#st
'Enjoy your meal', He said, in French.
Lourdes, tucked into the Pyrenees
a place of pilgrimage, of healing.
I ate my lunch in a park,
cheese, bread, some olives.
I had arrived by coach, one way ticket,
not planning to leave anytime soon.
10h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 8:17 AM UTC
One of these days,
Anse d'Hainault, the crib of my love,
I shall come to visit you sitting on the back of a dove,
I shall spectacularly cross the haze,
Venetian style, at vespers,
Via the Persian rug, like a fairy tale and its dwarf.
I will slowly appear on the wharf,
Where thousands of amazed spectators,
Boaters, and sailors
Await the eventful parade.
Notable guests will be present at the serenade:
Dolphins, larks,
Donkeys, sharks,
And other disguised cheerleaders.
That will be the celebration of Saint John the Baptist,
Where countless of nymphs will be in festive mode.
Under the influence of a warm sugar-coated tempo,
I shall party with the forgotten spirits on the list.
One of these days,
Anse d'Hainault, my love,
I shall sail on my gondola as splendid as the seagull above;
I will come to visit you in spite of the blaze.
My native town, my precious soil, my friendly land,
I will embrace you and kiss your right hand,
With the heart engrossed with sweet souvenirs and good nature,
And with the hope of a happy and glorious future.
Copyright© June 2010, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of countless poetry books.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 10:26 PM UTC
transversing mountains
crossing sea and ocean
I came to rest
in Orkney.
Archipelago
north of mainland Scotland
St Magnus, Martyr, Viking Earl
welcomed me home.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 8:48 AM UTC
Stigmata, uncommon, but known.
St Padre Pio, lived its truth.
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 8:32 AM UTC
St. Patrick’s Day,
the Irish,
the green,
the drinks,
the food,
the friends,
the family,
the love,
the leprechaun,
the *** of gold,
the rainbow,
the Irish poem,
the Irish prayer
happy St. Patrick’s Day 
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 2:17 PM UTC
Green beer sweating on lacquered bars,
plastic beads, paper hats, rented stars,
“Kiss me, I’m Irish” stretched across chests,
parades of bad accents and borrowed bests.
Lá Fhéile Pádraig!
Shots lined up like saints in a row,
toasts thrown loud where the fiddle flows,
everyone's Irish for one long night,
everyone's drunk on a filtered green light.
Cabbage boils in a *** of myth,
and corned beef’s cooked into counterfeit,
Cheap clovers stand in for prayers once said,
while history’s hushed so it won’t upset.
This day wasn’t born under neon signs,
it was forged in fields stripped bare by design.
In hunger that hollowed the ribs to dust,
in a language crushed quiet for speaking up.
A choice was carved clean, sharp as a blade:
die with your culture,
or live white unafraid.
So they lived.
They cut Gaeilge words from the backs of their throats,
shortened their names, learned acceptable notes,
when to laugh, when to bend, when to disappear,
how to survive by erasing the years.
They rocked the cradles of strangers' sons,
while their own slept in slums ten to one,
shacks below the towers they raised,
paid for in silence, hunger, and early graves.
America kept what passed white at a glance—
the song, the joke, the drink, the dance—
and buried the rest beneath soil and stone:
the famine, the bodies, the roads of bone.
Grass staining tongues, ships full of grief,
women and children swallowed by seas.
Lá Fhéile Pádraig,
raise your glass full of glee,
but know this day isn’t just revelry—
it’s a wake that forgot why it gathered at all,
a people cut down to a slurred drunken call.
The Irish are more than fairy tales told,
more than four leaf clovers and pots of gold.
Language buried yet still awake,
We are exile and fire, endurance and ache.
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 2:41 AM UTC
In the year of twenty-six, when the shamrocks bloom once more,
From Holyoke's old canals to the hills beyond the shore,
Every town in western Mass has named its Colleen fair,
To lead the Saint Patrick's march with flowers in their hair.
Chicopee sends her daughter by the river's steady flow,
Westfield brings her own from where the mountain breezes blow,
Northampton's lass steps lively down the streets of brick and stone,
Amherst crowns her scholar with the ivy overgrown.
Greenfield calls her maiden from the meadows rich and wide,
Pittsfield lifts her daughter where the Berkshires rise with pride,
South Hadley, Easthampton, Longmeadow in their turn,
Send their fairest forward for the green to brightly burn.
With sashes tied in emerald, crowns of shamrock bright and true,
They walk the Holyoke pavement where the crowds are gathered new,
The daughters of the old country, the blood of Erin strong,
Marching proud together in the parade so long.
From Agawam to Ware, from Palmer down to Lee,
Each valley town has chosen one to set the spirit free,
Their eyes are bright as morning, their laughter clear and high,
They carry all the beauty of the western Massachusetts sky.
The drums beat out the rhythm, the pipes begin to wail,
The banners wave above them like the green upon the gale,
Through the streets of Holyoke where the paper mills once stood,
These Colleens of twenty-six are marching for the good.
They pass the old cathedral, the bridges arched and high,
The factories now quiet beneath the winter sky,
Yet on this day in March the city comes alive again,
With every Colleen smiling, the past and future blend.
So sing their names in honor from Deerfield to the south,
From Shelburne Falls to Hadley, from the river to the mouth,
The Pioneer Valley's daughters, crowned and standing tall,
Lead the Saint Patrick's glory down the streets for one and all.
In twenty-six they gather, the fairest of the land,
A chain of western emerald held fast by loving hand,
And when the last note echoes and the sun begins to fade,
Their memory lingers softly in the green parade.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 11:24 AM UTC
I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb's now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And ******** lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 10:09 PM UTC
a wandering mind
a caress of silence
brought into the fold
peaceable existence
not without persecutions
as is promised
ghouls of the night
havoc at the gates
but the devils are cowards
afraid of the light.
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 9:27 AM UTC
A special saint Ignatius
Whose spirit was truly audacious
A kind and loving man
With prayer and with care
He spread love about
Lord Jesus Christ everywhere
Inspiring hearts contagious.
Jul 11, 2025
Jul 11, 2025 at 3:23 PM UTC
Joyeuse fête de la Saint-Valentin, chers amis
C’est le jour où il faut prendre soin les uns des autres
Et où il faut se donner la main
L’amitié compte, l’amour compte
La famille compte, le savoir vivre compte
Les fleurs comptent aussi, frères et sœurs
Ne soyez pas trop en colère
Parce que le ciel n’est pas bleu
Profitons de la rosée du matin
Ne soyez pas trop tristes
Profitons du temps froid et ensoleillé
Il y a de la neige ici et là, mais au coin de la rue
C’est le printemps avec de l’air frais et un bouquet de fleurs
L’amitié compte, l’amour compte
Il y a des étincelles de feu d’amour dans l’air
Profitons de la saison de l’amour, de la paix et des soins
C’est le moment de marcher joyeusement main dans la main
Ensemble nous nous promènerons, ensemble nous nous lèverons.
P.S. Traduction de « Joyous St. Valentine’s Day » par Hébert Logerie.
Ce poème est dédié à tous les amoureux du monde.
Copyright © Janvier 2025, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés.
Hébert Logerie est l’auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.
Jan 26, 2025
Jan 26, 2025 at 11:38 PM UTC
Will be leaving soon for Orlando,
Away from the cold in Ontario.
Will I return?
I really don't know.
A wacko may secretly board my plane;
A radicalized lunatic far from sane.
Or Canada geese, heading south,
Might take our fuelled jet engines out.
Some random lightning shot from the sky
Lights up our cockpit,
And the pilots die.
The landing gear is up and stuck...
“I don't think I drank enough!”
There's mad rage on the road
Between
Orlando and St. Augustine.
There’s snub-nosed guns in too many bags,
And the pubs are teeming with cougars and *****
The Matanzas flows with gators and sharks,
I'll make note of this as my kyak embarks.
A drunken driver could do the job;
Or I get hospitalized
From being robbed.
An Early Bird bone might make me choke,
Or an errant golf ball holes out in my throat.
Perhaps nothing happens, I’m too suspect
Of the possible perils from my Florida trek.
Is it worth the risks. I’ll let you know,
When I get back to the warmth of Ontario.
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
Little Leprechaun I don't want your gold in your little black *** and don't want your wishes with your sketchy after thoughts. I would just like your heartfelt friendship and a little luck.
Mar 9, 2024
Mar 9, 2024 at 10:07 AM UTC
Home is calling
I hear it's voice
It's arms wide open
An African embrace
I smell the grass
Feel the soil on my feet
My focus on home
Runs so so deep
The warmth, the freedom
The people, the trees,
Africa is calling
Like a song in the breeze
My roots are grounded
So firmly planted
A long time before
Colonialism started
I see jacarandas
I hear hyenas
Joyful singing
Dancing till morning
The wide smiles
Cheerful eyes
Ubuntu is everything
Under these skies
The sun is glowing
On a wide African sky
Insects chirping
As the sun says goodbye
From all over Africa
Came my people
To my tiny land
Of my heritage
I'm there in spirit
I dream every night
Ask ancestors to guide me
Back home when the time is right
To sit with the baobab
To feel the connection
Something so deep
In my soul, a protection
To go back in time
At mighty Magelies
Sit in silence
In the area of our birthplace
The cradle of humankind
Is not just a name
It's real, still there
A place from where we all came
As old as the hills
An English saying
Well here you can feel it
These hills have seen everything
The warmth
The safety
The love
The humility
And my motherland
Isolated, alone,
A jewel in the ocean
Where few of us call home
I feel the longing
To be back
With my brothers and sisters
My soul is black
Nothing fills the void
Of our heritage calling
Africa, St Helena,
Calling and calling
Africa is ours
St Helena is mine
Those not visited
Won't understand
My roots are firm......
Nomkhumbhulwa 🍀
Aug 31, 2023
Aug 31, 2023 at 11:29 AM UTC
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names
Familiar in his mouth as household words:
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 9:36 AM UTC
among the millions who have never served, or wore uniform,
thought about it, was discouraged, and luck of the lottery,
the only one I’ve ever won, was #359 in the Vietnam draft,
cause my birthday was October X, and thus, stayed alive
yet, when, every time, hearing Henry V recite his battle speech,
copious weep that I was not there, for the deep need in my soul,
I too well ken, that I ne’er had the opportunity to become one of
a company, a band of brothers, this stripe, missing from my arm
would I have served if called? do not be absurd, the war was idiocy,
but that would not have prevented me from the chance, the luck,
to have been beside men, who would forevermore be mine, be my
very own band brothers...perhaps you think me mad, perverse,
not so, the bonds that formed such, gentle men for ever better...
“From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition”
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 12:23 PM UTC
And that great love lingered
He at 22/23 -me at 18/19.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beside me, on the left, appeared an angel in ****** form ruddy blonde
he smiled the smile I was smiling
our eyes moved scanningly about both sharing same soul.
He was not tall neither short just like me and just perfect in manner and in form and very beautiful my twin flame soul,
a G** like heaven sent real man
a mad passionate lover was he
just like I was in his arms..
His face was so aflame that he appeared to be one of the highest rank archangels, one who seemed to be all on fire,
my ever ready honey bunny just like me by the mare sight of him;
He entered swiftly as if from a parallel reality to wriing my story down,
from a larger a beautiful world.
Mine was a small world in shambles.
My thoughts projected to his future
seeing another woman in his world
and I froze instead of fighting to earn
his love
he was really easy to win with just
the simple truth of my life the
spilling of my heart.
He was fantastic romanticaly covert.
In his hands I saw a great golden spear, and at the iron ruby tip there appeared to be a point of great fire.
This He plunged into my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails.
taking my breath away.
When he pulled it out I felt that he took them with it, and left me utterly consumed by the great love of such Adam's nature and the love of G**.
The pain was so severe that it made me utter several moans never felt before.
The sweetness caused by this intense pain was so extreme that one cannot possibly wish it to cease, nor is one's soul content with anything but G*' loving transforming passion expressed through such a man.
His kissing breath gave me life.
I was all his, body heart Spirit soul all.
This was not only physical but a spiritual pain, though the body had some share in it, even a considerable share
a lovely ingering exstasy.
~~~~~~~
Saint Teresa describes an intensely spiritual encounter in physical, even ****** terms like I did with my lover Why me and why St Teresa?
Both St Teresa and I deeply loved
and our ****** lingered.
We know that an important goal of Baroque art is to involve the viewer.
Teresa explained her vision in this way to help to understand her extraordinary lyngering experience
just like my excstasy lingered
for both
I fell in love with one angel man
and with G** who sent him to me.
~~~~~~
After all, being visited by an Archangel and filled with the love of G** is no common event but it happens
as it did to me too.
Today what else to feel?
when I experienced such beautiful heavenly love in a man's arms?
who else but G** can fill that space?
I have the love and protection of G**.
because
His Archangel did kiss me!.
I believe what is given to us that's valuable and good is more than just a blessing it is because others sacrificed their all unselfishly for our benefit.
Some people threaten lie cheat and steal to keep selfishly what they want from others for themselves enough is never enough for them, they want it all.
(this isn't me.)
is that love? Is that a blessing?
Some of us let go of loaded good ships trains castles even
because they aren't within our reach
to enjoy simply as that.
Even though, our loved ones have moved on they still have a space in us that rightfully lingers on forever.
I accepted all that heaven sent,
good along with tough through my free will or unwilling terrible decisions affecting me and everyone else.
~~~~~~~
By: Karijinbba/ Copy rights.
Inspired by St Teresa Sànchez
who had my last name she loved G**
like I loved my twin soul and G**.
04-11-2020
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 2:23 AM UTC
Nun kenne ich dich,
die andere Seite von dir.
Doch ich steh noch dort drüben,
Weit weg, weit weg von dir,
Und mir.
Du drehst dich fort,
Um, ohne zurück zu sehen.
denn du wirst nichts, gar nichts vermissen,
Verfehlen, ich fehle dir nicht,
Weiter gehen. Nach vorne,
immerzu, weiter gehen.
Nur du und Ich,
Daraus wird wohl nie was,
das muss ich jetzt glauben, denken
denken, denken nur nicht fühlen
Nur was?
Was soll ich fühlen?
Leere, Stille oder nur dich
So wie es jetzt ist, ist es dasselbe,
Das Gleiche, oder auch nicht.
Wer weiss das schon.
Jeder, jeder, nur nicht ich.
So wie es scheint.
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
The brook-side meadow's quiet, shadows gone
Overwhelming green struck in private hues
The stream bank channels and tree roots confuse
The light is magic dancing after dawn
There in the tangle hides the leprechaun
There in the tangle his mischief is planned
Scratching his bearded chin, pipe in his hand
Prides in his trickery, crusty old con
Harassed and hunted by unthoughtful souls
Not any wonder he's social inept
He is pursued for the gold he controls
But they do not know it's not physically kept
Pursuit of the rainbow earth not apart
The leprechaun's gold is found in your heart
rc
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC
Im a vague ****
Made bankrupt
Able to lay claim
To anything I touch
Pull my people like puppets
Til they need Me
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 1:42 AM UTC