crazy Lil Men Now I Love Them Lots.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 7:47 PM UTC
father
violence
lyrics
skin color
surgery
lyrics
fame
people
lyrics
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 1:38 PM UTC
Custom cannot wither, nor age enslave
My infinite array of memories.
I came of age upon a wave
Of ideals that anchored
Changes and elders outraged,
Appalling them into rage.
They often responded
With violence, yet we endured.
Even when comrades were shot down,
And protesters run to ground,
The promise of a new world grew in secret,
In the impromptu families in hill towns,
Or the remnants of Haight-Ashbury
And the minds of Lost Boys and Girls unbound,
In the survivors of Kent and Jackson State;
Our dream died not but elected to wait,
And In the choices of all
Not to succumb to servility
Nor women to proscribed maternity.
Equality stayed the rule instead of resignation.
Now, age has slowed but not stopped us
And we reach out across the air,
Teaching young ones, as passionate as we,
To distrust despots, ever serve the cause of liberty.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 9:56 AM UTC
“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
**Jackson *******
*my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum,
signed by you, truthfully, forever,
as first viewer,
and thus as,
co-creator*
Nat Lipstadt
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
dear Jackson,
i saw you again today
with her.
i was going to talk to you until she pulled you into a kiss
and so i left it to another day
dear Jackson,
i saw you again with her
but this time she was looking away
and you looking at her, and i wondered
what were you thinking about?
dear Jackson,
she wasnt with you today
so i sat next to you and you told me
you had an argument with her
so i gave my condolences and you said not to worry
dear Jackson,
you were by yourself again today but came to me
you seemed really down and so i offered you strawberry milk
you smiled, and thanked me
i know she hates strawberry milk
dear Jackson,
you were with her again today
smiling this time and laughing
she had a banana milk in her hand as did you
and so i left
dear Jackson,
i didnt see you today
i wondered where you were
as i sat on the bench
drinking my strawberry milk
dear Jackson,
she was screaming at you today and you screamed back
she stormed off leaving you alone
as you sat with head in your hands
and i drank my strawberry milk
dear Jackson,
i gave you another strawberry milk
and you thanked me with a small grin
and we sat there drinking
and enjoying eachothers company
dear Jackson,
you should smile more
it really suits you
its just a shame that today
you smiled because of her
dear Jackson,
there was a strawberry milk in your locker
and she said it was from her
and you accepted it and kissed her
forgetting she hated strawberry milk
dear Jackson,
its been 5 months since weve spoken
and i sit here every day wishing
and drinking my strawberry milk
as you smile together
i was going to talk to you,
but whats the point.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 8:06 AM UTC
Operational anxiety. The words I've been using don't make any sense to me anymore. It's all quiet and I have so many questions. The mountains shout, **** you!" over the Gros Ventre. And I'm lifeless and apathetic about lessons. I just turn on the Philip Glass and go for **** misunderstanding. More of it is coming and somehow I allow it in. A me circle of despair, loss, and immense love. My subjects must be growing curiouser and curiouser. Some of these adverbs dress in white dresses with black boots and carry scars on their palms while they bribe you off their tears to crawl back into the dusty desert graves your skin wants back.
My oven mitts aren't even of animals. I stare at the deer and moose from our second story balcony. My wrists hurt in a loss of practicing this habit. Subject matter that burns through the nights where I don't sleep. I torment myself in nursery rhymes that don't rhyme. Beds that don't water themselves, and the stories that keep my fingers soggy and pruney, drowning their dactylic digits in infinite keyboard unfulfillment.
The music is familiar. It throws its knife-wielding notes into my gut- my innards are bleeding, and my headache is growing stiff. I could mutate like Alex Mac and operate in a vacuum. I could be an incubator of self-aggrandizing disastrous behavior, an awful diaspora of introspection, a sickness that starts in soft flesh and tissue and summarizes me in the faces and heads of people and children that never turned their heads to listen.
I am wrestling your poems out of your hands. A royal couplet you try to explode against your innards, and a ****** prose that cascades upon the walls, in a mushy textural, even artistic mess of crimsony soulless words you throw around, things haven't changed but you I think you were just pretending to be haunting.
Winter hoarfrost and summer sweating. Integers upsetted by short-acting suns and cold and chilling dips in frigid waist-high water. The rocks are slimy and I don't feel like the fires are still coming. I point my nose to the water and take fifty paces. When will I have my forty-two minute day. Children are ***** liars and ought to have no sugar or treats. But let's not feed them from bowls we place on the floor.
My fingers are freezing, my cheeks, nose, back, and elbows too. I am smoking and never going to stop. I have met Joe Black and he tells me he used to command David Berkowitz into shooting people in cars, so I tell him the only thing certain in life is death and taxes, and that we need a new dishwasher, a cheaper place to buy ice cream, and a rough concrete square of floor I can torture myself for experiencing too much as human.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
Eleven to you
Star-crust in de stijl courts
Silhouettes and shadows
Speed boats race around the lake
On and on and on and on and
Guilty pleasures and guilty moldy blues
Sandwiches on the weekends
Pasta and pesto or gnocchi every other day too
Common mysteries follow the bayou
Heavy heads laden in niello swamps
Does acrostics in the daytime
Pleasures herself with crosswords on her days off
Sacks of coffee, potatoes and ivory- beer at 5am
Three fingers lay across the stitch
This needlepoint is something good
No one died but someone could
Heavy on the hops, melancholy Wednesday's
Miracles in wrestling Russian masters
Thwarting automobiles without their governors
Faster and faster they go
Growing faster and faster they show
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC
White-bodied black bird raven like creatures that sit everywhere and obnoxiously yell to each other from the wilderness we live inside.
Wet birds. Soaking in mod colors affixed to the numbers the looms set in the torn threads of an old tank top named with the characters of Dune.
And in sweetly moving breaths of air the peaks pull through this range of mountains seen from our back deck.
Friends, join us as we balk putting away cardboard boxes as not to put a hinderence on the relationships with our neighbors and instead traverse the moose-trails the tourists stop and crop their lenses at- only to make to Brouhlim's.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
The spirit of Jacksonia lies in the tides. But sometimes we never see what the moon hides. The spirit of Albion lies everywhere at all times.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
At what point does one's status
Change from normal to elite?
Is it when a career is ended ?
Or is it after just one feat ?
When does a "Boy of Summer"
Reach that level...at the end ?
After playing at a high level,
Is that when he ascends?
Hitting streaks, get watched each year
But most just come and go
They try to reach game 56
Like Joe Diamggio!
Legendary status
was bestowed upon this man
Hitting for 56 straight games
no one who's followed can.
Ted Williams was an all star
The "Splendid Splinter" with the bat
His records's stood since '41
And that my friends is that
A .406 average is baseballs holy grail
It's one that every batter
Tries to reach , But they all fail
These marks made these men legends
No more "Boys of Summer" here
They've moved on up in status
To one that no one will come near
But others, have no records
They played a solid, workman game
Do they deserve the recognition?
Will you even know their names?
Al Kaline with the Tigers
The World Series... never his
But in Detroit...he was baseball
A Legend you can't dismiss
Reggie Jackson...there's another
In October he was great
but for all the other times he played
He was just average at the plate
The list, you see, is endless
It's one you think of and discuss
Is he now of Legendary status
or a "Boy of Summer", just like us?
Over time he may make Legend
Over time he may drop back
But, you can always ask the question
Each time you hear the bat go "crack"
So, If you are a fan of baseball
Just watch the game like me
You can watch these "boys of Summer"
And just wonder...what will be.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC
Dear Emma Watson -
Shall we make love
The object of
Our spiritual quest
Together?
Surely an altogether
Better option
Than pairing you off
In a commentary box
With one John Motson
Discussing twenty two
Pairs of socks
Chasing a piece of leather?
If spiritual questing
Is not for you
I will make do
With tightly tied pairs of shoes
Existential emus,
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.
Whilst hoping you find
Your Sherlock Holmes,
Miss Watson
I will content myself with
Cataloguing my collection of
Black and white combs.
I also have plots on
Which I need to work -
Wednesday Addams's love of
Moon dried tomatoes
Or Erica Roe
Somewhere in Portugal
Growing sweet potatoes
For sale.
Don't let anyone tell you
There ain't no perks
To being an Omega Male.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
The straw that broke the camel's back
Was auctioned off on Ebay
And bought by an amnesiac
Who liked collecting hay.
If possession is nine-tenths of the law
All I need to do now
Is buy the final straw
And then he was sectioned
And taken away.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
Said The Raven
To The Raven
Which Raven are you?
I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
And I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Edgar Allan Poe.
Apparently there's a rave on -
Shall we go?
Yes - let us go then you and I
As the evening is spread out
Against the sky.
But not like a patient
Etherised upon a table.
Let us like Thunderbirds
Not gentle go into this dark night.
So dressed in sable
White gloves
And whistles
They went on their way -
Not looking forward
To conversations about
Michelangelo at all.
For as we all know
Old age should rave and burn
At close of day.
And not just fizzle out.
More big shout...........................................
And rave until you fall.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
Histina Chrendricks
Retices Milericks
Bakcwards
But none of them
Are pereatable in buplic
Till trime tavel
becomes moccercially alaivable.
Can't wait for the piobic
Or even just a Touyube plic.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
Mary, Mary, quite Quant
Do you like the font I'm using?
Said Mary
First pausing
Then musing
As was her wont
Now you mention it
No I don't.
How Quantrary.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 6:11 AM UTC
Years later
Bathsheba's psychiatrist
Was analysing the tryst
Between King David
And her.
It was no tryst
Said she.
What a slur.
He was a ******
And an opportunist.
An amoeba would concur
Said the psychiatrist
That a shower screen
And being more demure
Would have been
Quite spiritually enterprising.
You cannot expect
Kind David to desist
From objectifying your femurs
And a cracking pair of amethysts.
Don't treat me
Like some calculating
Hormone Exchange Unit
You sexist misogynist.
You are not fit
To analyse me.
You say your name's Freud
But you're wholly devoid
Of any insight
Of what is amiss
Or my troubles might be.
Not one piece of grit
Have you put in my oyster.
You obsequious churl
I'm a girl you don't mess with.
I could have you hung.
But instead she dismissed him
and booked an appointment
With a certain professor
Who went by the name of
Carl Gustav Jung.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC