"comport" poems
Since you have become the inscrutable obligation of my then bad ticker,
I played selfish and fancied
that you would too irrecoverably consent
for the sake of my extra-ordinary, uncanny feelings for you.
But I apologise in advance now.
Apologise, for I have realized and am tuned now.
For I reckoned that I'ld not have fell,
if held.
Yet neither did I manage to ignore.
I maybe just a fool and ever was discursive over the subject of Love itself.
But I feel burned upon the very idea of denying this phase off my life.
So I shall comport and wait to incur your love
to entwine with mine.
But again, the idea must have been Love, not the person.
And so, if it is ever meant to be so,
then I shall die with just the privilege of feeling that (Love) in me, for you.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 10:18 AM UTC
God laughs when fools behave like racists
All persecuted individuals are His children
God laughs when a few are obviously chosen
And receive preferential treatment under the basis
That the lighter complexion is superior and better.
God created one race. The same blood flows like a river
In all God’s children veins. This blood is red, not amber
God laughs when a few are obviously chosen
All persecuted individuals are His children
The lighter shade is neither superior nor better.
Fools love to divide, to disunite in order to conquer
God laughs when extremists comport themselves like fools
God does not like when his children are treated like tools
All persecuted individuals are His children
God laughs when a few are deliberately chosen.
Copyright © May 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 5:05 AM UTC
~~~
"all poetry is confessional, whether written in the first person or not. If nothing else, it is a homing device to our souls, telling any who read where we stand, what we see from our perspective and our poet's eye. When enough of us speak of what we perceive,
perhaps someday we'll understand that the tree, the snake, and the rope are indeed an elephant."
Joel Frye
perhaps
the essential modifier of our lives,
or as one of the greatest philosopher reprised,
Professor Alfred E. Doolittle,
"Oh, you can walk the straight and narrow;
But with a little bit of luck,
(perhaps)
you'll run amuck!"^
this thence,
one more mine true
confession,
so many discoursed, cursed
have seen the
roped wrapped tree
firmly snaking around its cored trunk,
issuing forced strangling sounds,
the musical product of its own
umbilical chord
still and yet,
the jungled elephants,
from my visionary,
remain ghostly hidden,
stolid solid doesn't not comport with the
hallucinogenic jive of running
amuck!
limitations shun my expectations,
abilities misrule hide my
hoped-for-destination of hopes,
my elephants,
still and yet,
elude the grasp of exhausted roving eyes
undeterred and reaffirmed,
until and then,
when the elephants come to me
on bended knee,
can understanding be
perhaps
pronounced,
as being blessed with best satisfaction,
with the finest of
illuminating,
most-happy-fella,
well known,
elephantine-humantine-pink
combine
phrases
A Happy Ending
After All
^My Fair Lady - With A Little Bit O' Luck Lyrics
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Music gives my eyes a tunnel and my mind the universe. This much I know and recite in verse- or, prose, well. However I may carry my words, they will do all frequencies a severe injustice. That is why I feel no need to describe the ether and the fluids that compose a tune. They simply are, anyone can perceive and dissect for themselves. The words, they serve to underline the story that an ear might not obtain from music. I aim to achieve a functional, symbiotic, conversational existence with these two chaps. One day, it’ll be great fun and my mind will sideflip its merry way through scrolls of papyrus and the speeches of lutes. Until then, it’s apparent and essential, necessary, to be trudging my forlorn way through the badlands of my cranium. Who knows? I may occasionally find myself an ardent hoodoo to comport my thoughts on. I will live for that and die for tomorrow. By increments, of course. I must believe that we’re not all imbeciles, here.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
Sleeping with the Muse,
my nights have grown short
Sleeping with the Muse,
all senses comport
Sleeping with the Muse,
words dance with delight
Sleeping with the Muse,
confronting my fright
Sleeping with the Muse,
her will tests again
Sleeping with the Muse,
not lover or friend
Sleeping with the Muse,
my dreams sacrificed
Sleeping with the Muse,
all rest put on ice
Sleeping with the Muse,
the whispers come clean
Sleeping with the Muse,
excuses demeaned
Sleeping with the Muse,
my spool is respun
Sleeping with the Muse,
divorced from the sun
Sleeping with the Muse,
in darkness I learn
Sleeping with the Muse,
my spirit confirmed
Sleeping with the Muse
till dawn’s freeing light
Sleeping with the Muse
—new verse to take flight
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
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Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 5:33 PM UTC
in a stadium,
in the nosebleed seats,
a lemon rind moon was all the light we had
when the city lost power
the crowd murmured, impatient
for the carnage to continue, players knelt
on the turf; their coach-gods commanded,
Let their be light!
I rose to leave, when I heard them
a canine symphony from jackals who escaped
the ranchers' sights, the dumb traps,
taunting us, the light seekers
who knew not how to comport
ourselves without electric diversion, without
staged battles, while they roamed the dark,
snouts angled towards a charcoal sky
sharing song and scent, sentient though not
like we, but content to be yip yapping in the autumn night
while we lamented the lack of light, and yearned yet
for different blood
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
The River ("Every artist was first an amateur…")
rank, rank, rank ~ a word of multivariate meanings,
too many with hints of degrading nefariousness,
know
this
then:
the river we write upon, invites from all shores, enter!
where and when you will, let the current carry, or with
intent serious, furious paddle along side the rest of us
permanent beginners,
because each time we start to compose, all that we we
have composed before, is just loam, soil from to sprout anew,
no prior ordering survives, we begin as fumbling rank
beginners, amateurs, starting first and then over and over again
for each start
is not a statistically significant event, difference, indeed, it is clarity of challenge, search, and the joy to destroy, in order to be of finding,
it is same for one and for all,
we all are ranked, the same, first time amateurs…
so I bid you: run, get wet, welcome disasters, crumple too many
first drafts, BUT be ready when the ah ha period!
a gasp confirms: competed, satisfaction guaranteed…
it doesn’t query qualifications for quality is
yours to discern, yours to differentiate, yours to own,
to give away freely in abundance, nor does quality be an enquirer,
doesn’t ask what are your bona fides
your good sides,
just
to
bring and borrow,
impart and deport,
take us by surprise,
comfort and comport,
leaving behind outside a
crumb trail to make us follow
you to the coveted inside of that mystery
inner tube within that brain of yours that
roundly supports all of us ever lusting
for
just one…more
12:32 PM
Sabbath
May 25
2024
S.I.
May 25, 2024
May 25, 2024 at 12:58 PM UTC
~for Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner~(1)
*my poor battered battler ***** too-many accumulated door dings, broken off pieces
circulating in the bloodstream, even inert artery declared dead, no saving it, that’s just an idée fixe, that cannot be fixed
but no matter misshapen my heart,
and roughly mishandled, it’s a boon
companion, we work together overtime,
falling into love with every third woman
we pass on our walks so regular, and
though many wish my heart to abduct,
no dice, no okay, not playing, for time is
shortened, and there are too many of you,
to longer complete for another, term of
endearment undefined*
so many poems to love,
so many to comport and compose,
each a spoke fantasy, a story to unfold,
not forgetting than I am still young enough
to regret skimming to the bottom of another,
and when breath pounding my temples,
swift kick to the atmosphere and do it,
yes, once again…
**do not me critique,
paid my dues as a long distance lover~runner, but know-a-days,
best to live love and run,
for measure I,
by what accomplished
by sunset, a reminder
to say eve prayer song,
and accept that
the sum total of my days
is nearer thy god than thee,,
and to raise smiles upon
the least likely, to break a
throw straight line frown
in a U-turned greeting of love,
however brief,
is a worthy goal
multiplied by the rest**,
the rest of my,
the rest of the company of my
dimming hours
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 2:02 PM UTC
Perusing through my thoughts
Such a herculean work
I stumbled on the need to grow
Yes grow, but how? Another stumbling block.
Searching through the pages of time
Yet uncertain what I find
This mountain is for the clime
This mountain of piled thoughts over time
Confined to this cushioned couch
Couch of sham comfort
Never felt so comfy and proud
Thus the alteration in my comport.
I have flown
Yes call me a clown
But I know I've flown
Dreams were the wings
So cute a pair they set you so height flying.
I am looking for myself
Though there in the Mirror
All I see is a mess
But I'm en route the redress.
Find yourself first
And you have found all else.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
Symbols of personal myth,
your transient biography
etched into your bare back.
Weeping burning tears
into long cold ashes
as if to rekindle the sacred.
****** footprints in the sand
accompany the path of
selves shed on your journey.
Take this breath from my chest
and take this flame from my hand
find yourself again in the circle.
There lay the skins of lions,
and the grey mantle of wolves;
comport yourself in them
and dance once again.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
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Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
*confines of mindscape
confides shadowed landscape
coffin lids fastened tight
custodial strife bite where
finer emotions reside
convivial memories collide
custom denial define
comport in social decline
coffers fill with loose change
combined prognoses engage*
_ __ ___ ✒
●○
°
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
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Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 5:28 PM UTC
I'm alone. Those Crimson pearls are the only hug I could get. The only release of pain accessible to me. The only comport in my emptiness.
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 7:27 AM UTC
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Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 5:31 PM UTC
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Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 5:23 PM UTC
I comport myself with quiet pridefulness,
plus intellectual whimsy
aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness,
could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae
furthering, feathering and figuratively
undermining jestingly,
poetically, and zealously
oozing, gushing, bubbling over
with faux snobbish suave re:
pulse sieve literary fatuous
haughtiness, and ludicrous narcissistic pre
ning all the while chuckling to me
self, and indifferent if
some anonymous browser
with Dutchman's breeches rolled up
upon cresting wave over Zyder Zee
disparages mine harmless
badinage, hence if ye
might qualify as such nitpicker,
who doth cavil - dee
crying wading thru
quagmire of verbiage,
a gentle reply to thee
might be more wise to turn energy
toward, how in many another country
the village people haint so free
spouting, sporting, and spoiling,
vis a vis intellectual sparring
(albeit innocent) black
barbs hatch chee
ving, and raising urgent
attention against he
(who **** squelching
constitutional rights) re:
pressing, rescinding, reviling,
et cetera access toward key
underpinnings within these fifty
constituent United States
of America beckon alacrity
for obliging citizens across
all points of the compass to alee
v8 his indiscriminate flee
sing, sans bedrock nation could tee
tear on the brink of calamity,
which political plug quite inadequate
to staunch hemorrhaging, viz upending
many a sacred liberty,
and foo to you reprimanding
against any agree
gee us objection to pen about polly lee
ticks and/or religion!
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
When two is one
And one is nought
What is the magic
That makes one comport
What it is to calculate
The thing that makes us
Repopulate.
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 3:51 PM UTC
Moving too many steps at once finds me back where I started. So let’s take it easy. We have an eternity, don’t we?
I look for leads everywhere, a hint as to finding out where I am and where I want to go. Betting on who I might be.
Starting from the sea, my scaly body emerges. Walking upright I enter the city of lights. I broker laws and sense myself.
Flip of the dice lands me here on this page, beseeching your help. My steps should have meaning, a righteous path.
But how to comport myself in this horror show of a world, bodies strewn on tainted land, men returning to the beast mode.
Angry spittle and no reason reasoning. Shifting winds portending doom. Evil clowns masquerading as human beings.
Resistance at all costs. One step at a time.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 5:59 PM UTC
I Cook For My Husband #2 (shaved & scissored)
I cook for my husband
The way I would cook for a king.
And I’d cook for the king
(If ever he’d ring)
The way I cook for my husband.
With skill, choice and taste of the day,
What e’er’s in the cupboard to make a buffet
Fit for a king or my husband.
No problem or trouble,
Food is a bubble
Lasting an hour from mouthful to bowel.
If house guest should scowl or glower or frown,
Finding it uphill to get the food down,
I take it serenely,
Comport myself queenly,
Tell him or her
The next meal will be better,
It’s fine to leave morsels of food on the plate
And leave it at that,
It being one method to never get fat.
I Cook For My Husband #2 7.27.2017
Definitely Didactic; I Is Always You Is We;
Arlene Corwin
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC