"lackadaisically" poems
The pile of books
The array of papers
They long-await
that ink will pour
on their vacuous
void of emptiness
For the deadline
draws near
Yet I'm still here
Sitting on my windowsill
Lackadaisically waiting
Certainly expecting
For water to descend
From the firmament
surrounded by dullness
where a mass of clouds
are there to be seen
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC
A little bag of bones and ***** skin crawls lackadaisically,
Looking every inch like a moving mass of biltong,
With one arm weakly clasped on the protruding belly,
Looks for somewhere to lie,
Some water tank explodes from inside of her,
Writhes in unimaginable agony,
Screams the screams of death,
Spreads her bony legs sickly,
Out comes an object,
Yes, a baby is born,
In extreme poverty,
It cries and cries,
The shallow cries of a newcomer,
It cries the cries of not being well,
It opens its tiny eyes to a new world,
A world extensively pregnant of poverty,
It dies in the weak sickly mother’s arms,
Veins-wrapped boney powerless arms,
The death of a missed call desperately wanted,
Ended before it even started,
In extreme poverty, it dies,
Just like it was born,
It is eaten by starving dogs,
Dogs in extreme poverty,
Perfunctorily torn apart like a rag doll,
As the mother helplessly watches,
Too weak to do anything,
Born and died in poverty.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
I have always believed that it is possible to see through the defenses of those who keep secrets tucked into their back pockets like wallets with a little more cash than they are comfortable with, if one is willing to look closely enough. It is apparent in their heavy eyelids, as though the weight of what they are carrying is resting on their eyelashes. It is apparent in the curve of their lips, and the way they are not able to smile to their fullest potential. It is apparent in their hands, and the way they are not able to hold anything, as though their fingers are already full. However, I never realized that it was also possible to notice leaves clutching secrets to their chests like keepsake necklaces passed down by their great-grandmothers until one afternoon when I was walking between two bushes. My feet were carrying me lackadaisically down the sidewalk toward my dormitory when something to my right caught my eye. Among a congregation of green leaves, I noticed one blushing sinner. She sat in the center, as though she was attempting to blend in, but her pink cheeks made her stand out from the rest. When everyone stood in unison, she followed a few seconds behind. When everyone clutched hymns and bibles in their hands, she tied her fingers in knots to appear busy. When everyone partook in communion, she bit her lip quietly. But there was something about the way she held her hands in her lap, with her palms pressed together and her fingers interlocked, and the way she wore her hair behind her shoulders in curls that made me want to get to know her and every secret she kept tucked beneath the belt of her summer dress. But we don’t always get the pleasure of conversing with sinners, and we often are not even willing to have those conversations with ourselves.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
Stay.
I don't care if you hate yourself
And hate everything around you.
Im going to be a selfish blunt ***** and tell you that I need you. We need you.
If you leave me,
Who will remind me to punish the holy and free the sinned
All while being awesome?
You will just leave me with heartache
And too many tears...
The grief will drown me,
And I will struggle for a breath that isn't there.
I might even join you.
There's still so much left for you to experience,
Like the way the sun might dance across your skin as you lay lackadaisically on the beach,
Or how you might smile and maybe shy away as I go paparazzi mode on you,
And the way the skyscrapers will tower over you, blocking the sun,
A vampire's natural habitat.
I need you to try
Theres so much left you need to do...
Like meet at starbucks somewhere in manhattan and write poetry together ;)
I want to be your tour guide.
Stay.
I need you,
If you leave, I'll never forgive you or myself.
I won't be able to go on,
And there would be no point for me to stay.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
"Sit down boy, you're tired and you must sleep"
The voice said to me as I walked the city street
Fuzzy steps taken to a bench I saw over yonder
Sleepily wandering, the streetlights I ponder
Passive disorientation, I'm lost it would seem
Consciousness becomes a trickle, as opposed to a stream
Dragging myself over shards of glass, paralysed and sleeping
A shadow 'neath the moonlight seems to be steadily creeping
Isolated in this park in the darkness on a sigma plateau
Dextromethorphan hallucinations are a spectacular show
I'm indifferent to the stranger, drowsy as he appears
Isolated in the nighttime winds, apathetic to his tears
Uncoordinated my head falling he takes a seat softly
Dissociative disorder makes me seem awfully frosty
Speaking of lands where the populace truly is free
Speaking unintelligible words, indirectly to me
The intrinsic disconnect of this generation scorned
As the sun rises in the sky, glittered clouds adorned
My head lulls lackadaisically, I'm feeling unwell
But my stomach is eased when I think of sweet Maybelle
[Hers is a Nabokovian tale of passion in proto-dystopian wastelands
The first time we kissed, I held her soft head tenderly in my hands
The serenade of rain pitter-patter on the ground, like her feet when she's near
and hearing her name is as cathartic as those old jazz records I hold so dear
But, oh my pretty Belle, your age is a concern to me (and the eyes of the law)
So to forget your sweet face, I pop pills neglectfully, passing out on the floor]
Lifting head slowly from the rough ground dampened
Four years passed and I'm wondering what happened
Fuzzy headed blues, clear my mind with OJ and ******
Walking fast to her house, cannot wait to see her
A rap-tap on the door with thoughts of romantic enumerations
What she said and what I saw defied every one of my expectations
My innocent Belle, with her cheeks rosy red,
looks me in the eyes, and wishes I was dead
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
Here I stand,
Today and now,
At the centre,
Of the middle of somewhere,
A very dark, dead and fearful darkness,
Having paid one of its regular intrusions,
On an unsuspecting African village,
Giving birth,
To a complete demise of activity,
Save for the stubborn nature,
A strong cold wind blows,
Rattling leaves off trees,
My heart thuds,
At the thought of a ghost,
Making enough noise,
To scare me,
Like a bare-footed traditional dancer,
Pouncing the earth,
My skin crawls on my bones,
At the thought,
Of callous and faceless wizards,
This is their time,
And this is their rush hour,
I could be standing,
On the roof,
Of some departed's house,
At a distance,
I hear a drum beating,
And a strong roar,
Of an ancestral spirit coming home,
Strong enough to shake mountains,
Strong enough to shake the earth like a quake,
Strong enough to spill rivers,
Lakes, seas and oceans,
A dog barks drowsily,
A snake hisses,
A squirrel quirks lackadaisically,
In the wonders of an African village.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
these days, i live on the
spaces
between the lines
of whatever story i thought my life
would turn out to be,
wide awake in a faceless house
waiting
while an everbeating heart of rain
spatters on the weathervane
(vain)
spinning lacklusterly,
lackadaisically nowhere
under a grey sky,
unaware
of the slumbering sun above,
or the custom cares of anyone
who has ever been in love...
[droplets on the roof]
though
sometimes,
through a mirrored screen
in the world between
waking and dream,
i get this fluttering feeling
(a certain fleeting)
of knowing
that somewhere between these walls--
(perhaps)
over ceilings,
under floors,
behind cupboards
or closet(d) doors,
waits a weaving
window
looking over the garden
back to my storylife
impatient
for my arrival
(my longsought revival),
and i'm just too
deranged
by the rain
to hear it
chiming my name.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
It lollops along
the soggy sand
in the sun,
all for a ball
its owner has thrown
towards the water,
rolling past tourists
in shorts, sandels,
sunglasses.
Its tongue *****
lackadaisically
out his mouth,
not a care in the world
on this August day
on the north-east coast.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 8:43 AM UTC
A black castle perched at a great height
Just barely out of the reach of me
The tower no different than any other night
So dark that it’s quite natural not to see
Yet my eyes are keen to this sort of sight
Secrets spill into my head rather lazily
But sit stagnant and take no form, no flight
So I carry myself quite lackadaisically
On this night it seemed the absence of light
Had reached levels of terribly high
But open your eyes, you could and you might
See Tour Noire, black tower in the sky
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
A Fool In Love In Paris, In April
For crying out loud
I am awesomely proud
To be a Fool in love
With Mother Nature.
I thank the Almighty above
For everything he has done
Hoping that I have a secured future
Earth is now my haven, my Heaven.
I am a Fool who loves my wife
The beautiful trees and flowers
The hummingbirds on the top towers
And the daunting intricacies of life.
Today is the first day of April
I am thrilled like a new drill
I am excited to be the only Fool
Swimming naked in the icy pool.
For God's sake, I am a Fool in love
The eagles are hovering above
The green mountains, this is awesome
That's wonderful, that's very handsome.
This is spring, a new season with a lot of potential
Sure, I am lackadaisically controversial
That's why I love the mad and irate women
And the jerks who refused to say Amen.
Copyright © April, 2016 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 11:51 PM UTC
what made it all so magical was the snow fall. with squinted eyes, you could spot each individual flake, lackadaisically trailing its brothers and sisters to the ground. they all seemed to travel together regardless. an entire world of movement, and i loved the way simon shed his coat, smiling at the wind. savoring each chilled breath.
skinned knees and reddened cheeks. fingers curled up into sleeves to prevent the kiss of the wind, and ears blushed when met with snowflakes. in this way, the easy cries of the girls, the sound of bodies hitting the packed snow, it was romantic. how the adrenaline bound us together like a drunken pack of fools.
i started to feel the dissonance, the gnawing urge that was dragging me away from the wide pleasure of the snow and companionship. fingers fumbled for damp cigarettes and eyes turned to the sky, hoping to find the answers written in the milky patterns of the clouds.
i turn and turn and turn and turn away
from this ache.
aching to smother this pull with another, something that could possibly ground me to this moment.
i always feel like i'm floating. disconnected from the words and hands and laughter that encase me.
"i only smoke spirits because they're organic."
as if the acrid curl of harsh smoke in my lungs is any easier to swallow.
i turn and turn and turn and turn and eyes draw, mouths form the scarlet color that became my identity and i pray to god that they follow. i pray to every and any deity that their palms won't lose their hold on my slipping form.
my heart murmurs in waves:
if i walk far enough, maybe i'll disappear.
it's not always your job to fix the things that you broke between your hands.
if i walk far enough, maybe i'll disappear.
red. red. red. red.
if i walk far enough, maybe i'll disappear.
i spent six days in that hospital and do you know who called me every single night?
if i walk far enough, maybe i'll disappear.
six days, and only one person called every night.
if i walk far enough, maybe i'll disappear.
every. single. night.
maybe i'll disappear.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
feel the
warm, drowsy
fingertips,
lackadaisically running trails
down your every corner
as their eyes
attempt to catch up
to the tired,
deceivingly excited hands
exploring every inch of you
trying to discover
what's hidden inside you,
the magic of the being
you pack away behind
predictable masks
and colorful spectacles
in an attempt
to distract
or take away from
what you worry
may not be enough,
may not be what
they wanted;
so you shove
forced color schemes
to safeguard yourself
from anyone considering,
let alone caring
to unravel
the contents
of the windowless box
you call a body;
so you sit still,
dormant
as the people around you
allow themselves
to be found,
though none of them felt lost,
and as you resign yourself,
resting in
the bittersweet feeling
of knowing that
nobody had the opportunity
to run their fingers
down your outside,
and slowly,
methodically,
realize what hides
under all of those
eye-catching aesthetics,
yet secretly wishing
that somebody would pick you up,
out from behind the crowd,
unprovoked,
to try and see
what lies within you;
and dear,
something that may
bring upon
a smile,
is that I do
want to have you
open up
just for me;
because, even if
I have nothing else
under the tree
just know
that your presence
is the only gift
that I need
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
We should be finished by next fall. Last autumn was a good time and I hear history repeats itself. Sleeping under trees, smoking Lucky Strikes and tending to our hobbies. Lackadaisically bent over antediluvian scrapbooks, I hear this winter's to melt into a flood. The ark is under way, we should be finished by next fall.
It was something in the calm drift of the clouds or the tick-tick of the water meter. There was us and then there was them. We were flushed, the world was bluffing. There was us:
Deep breath.
We were the lost children roaming 'round Cair Paravel; the boxed kit youth unboxing on a caravel watching hypnotic YouTube videos and firing fire out of firewood; that was when I fell. Beside the flames under cover of conversation of God and Hell and all the proper nouns that we fear so much. But fires burn out, so let's be civil. We should be finished by next fall.
But how can I be civil when I hope that your spit flies back in your face; that when you flick your wrist, your muscles tear because I've torn too. It's torn past the heart into my legs, immobile, and my arms, useless. These hands are cramped and shredded; scraps and pieces and bits, drill bits carving their way in. You carved your way in. They say an animal in a tailor-made niche is an animal in a found home. So carve away, carver, we should be finished by next fall.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
Alight a laugh a lack a day
forget those enervating nights
lackadaisically dismayed
makes for too few delights
In eyes that spark a roaring flame
inside my being dark and cool
I gladly fall into their frame
and bask in their renewal
When only once did I just smile
now love uplifts my weary lips
that I might just once in a while
fall into your light and kiss
A laugh with you, within the hour
A lack in me is lacking power
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
everything's blacked out,
reigning over me are dark clouds,
incapacitated in awe and standing still,
nimbus clouds rain on me as I sleep sound.
lackadaisically waking up,
yawning as I walk outside, finding,
labyrinths of an ideal reality,
enamored with self-confusion and insanity.
roaming around aimlessly,
obfuscated in perpetuity,
maddened and under the weather,
adamantly rejoicing in the sorrowful rain.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 6:15 AM UTC
When the moon takes over the Sun's throne
When the Earth turned its back to the Sun
I have felt the audacity to like you
Like something new just happened
But when Sun is taking its throne back
When the Earth captured the light again
Every limb in me tells me
"You are nothing."
The world shows with lackadaisically
That I am the fool
For having feelings.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
Life feels
so
simple
as my
hand
hangs
lackadaisically
out my window,
wind rushing through
my slightly parted
digits,
inhaling the taste
of
spring,
pollen and sunshine;
just dreamin'.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
the night is empty and calm and quiet and dead and no animal or human or organism has the want or reason to fill it
somewhere someone and something and nothing at all is dying or is dead and all the silent people and all the silent animals and all the silent organisms will do nothing to save them
the time passes slowly at mach speed and the earth ceases to turn and the people and the animals and the organisms are crushed by the force of the lack of movement
the sun implodes and the universe is momentarily covered in beauty and debris and particles of carcasses before there is nothing of what had and could have been
in a different galaxy and cosmos and timeline the sun shines brightly as it was meant to with no intention to change its routine
the people and the animals and the organisms cohabit earth peacefully having unlocked the secrets of life and death and all in between before and after
earth turns lackadaisically and nothing and no one and no being could ever persuade or force it to stop
the night is full and loud and boisterous and bright and alive and filled with joyful chatter and excited calls and unhurried and unworried din
particles float in space and smash gently together and greet each other with nonexistent smiles and impossible words in unknown languages
asteroids soar by with inaudible how do you dos and vanish before there is any answer or inquiry as to where they plan to go
black holes swirl happily inviting all the particles and asteroids and stars and matter and antimatter and dark matter into their vapid embrace
solar systems cry noisily as their bedtime approaches and fight against the current of time and space and emptiness and nothingness and struggle against the flow
atoms and molecules find romance within one another and bind themselves and break apart and bind themselves and break apart and bind themselves
the stars grow agitated and burst into dull rock and grow agitated and burst into flame until the can no longer explain their agitation and burst into nothing in an enraged fit
just past all the things is a small planet that was in the past and has passed and will pass in the future and is passing right now
and the night is empty and calm and quiet and dead and no animal or human or organism has the want or reason to fill it
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
O stone-hearted beauty!
To forget you,
I'm trying lackadaisically.
To overcome your memories,
I'm not trying sincerely.
To love someone else,
I'm trying half-heartedly.
O cold-blooded beauty!
To love you,
I tried everything in the dictionary.
To change your prejudice,
I tried my best.
To convince you,
I didn't get my chance.
O unfeeling beauty!
To miss you,
Has become a habit.
To feel you,
Has become an addiction.
To want you,
Is an undying passion.
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 12:23 PM UTC
My life has always seemed and deemed to be,
Something that only peculiarity can perceive,
In depths of cynicism and the focal's sea.
Amid brilliance of any carcasses' pensive.
It has ends, yet begins anew;
With new chapters and fresh start fevers,
Severed with broken shards and dull hues.
To fulfill a worthy journey that doesn't last forever.
A mighty voyage filled with emotions,
Satisfying thirst for an adventurous soul.
Tormenting mediocrity along accretions,
Penchants seeking, making hearts crowl.
It is blissful yet melancholic,
In closets of several memories and faces.
It ends with punctuations with hearts stoic,
Along aspirations and things filled laces.
Punctuations! Ah the beauty,
Memoriam lest filled lackadaisically,
Forever harmonizes serenity,
In a personal mind eternalizing merrily.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
missed opportunities for a burned out soul
potential thrown away lackadaisically in the fleeting moment
a school-of-thought to ruin a lifetime of work
leaving you in the cold, wet dirt
you know it's bad when crying is enjoyable
an actual show of emotion comes as bleak relief from the never-ending steppe of non-existence
an true yet brief feeling; enough to rekindle the dampened spirit
but crushed without a thought by the elapse of tissues
the ducts are dry, nothing left but shudders
back to normality and banality
same old, same old, so they say
more powerful than words and transient passion
and i greet and embrace it like a returning master
clinging to it despite my unchained body
"hello master, nice to see you again"
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
Lackadaisically lazy,
Freethinking state-of-mind,
Purposively pensive,
Generously kind.
Occasionally cautious,
Heavy set, a belting beard,
Despicably dizzy,
And wonderfully weird.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
Questions, questions, questions.
Solitary.
stemming from a grass-less
plot of land,
all sand.
Was this
really
strange
flower.
"How?" " What the?" " Is that possible?"
muttered the group,
about seven or eight of them.
All sporting backpacks.
The day went,
the sun lackadaisically moved from
one side to the other.
When about 3/4th of the way there,
a little wide smiling
baboon
locked it's eyes
on this flower.
All in a moments
laughter
cackle, spittle
spattered.
hitting the dry,
dust.
tears rolling down the eyes
of this little primate.
wise,
fulfilled.
the tears and spittle filled
the ground.
Four months now
since that moment,
that watered the earth
and gave birth
to
another
strange
questionable
flower.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
Bleak existence portrayed,
nonetheless this (baby
boomer) hybrid dreamer
oft times evocative
edenic reveries bekiss
mine psyche with pastoral trappings
evoking utopian bliss
on par with drawing
winning lottery ticket,
which fantasy I quickly dismiss,
where dolorous voices within me hiss
mocking pipe dream compensating
for unlived life hide miss
whiling away hours
of young adulthood...
this threescore aged man did blithely ****
away enraptured with Swiss
Family Robinson fantasy,
gladly exchanging tsoris
entailing breathtaking adventure
versus sequestered bookishness burr
rowed nose engrossed
with page turner capture
ring imagination of this erstwhile drifter
addressing, fixating, and keeping coiffure
as disheveled appearance, where daily
father and mother showed me the door
particularly on account, cuz for one more
nanosecond, they could not endure
this healthy sole son vaping expenditure
as both parents toiled away,
they tired trying to swallow failure
while primarily main feature
of this poem lackadaisically
exhausted as an Evansburg Park fixture
(calling squirrels on first name basis),
no sooner this bookworm gave vague gesture
after setting foot inside abode - 'pon dusk
asper whereabouts, off
into bedroom I did immure
and disappear into story
maybe one about main
character pledging indenture
role as heavy footsteps shook
324 Level Road domicile infrastructure
awaiting the wrath
of Khan spouting ultimatums
our father/son rapport long did inure
a "NON FAKE" wall not immune
to malicious, noxious, vicious... lecture
to offspring who long outwore his
Harris Tweed Scottish welcome mat,
yet... feared testing nonsecure
mooring which familiarity bred contempt!
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 12:50 PM UTC