"frisked" poems
it's night now
and events have stopped.
Stillness evades the froth of evening
calm leather moves none under the fabric.
This home -- older than our world -- flushed
with wisdom -- flushed with glee -- flushed
with the violent storm of transience and
correction -- eyesight jiggled and adjusted
for new intentions -- meaning frisked for
rocks on a Boeing --
it's night now
and events have stopped.
you have stopped.
I have stopped.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
There’s a lot to be said for this place.
A near-perfect pitch for diversity,
Diversity: a neurolinguistic term;
A quaint way to say: miscegenation.
No, just kidding; I meant the melting ***
A fine blend of Anglo, Hispanic & Indian blood—
That’s Pueblo & Plains Indian blood--
Not that **** masala, chapati & dal Indian blood.
My apologies to "Who's the White Guy?" Bobby Jindal.
New Mexico: “The Land of Enchantment.”
Where 310 sunny days per annum,
Are like money in the bank, earning
Double-plus compound interest for those
Suffering with seasonal affective disorders.
A land of sunshine without the orange juice,
But substitute chili, red or green?
An equitable offset to be sure.
310 days of sunshine:
Even the white people are brown here.
Which does a lot for my self-esteem.
Back east—New York, Chicago & Philadelphia e.g.—
People that look like me, i.e.,
People with dark brown hair, eyes and skin,
Get stopped/ass-cheek spread/& frisked, routinely.
Stop & Frisk: NYPD’s spectator sport for decades.
Stop & Frisk: Mayor Bloomberg-defended
Crime-stopping Godsend,
Getting guns off the streets.
Getting homicides down.
Everything’s cool until some slick race baiter,
Starts yelling: RACIAL PROFILING.
Forget for a moment that people that look like me,
People like me with dark hair, eyes & skin,
Commit 78% of the crime in most cities.
“It’s not racially driven profiling,”
Said Newark’s police director recently
Referring to stops carried out by his officers.
“IT’S CRIME-DRIVEN PROFILING!”
But, again, political-correctness trumps common sense:
August 2013: Judge Rules NYPD
Stop-and-Frisk Unconstitutional.
Well I’ll be a monkey’s *** ******
I moved to New Mexico to blend in.
My complexion a shoe-in for
The Witness Protection Program or
Any other public or private,
Domestic or international rendition site.
But I digress.
New Mexico: no passport necessary, Babaloo!
New Mexico: be you white or black, Hispanic or Indian,
Or even Roswell extraterrestrial,
The cops here will beat the **** out of you.
Or shoot you dead, Kemosabe.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
I see the sad color of racism not every other day
But every second of the hour, all minutes of the day
I see the serious mental and physical damages
That this cancer has done throughout the ages
And is still doing to our beloved human beings
The others treat our People like they are leftover beans
On a petty pet's plate. Our people deserve respect
Fairness, justice, equality, acknowledgement
Compassion, credit and better treatment
Our sisters are tired of being left out on the deck
Our siblings are often harassed senselessly, persecuted
Falsely accused and relentlessly prosecuted
At one time, they were hunted and hounded by the system
At other time, hindered and haunted by an organized medium
Created to attack, destroy, burn, ravage and annihilate
To embarrass, marginalize, ridicule, punish and discriminate
I see the color of racism, when the police for no apparent reasons
Stopped, frisked and handcuffed our homeless, our elderlies
Or our law abiding citizens, like it was open seasons
To hunt for mule deer or bears, who behave like enemies
Of the civilized society. I see the sick color of racism
When our people are not hired not for being unqualified
But because of their skin color; they're quickly disqualified
Dismissed, fired or terminated. I see the monster of cynicism
All golly minutes of the day. The arrogance is unparalleled
Beyond belief. The racists forgot that God only created one race
One human race, one human race, one **** human race.
Their false pride, their fake supremacy, their ignorance is unleveled
And their audacity is incomparable. I see the colors of racism
Not that I want to search for them, not that I want to find them
Most of the time, I simply cannot elude, evade or escape them
It is not easy to ignore the litanies of bad or negative mannerisms
The bigots easily function like virulent or venomous vipers
That **** out the emotions, and that destroy all positive characters
Our lives, Black lives, like other lives, are sacramental and important
And our contributions to the world are significant
I see the ugly and surly color of racism not every other day
But every second of the hour, every minute of the **** day.
Copyright © February 24,2015, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:07 AM UTC
Frisked at customs...sphere-d Muzak...
upped and away...rife, with non address.
Photonic personification...perceptible, yet...
imperceptible gestures Godspeed-ed--
sheer forgetfulness...the genius of remembrance--
Expiration Dates.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
All we sometimes hope for
turns to nothing
once grasped
once tasted
something's found missing
that was never noticed
that was always needed
that we found where we did
but not where we frisked.
A cloud laced in golden
awaits for the morning
and if the sun never breaks?
Do the stars go away?
Expectations rise with no measure.
Why do we look at the gold
and think it as bright as the sun?
surrounded by glitter
joy is unseen.
Happiness shines as light;
brighter in the dark.
Why chase after a fugitive dream,
that when reached cannot be caught,
that when caught cannot be held,
that when held does not come true.
Why keep wanting this dream
so close and so hard to reach
not many have enjoyed it
not many have lived it
but still
we fight for this dream
we live to reach this dream
we try as hard as we can
all the time is needed
to finally reach
this broken dream.
Feb 7, 2023
Feb 7, 2023 at 2:47 PM UTC
WRITING BAREFOOT
Being frisked
at Dublin airport.
"What's dat in yer
back pocket?"
"An unfinished poem!"
I admit ruefully.
"Is it metal?"
he asks.
"No, it's mental!"
I tell him.
"You know, a bunch of words
hanging about on a piece of paper."
"Go on with ya!"
he smirks.
"And next time...
remove yer shoes."
On the plane I
kick off my shoes and
finish off the unfinished
poem.
Now I
always write barefoot.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 1:50 PM UTC
Why does red means risk?
Why does it signifies danger?
I did searched and frisked
into the unknown lithosphere.
I even gazed into the basilisk
just to see things clearer
and uncover
its meaning deeper.
I went further,
even employed cindynic,
the science of danger.
And there,
it laid bare
right before my eyes,
red's real meaning.
Red is the Color of Love.
Love is the danger,
Love is the risk,
it is the menace
that we are warned of.
You're my red flag,
the risk I'm willing to take,
the danger I'm willing to embrace.
Jan 9, 2023
Jan 9, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
all my past
imposes on my breath today
i enter a grand mosaic public building
and on goes my medical face mask
i join the back of the queue with my documents in one hand
and my numbered butcher ticket
in the other
i admire the mosaics
a jarring tide of art against the bureaucratic purpose
of these rooms
gauzed in with own product exhaust
all my past is attending
exhumed
patted into my breath
baiting remembrance with unsubtle notes
for example :
integrated spittings of 'drum' tobacco (i quit a decade ago)
horning catches of cologne every boy used as a teen
seasonal scents unweaned from deep in my system
(some reigned in from the different countries
i lived in or visited)
then i am frisked back to infancy with breast milk and rusks
it's all there a basking flippancy
all there in musk about my face
one fragrance after another
it's an honest relief
to host an alternative to my 'old man' breath
but odd and concerning
something of the brain ?
Apr 6, 2024
Apr 6, 2024 at 1:40 PM UTC
I see the sad and awful color of racism not every other day
But every minutes of the day
I see the serious mental and physical damages
That this cancer has done throughout the ages
And is still doing to our beloved human beings
Others treat our people like they are leftover beans
On a pet's plate. Our people deserve respect
Fairness, justice, acknowledgement
Compassion and better treatment
Our sisters are tired of being left out on the deck
Our siblings are often harassed senselessly, persecuted
Falsely accused and relentlessly prosecuted
At one time, they were hunted by the system
At other time, haunted by an organized medium
Created to destroy, ravage and annihilate
To ridicule, punish and discriminate
I see the color of racism, when the police for no apparent reasons
Stopped, frisked and handcuffed our homeless, elderlies
Or our law abiding citizens, like it was open seasons
To hunt for mule deer or bears, who behave like enemies
Of the civilized society. I see the sick color of racism
When our people are not hired not for being unqualified
But because of their skin color; they're quickly disqualified
Dismissed, fired or terminated. I see the monster of cynicism
Every minutes of the day. The arrogance is unparalleled
Beyond belief. The racists forgot that God only created one race
One human race, one human race.
Their false pride, their ignorance is unleveled
And their audacity, incomparable. I see the colors of racism
Not that I want to search for them, not that I want to find them
Most of the time, I simply cannot evade or escape them
It is not easy to ignore the litanies of bad or negative mannerisms
The bigots easily function like lethal venomous vipers
That **** out the emotions, and that destroy all positive characters
I see the ugly color of racism not every other day
But every minutes of the day.
One human race, one human race.
Copyright © February 24, 2015, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 11:12 PM UTC
Dear Happiness,
come back.
i have put up too much resistance and you have left me no choice.
your nemesis Sadness and his brother Sorrow have plagued my life and has eradicated my land of euphoric thoughts. they just invaded my life and have left me barren and empty.. they interrogated and frisked me and robbed me of my joy. everybody has left my life and everything i have ever adored has fled. I'm just an expendable little thing , worth no value. life is no longer my friend. and that's why I'm begging you to enter my existence. I'm not alive, just breathing. tell your dear cousin Love to fill my soul with glee and delight. call your friend Wealth to shower his blessings on me. Bring back the twins Family and Friendship to guide me. I need you. this facade i put on is slowly wearing off. let my heart rejoice and sing with elation again .
come back.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
such darkness is another fleeting thing
and so is the bird of your
arrival, mine windows receiving bird-song,
elegiac – pining against perennial trees,
sounds of well-put strikes bringing back
to a time not mine but hastily endure,
and light is but another figure posing for itself,
a backlash of photographs again not
mine but this time masterfully endure
all that is mine, being
still and keeping what
the silence holds with its tumultuous hands,
a song once my roof-beams heard but
refused to declare: a fugitive frisked out of
the nooks of depthless sleep is I, inspected
by the wide-eyed gazebo of morning, and a specter
whose name I cannot recall, completing this brokenness.
I am neither poet
nor bard, stripped of words
and I, past everything else that makes sweet music,
possess no mandolin.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
This padded snow is seeping in.
My breath is hard and rash.
This girl has made a fool of me,
the fight was just a flash.
A glint of silver is what I see,
I move on intuition.
Perhaps I can get her to agree,
surrender as admonition.
But incendiary eyes,
are what comprise,
her unmitigated fury.
Her weapon whips,
through air and sky,
personifying her jury.
She missteps, and I imply,
gently, with my compound's eye,
the meaning of my words.
Iron chafes the ground of grass.
Her body shifts with fluent ease.
Reverent speed I can't surpass.
Her saber, bringing death's disease.
But...
She contemplates all that I've said.
My eyes are locked on savory skies.
Life and death are on a thread.
Her maxim's pact she can't defy.
My steadied hand can take the risk,
with no regard for identity,
of moving blades, as I am frisked.
Another piece of my weaponry.
Assassins grace will carry through.
Perhaps to be my remedy.
Her hidden blade makes its debut.
Restoring lost integrity.
Silence permeates rotten skies, as snow flakes hit the earth.
My limbs are feeling ragged, my breathing is overt.
Calamity is added, by the blush she can't desert.
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 9:31 PM UTC
The bird can fly
, Crossing any boundary
From any land
Not being frisked
, not being prevented
, not being asked
To get any permit
And not being asked,
"What is your nationality?
What is your religion?
You can't be prevented
As your skin's color appeared
You can eat from any land
You own all the world
You drink from clean downed
Rain or river is felt by your heart
Downs and has a nest
Over building, solid and vibrated branch
You can see the downed world
You may see its worst
It may be ******
As it had great fault
You can opposite
And had your look
Against the leader
Without being killed
Or exposing to the saw
That will be the terrorist
If it may be happened
All birds will be gathered
Rich and poor
Weak and strong
Having purposes towards the guilt
And judge the case with evident
And tell the result
The killer must be killed
Or be living wide
Live away as being Fired
****** over changing the right
To make a worth
Over bleeding blood
Gaining by telling the truth
That may not be accepted
By the man who is the head
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
WRITING BAREFOOT
Being frisked
at Dublin airport.
"What's dat in yer
back pocket?"
"An unfinished poem!"
I admit ruefully.
"Is it metal?"
he asks.
"No, it's mental!"
I tell him.
"You know, a bunch of words
hanging about on a piece of paper."
"Go on with ya!"
he smirks.
"And next time...
remove yer shoes."
On the plane I
kick off my shoes and
finish off the unfinished
poem.
Now I
always write barefoot.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
Perplexed she drowned,
in the rues of her crimes.
Frisked for salvation,
raring for a ray of light.
She lost her dignity,
to attain superiority.
Suffered the countless distress,
from around the domain.
At the end she wished,
a lustful caprice.
Needing triumph living,
on the edge of avarice .
There she felt the distortion,
craving for sumptuous lifestyle.
The honorable purpose of her existence,
was never truly satisfied.
~ Isla
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
Glasgow
The music stopped abruptly dancers left the floor
became paintings on the wall in the closed down dance-hall
in Glasgow's Sauciehal street the old entertainment centre.
We drank plenty of beer before going there, and we were frisked
to see if we had not brought any alcohol into the premises.
To ask a young woman up to dance was painful
The answer was often no, to be refused hurt one’s self- esteem
but luckily there was only one or two who said yes,
the ugly ones were the best to ask they were not so critical.
Later in the evening a few open chip shops and hopefully with
a new girl -friend one then followed to the last bus a kiss and
a cuddle a few promise murmured it was all too boring for word.
Glasgow had many splendid pubs I liked to sit drink and smoke
in one of them, the one nearest the docks. I remember at these
pubs some elderly women drank gin & lime they were called
donkey women and I never knew why.
The old dance halls have got a patina of romance where
Friendly ghosts soberly dance to the tune of a bygone time.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC