#muses
Mother, your were the first lady,
Who painted my cheeks with angelic kisses at birth,
And the first one who adorned my soul with wealth,
Tenderness, charity and sincerity.
Today is the day that we celebrate all mothers,
All women - young, old and deceased, and all future mothers.
Spring, the season of flowers and lovers,
Continues to enchant the hearts of the blue baby quakers.
****** Mary, I think of you all the time; welcome me
In your heart. Mona Lisa, imaginary lady,
I love your smile and your gaze. Mom, Mom,
Let me dream for the last time on your *****
Henceforth, I would like to entertain you daily,
And when the bell rings your anniversary,
I'll surely rush to dive deeper in your lovely pool,
Under the sparkling of the stars, under the clear moon.
Mother, you were the one who showed me the difference
Between night and day. You fed me during the day,
And at nighttime, you put me to sleep like a prince,
Amidst the air filled-up with a soft jasmine scent of May.
The sweet souvenirs of your unconditional care
Caution me to love all mild-mannered women;
I can feel flowing in my veins, in my organs,
All day long a succulent taste of a ripe pear.
You know very well my faults and my qualities,
Please ask God at vespers, before I fall asleep with the Muses,
To bring back in my ears the humming memories,
So I can dream peacefully under the spells of your melodies.
Copyright© May 2009, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry books.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 2:35 PM UTC
i still long for you in some ways
i feel myself sharpening always
i heal my bruises, collect new muses
keep my mind occupied all day
i notice new flaws to tweak
i notice new ways to be
i notice all the times i surrendered
i offer myself that grace
i deserve it, i am worth it
i am a butterfly, i earned it
i am deserving of my purpose
i allow my abundance to be served
Dec 24, 2025
Dec 24, 2025 at 5:42 AM UTC
I gave my muses a drink
and got them drunk on happiness
AND
inspiration spilled
without crying over it
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 6:15 AM UTC
~*for M. both
a living one, and
imagined, too*~
10/5/25
just woke up and began to work;
the muses are cofuse-ed
they think when head hits pillow.
it is there then the~moment to
refill my head
with verses glorious, alas, alack,
into the sub-subconscious furnace they go
to melt, meld or even die
iron of ironies; 90% of these words,
were adrift in my head when I
to bed, "for to be repaired" last night, and
only came to be recalled @ 2:34 am
when them muses and you guru,
woke me to 'get outta bed', and you
who
bids me sleep,
this clashing arousal,
starts engine's cylinders to begin
live~composing, stoking and stroking,
to awake, create, reassemble and uncover
the poetic notions trans~versing my head
one-day, someday they will depart,
for cleaner, greener Champs-Élysées,
where reborn poets speak all languages
with equal fluency, eagerly awaiting
my spouting in Hindi (already ✅), in
Hebrew and any/all dialecticals this
god earth
ever mothered
And there you have it, my FPOTD, dear m.,
SUNday 10/5 & writ in the city where I am alive
in the Den of Writing, where the muses
like to hang out with their old companion,
until such time they will come to inhabit
a younger, well rested, equally restless,
a not-my-mine mind
<nml>
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 3:08 AM UTC
Every creative soul requires
A certain set of friends.
Companions that will guide their pencils,
Paintbrushes and pens.
One needs small voices in their ear
Inspiring every work.
My closest of such friends are Liebe,
Elend and Ehrfurcht.
"Create a masterpiece,"
Says Liebe, sat beside my desk,
"That captures his fair image,
So perfect and picturesque!
Write down the thousand flattering words
Stored up within your heart.
Assign them rhyme and rhythm
As lyrical written art!"
"Spill out your pain and grief," says Elend,
"Onto a blank page.
Make image and analogy
Out of your fear and rage.
Must you release your anguish
As a scream into the sky,
I'll help to make it tasteful --
Pleasing to both ear and eye."
"Share with the world the light you found,"
Chimes Ehrfurcht, eyes aglow,
"That made you fall in love with living
And renewed your soul!
Discovery, courage, hope,
Glories of Heaven and of Earth!
Proclaim with verse and color
That which gives this life it's worth!"
Some days I seek their counsel,
And they're nowhere to be found.
Others, I'm nagged unceasingly
By these three voices' sound.
More helpful friends I cannot find
To aid me in my work.
My personal muses are Liebe,
Elend and Ehrfurcht.
Apr 12, 2025
Apr 12, 2025 at 5:29 PM UTC
The meaning of creative breath.
No one sees them,
they're the source of oxygen.
They nourish with thoughts,
symbols, and visions.
Don't ignore it.
What flows through us
is beyond us, and next to us.
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 9:39 AM UTC
I grab my pencil
everyday
Shaky hands
bring down the lead tip
barely touching the paper
in anticipation
of inspiration
Bombs explode outside
clouding the sky
I call my muses
to work
but
they fail to clock in
because
the road between
the heart and the mind
has been
bombed
Oct 18, 2024
Oct 18, 2024 at 2:10 AM UTC
I awoke this morning and
wondered if I was even sentient.
The curtains failed to close
over my lids once more,
forcing my mind's actors to
repeat their tired monologues.
They wax on about regrets,
and the lovers who failed
to pass the test of time,
friends too for that matter,
recipes that will be born
in the upcoming week,
and the subtle noises
emanating from the
dark corners of my room.
Try as I might to pull
the rope of my velvet curtain,
there remains my lead actor
once more trying to
prove her point that
the road to success is
in the wee hours
of the morning,
right here and now.
The entrance on my desk,
where the muses like to offer
me cement for my tired bricks,
even though I have been
harping on about how they
have been doing their
timeless work of threading
inspiration into my flesh
in the afternoons as of late,
amidst the heatwave when
the citizens of the world
recoil inside their homes
to escape the sweat and
throngs of people who
leave me weary during
the early hours of
the morning.
Oct 9, 2022
Oct 9, 2022 at 4:03 PM UTC
Flowers fight flowers
To aridity
In my chest
Such is a penance
Must paid
For your distant benevolence
A liveliness so ecstatic
It slays and slays
All bits
Of melancholy peace
I’ve known
Lust you,
I lust you to war
Lust you, I lust you on
Nothing purer dare I claim
Lest the Sirens
Whirling
Within your gaze
Question the chastity
I have so well known
There is a desolation
Beneath this devouring tide
And you do not get me
You do not understand
I have always
Loved bleakness
Have always loved
A piece or two
Of you
And here
Bees fight bees
And the carnage
Weaves you a golden dirge
Soft as satin and softer still
Will you not hear—
Will you not?
I sink and sink
with the fair maidens
Who lured me to stillness
And not a note
Not a tune stirs its gentle wings
Your mute Muses
They know not a taste
Of hues
And I lure myself
Into you
Still
How awfully beautiful
Is our dance
How bleak—
Jul 2, 2021
Jul 2, 2021 at 3:07 PM UTC
An artist in name fact and form
I keep on creating a reality that's torn
from the Truth and its Lies
that forced me still to stay blind
with no passion nor time
to mind the withering eyes
in my portraits
But artist I stay
even when my brushes lay
on a white cold place
and my muse has died
through the shapes that she tried
to take on and survive
so she walked out the door
and the colours are no more
with my hands painting still
the lonely emptiness of my core
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 12:19 PM UTC
He blew me a kiss
that blew my muses
n a e f h o
i o s o e p r aaaaa
t a u i
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 3:31 AM UTC
I spent all those years
painting achromatic smiles
on my sad muses.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 8:06 AM UTC
it's electric
chilling to the touch
can't let go of the idea
your hands gliding
down my arms
to grasp my hands
it's a silly i suppose
the way i dream of you
but i can't help it
have we met before?
or do you stay here
during waking life?
locked away, as i remain.
longing for the moments of rest
where i'll still find you
do you wait for me?
between delicate dreams
and a fifth dimension?
do you know how you move me?
phantom touches of fingertips
as you look into my eyes?
god, i'd love to be loved
to remember the glow if it,
even for a moment.
to remember how it feels
to wear a borrowed sweater
or to lend mine to a lover
to wear it.
the hug that lasts
'til you decide it's over
to feel it.
the warmth that lingers,
your heart in their sleeves
to breathe it.
the smell of their cologne,
the connected memories of being held
held in a way that let you know
that they never want to let go,
that to do so is a temporary measure
so later on,
they can embrace you once again
reliving the euphoria of human connection
but is it love?
to crave when you are so starved
or is it merely loneliness
to crave the escape of a lover's arms
carefully wrapped around you,
as they whisper low
those sweet nothings,
telling you that you are everything
when you have felt so empty
a resurgence of half-filled cups,
rose-tinted outlooks and lovesick melodies
exchanged glances that form their own languages
and i want so badly
for a name to be honey in my mouth again,
so sweet i am afraid to open up and let it out
i crave so deeply the feeling
of being fully clothed and yet naked,
fully myself and fully in love.
and i may be a romantic,
but i don't need flowers at my door
i don't need you to tell me what your heart is for
i want the little things,
tag teaming the dishes as you tell me your day,
the rough draft of the email you need to send
( if it needs an edit, i promise to be kind )
nothing speaks of love like the mundane,
to share a life; to share even a moment
what else could be so intimate?
i want to know your middle name
or to invent, should you not already possess one
i want to have knowledge that gives fae their power
i want to know your favorite color,
so i can wear it when i'm alone
to encapsulate the meaning
i desire above all else,
to be loved
with only the best intentions
why would the world be beautiful
if every inch of it didn't deserve
to be enveloped by love?
i ponder alone
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 6:15 AM UTC
Sometimes the muses gift you with inspiration, meters tall
Sometimes they curse you with none at all.
The muse's presence can be a blessing and a curse,
But I'd still prefer that over the reverse
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 9:10 PM UTC
"What is your greatest fear?" he asked.
"For words to flee" she said.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 4:51 AM UTC
You don't have to be alone, to feel empty,
It is a feeling that feeds on you, ebbs your strength,
makes you vulnerable to faith.
You can be in a room full, of happy souls,
and still, the cusp of emptiness might sneak through the door,
and give you a nudge in the direction loneliness.
It is about that strange feeling, that seeks in, like mildew, or vaseline
after a wound, scratching the surface,
barely making contact with the inner skin,
and yet gripping you with pain, and bleeds of trauma.
When you will look around, you'll see, so many people,
with bright smile on their faces, alluring eyes, the ones,
who look like fountains, beautiful ones with pure purpose.
But, the truth is many among them, are still not what you see.
The crust, the cover of souls are very happy, and yet, there are things missing inside of them.
Somebody who might wish for a kid, somebody who has jiust lost his sister, somebody who has a disease, eating on him,
snatching away his life, meant to be surged atop exuberant mountains.
People hide it so well, you wouldn't notice if you don't look closely.
The pain lives in each of them, feeding, breaking, disintegrating them.
The more they ignore it, the more it hurts.
The fact is accepting, it's a part of you, of who you are,
a fragment of your identity.
Because accepting it, makes you versatile, it makes you understandable.
And once, you are understandable, to people,
You become complete, within yourself, and you don't just barely scratch the surface now,
You go deep into understanding who you really are, and that makes you strong.
Because when that loneliness heals, it is one zeus of a feeling.
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 11:09 AM UTC
how would you feel,
if your soul is blown away,
by the night air, the breeze,
into unknown places,
among unknown people.
while you'd be hoping for it to return,
feeling empty, the void in you so deep
and threatening.
that it penetrates your feelings,
that hand dry with the clothes now.
and you would wait for it come back,
to fly back to you, and make you feel,
yourself again.
but you know that it won't,
because you kept it caged for so long,
in the boundaries of guilt,
that it wants freedom now,
more than ever.
a life for itself,
out of your body, that kept it,
shimmering it's glow, diminishing it's existence,
for so long, it often forgot, it's light had existed.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 12:36 PM UTC
When effulgent sun scattered his splendors in the firmament
And charming flowers shed their pure, sweet bewitching fragrance
Then I whispered an adoring adieu to my loneliness
And cherished the blossoming muses of stoup in ecstasy.
Jan 27, 2020
Jan 27, 2020 at 1:17 AM UTC
~for she who will know~
the Mother of Muses came to me
on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart
*we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse
to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.
all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing
see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime
We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End*
11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
Alas, for I am master of my pen;
But Calliope is mistress of me.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 4:32 PM UTC
again, madness!
one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?
why?
must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:
“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”
no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!
your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.
the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.
here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>
But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:
*”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.*”
A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out
these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.
<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.
a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
Tu ne vas pas me croire.
Moi-même je n'en reviens pas !
Je suis traumatisé, grand brûlé,
Mutilé de guerre
Tout cela à cause de tes huit soeurs
Tes ombres femelles, les Muses.
Je te raconte, excuse les sanglots,
Les spasmes, les soubresauts de ton petit oiseau orphie
Dépecé, déplumé, vide de toute substance.
Ratatiné. Ratiboisé.
Tes fieffées soeurs, ces gredines m'ont violé !
M'entends-tu?
Je ne suis plus que l'ombre de moi-même
Sans tambour ni trompettes
En plein tunnel de Fréjus
Entre la France et l'Italie.
Je ne me souviens plus très bien du début de mon calvaire :
Je dormais à poings fermés
Je rêvais de toi et je sentais tes paumes chaudes
Qui me dorlotaient et me murmuraient des mots doux
Tu disais que j'étais l'oiseau lyre
L'oiseau de feu l'oiseau paon
Tu voulais que je pavane
En toi sur ton balcon
En faisant mine de regarder les étoiles
Et que comme Marlborough je m'en aille en guerre
Mironton mironton mirontaine
On se ravitaillait tous les deux pour supporter l'exil
Et de provisions en provisions nous ne sortions plus du lit.
Tu me disais "qui aime bien châtie bien"
Et "quand on s'aime on sème "
Et tu me châtiais de va et vient subtils
Et tu semais ma semence aux quatre vents
Sur les champs blancs et roses de ta chair
Tu disais no nu niet
Pour battre la mesure
No nu niet de ta petite voix
No nu niet de ta grosse voix
Une caresse pour marraine
Une caresse pour la Muse
J'étais aux anges
Je dormais du sommeil tranquille
Des orphies
Je croyais que c'étaient des formules bibliques
Et que tu baptisais ainsi l'oiseau
Nonuniet
Je croyais que c'était toi,
C'étaient tes ombres qui se relayaient
C'étaient elles qui étaient à la manoeuvre
Pour me punir de t'avoir choisie toi, mon ange,
Et pas elles, ces diablesses
Déguisées sous leurs masques de la comédia dell'arte.
Rien ne me fut épargné sous la férule de ces Amazones
A huit elles m'ont pénétré par mes neuf orifices
Ou étais-tu alors
Quand j'ai crié ton nom ?
J'ai perdu mon dernier pucelage
J'ai eu beau leur dire
Vietato l'ingresso qui !
Leur dire que j'étais Cagnolo Nogerola detto Roméo
Et que ma Muse à moi n'était aucune d'entre elles
Mais bel et bien toi, Giulietta Cappelletti,
Elles m'ont fait endurer ce que je souhaiterai pas
A mon pire ennemi, foi de Montecchi.
Elles m'ont tatoué la peau de long en large
De phrases inintelligibles
Elles ont gravé dans ma chair des choses insensées :
Chiudi gli occhi e sogna, Farinelli !
Dante, ti amo !
Portami ovunque tu sia. No !
Non smettere mai di splendere con il tuo sorriso !
Nacio nustra maravilhosa historia de amor !
Gracais mi amor por compartir un viaje tan romantico !
I love you forever
Elles m'ont dégusté comme on déguste
Un riso venere con gamberi e crema de zafferano
Elles m'ont emmaillotté de chapelets
Et de litanies
Elles m'ont marqué au chewing gum
Comme on marque au fer rouge
En me laissant leurs mots d'amour.
Je me suis retrouvé au centre de l'arène
Comme un gladiateur en guenilles
Et j'ai chanté de ma plus belle voix de castrat
Un Lascia ch'io pianga
Que n'aurait pas désavoué Haendel...
Me voilà à tes pieds ce matin, émasculé,
Implorant ta miséricorde, Muse bienfaitrice,
Je voudrais que tu me cautérises ces plaies
Que tu me soignes de tes Furies de soeurs
Tu me manques !
Concède-moi cent jours d'indulgence
Comme délai de latence
Le Ciel te le rendra au centuple !
Te saludo Mama
Del nostro Dio
Je sais que seul toi pourra effacer le traumatisme
Me débloquer, me redonner le sourire
Aurais-tu un peu de teinture d'arnica
De la racine de ***** contra et un peu de cyprine
Pour lentement me badigeonner?
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:49 AM UTC
Je suis Orphie, fils d'Orphée et d'Eurydice
Petits fils d'Oeagre et de Calliope,
Bercé par les Muses et les Naïades
J'ai hérité de la lyre à sept cordes
D'Apollon et j'en ai rajouté deux
Rien que pour caresser ma Muse
Ma voix est miel
Ma voix est feu
Ma voix est pierre
Elle joue, elle chante, elle danse
Elle s'insinue comme un fleuve secret sous la roche et la fissure
L'attendrit et elle s'élève tel un ballon et flotte dans le vent
Elle dévie le cours des laves en fusion
Et pénètre au coeur du Stromboli intime
De la colère des Muses
Quand elles se font Furies.
Elle dompte les bêtes féroces et charnelles
A distance elle fait fondre
Les résistances et les fantômes
On m'appelle aussi Amore
Les Furies pourront me déchiqueter
Me mettre en lambeaux
Me jeter comme mon père du haut du mont Rhodope
Je chanterai encore du fond des mers
L 'amour de mon éternelle Muse
Ma naïade bien aimée
Nue.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:25 AM UTC
Entre Muses et Furies
Il y a une seringue de cyprine amère
Où se coagule fréquemment ma Muse.
Elle entre dans tous ses états
M'injurie et me voue aux gémonies
En pleine crise de jalousie.
Ma muse est une guerrière blessée
D'une volée de bois vert et de cons
Elle veut me froisser, m'effacer, m'annihiler
Me priant de fourrer sa prétendue Rivale
De poèmes lubriques dans le trou de balle.
Et ma Sans-Rivale, ma Déesse, ma Chatte Sainte et Vierge
Ma Muse soi-disant végétarienne se révèle cannibale
De la pire espèce des tribus anthropophages
Et me déchiquette, moi son zmeu, son dragon nuageux,
Sa muse masculine, son pervers narcissique,
Son ombre réfléchie dans le miroir,
Me dépèce comme une hyène frénétique
Aux crocs d'ivoire en chaleur
Elle me saigne tant et tant
Que je suinte de tous mes lambeaux
Résine, sève, latex, musc
Comme une plantation hétéroclite et sauvage
D'hévéas, de pissenlits, de sapotilliers
D'ignames jaunes et de dachines.
Et quand rassasiée de ma gomme à mâcher
Certifiée bio et sans additif
Elle se barbouille les lèvres de ma saignée
Je lui murmure encore que c 'est elle Mon Unique,
Ma Précieuse Ombre, Ma Chatte Immaculée
Entre toutes les chattes, mon chewing gum préféré
Et que je bande pour ses entrailles
Cérébralement
Mystiquement.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:46 AM UTC