"nocturnes" poems
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves
stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)
croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl
the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe
rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)
donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells
tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
*and that **** rabid fox*
are drowning
deep in castles well
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
come to me
like nocturnes creeping
and wake me with sweet kisses
like a tongue of sapphire ash
and sharp teeth to drink
from hollowed throat willing
and we shall love,
and love,
and love
like melting candles blessed
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
Alexander K OPICHO
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
from north in Kaduna of Okigbo to south in the Rhoben Island
of Mazizi Kunene and D M Zwelonke who sang the song of Shaka;
in Zulu Heroism that beautified our face in the armpit of Ezkia Mphalele,
the sons of Africa in the knighthood of poetry,chantery and incantations
you are hailed with with glory and dignity for your service to humanity
your service to literature and gods of poetry in the spirit of the song
that we chant in the spirit of love and peace the glory of hour heritage
is an eyesore to the lazy ; who though ill will can stop the flow of African river,
Sing our songs and chant our spirituals as you write our poems
open your poetic ***** for the world is a ******
in which the seed of African poetry will plummet and flower
to glory of man the essence of Godliness,
Let Soyinka and Achebe sing our songs without fear of home
As Okot P' Btek revamps from the ashes like a phoenix
to re-plant the bumpkin in the old homestead of Taban Lo Liyong
Who sang the cacotpic song in the dystopia of black diaspora
when he saw another ****** dead in the guest for Nocturnes of Senghor
who feared Marxist poetry and African songs which Aime Cesaire chanted
in the mayoralty of Paris.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Il était très **** dehors était noir
Comme un maudit soir
Qui allait porter: angoisse et tristesse
Pour une mère soudainement tombée en détresse
Les escadrons de l’obscurité viennent d’exécuter
Son enfant de vingt et une années
Il avait prétendument un couteau en main
Et l’innocence d’un jeune matin
Fatal dans sa pensée. La technologie
Peut, par hasard, améliorer ou détruire la vie
Plusieurs cartouches tirées, le jeune homme est tombé
Criblé de balles réservées pour des condamnés
Les assassins nocturnes ont abattu une autre victime
Ce qui est pire, c’est qu’ils ne vont pas payer pour cet horrible crime
C’est abominable, le noir est souvent injustement ciblé
Le racisme est un cancer qu’on doit éradiquer
La mère est inconsolable
Ses douleurs implacables
Ses larmes intarissables
Et ses peines incommensurables
C’est triste et amer, la mère va enterrer son enfant
C’est drôle, affreux, criminel et méchant
Les malhonnêtes « foliciers » sans remords
Viennent de causer un autre mort
Ils ne connaissent pas les souffrances
Endurées par une mère pour donner naissance
A un bébé en bonne et parfaite santé
Quelle tristesse! Quelle calamité!
C’est une autre tranchée forcée
C’est vraiment déchiré un cœur jadis farci de fierté
Voir une mère pleurer dans une telle condition
Est écœurante pour toute la famille
Et les amis
Qui brûlent dans un enfer imbibé de pénibles émotions
L’ignorance et l’immaturité sont deux plaies
Qui jamais ne sèment ni l’amour, ni la paix
Les pleurs de la mère sont intarissables
Ses douleurs inimaginables
Ses peines incontrôlables
Et la mère inconsolable.
Copyright© March 2011, Hebert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hebert Logerie est l’auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 11:02 PM UTC
A capricious young mind
alive with reveries of vistas and granite hues,
enthralling nocturnes
and his touch in the night air.
Disparate and removed
you contemplated the stars,
a life lived with arms outstretched
beckoning the notional.
Beneath the ceaseless sky
you yearned for his warmth,
to feel your ashen flesh adhere to his every fissure
raising your arms to his celestial vantage
you beckoned, once more.
From the dimming light,
above the distant horizon he rose -
like the smoke of an ardent fire that resided within,
ascending through your being,
coming to rest upon your weary head,
he suffused each lissom filament with a fragrance,
eternal.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:41 PM UTC
Night,
and there is nothing more fragile
than this fever, an opus
of guitars swelling with song
and water, fluent
as the nocturnes are tuned
to the lower scale and strings vibrate deep within
the marrow as they ascend,
the soul blowing glass,
and filling the lungs
with a long slow taper of light, streaming
as fingers are brought to bear on frets
covered in hoarfrost,
and stray hair is pushed back from countenance,
to reveal the fractions of fire caught upon iris
there come slow indulgences,
and forgotten things,
to twine the body
in banners of winter silk,
scarves about the wrists, roped
in tethers and these feathers
of night-blooming jasmine
hang in long strands of pearl,
from my temple, teal threads of opal
and heather braids twine
the tone, the time
is not all poems
upon a blank page or songs
to coo the concert of souls
muted in chambers acoustically
formed of minutes, stolen in a glance,
at glimpse of skin or the tender touch
of cheek as eyes brim
soul-filled to overflow,
nocturnal blends the silent pause
between movements upon a page
where there is room for words,
though never found ,but in gesture
and margin's note that lays soft upon the tongue,
behind lips suited for sighs
these lost manuscripts begin
a long hand of notes held whole
Let the music play again,
its plea, eternal,
my love, please
do not forget how to preserve me,
for this is night,
and it is fragile....
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 6:54 AM UTC
Has your soul sipped
Of the sweetness of all sweets?
Has it well supped
But yet hungers and sweats?
I have been witness
Of a strange sweetness,
All fancy surpassing
Past all supposing.
Passing the rays
Of the rubies of morning,
Or the soft rise
Of the moon; or the meaning
Known to the rose
Of her mystery and mourning.
Sweeter than nocturnes
Of the wild nightingale
Or than love's nectar
After life's gall.
Sweeter than odours
Of living leaves,
Sweeter than ardours
Of dying loves.
Sweeter than death
And dreams hereafter
To one in dearth
Or life and its laughter.
Or the proud wound
The victor wears
Or the last end
Of all wars.
Or the sweet ******
After long guard
Unto the martyr
Smiling at God;
To me was that smile,
Faint as a wan, worn myth,
Faint and exceeding small,
On a boy's murdered mouth.
Though from his throat
The life-tide leaps
There was no threat
On his lips.
But with the bitter blood
And the death-smell
All his life's sweetness bled
Into a smile.
2.3k
Thunder… then lightning,
feverish caress of musky notes,
****** scent of loving irony
to curiously tempt each edge
of such a fractionated cubism.
Tiny desert rose, ready
to dilate all its farthest dusty ravines
just to feel its lymph racing out of bounds.
Hot water runs down on me,
raw and bitter into my mouth,
a taunting sadism
for better wince, essentially
in a universe that is not there.
Painted glow of cynic nocturnes,
diluted to loss,
watered down to dawn.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
This tongue broadcasts
hushed tones of satanic nature
And strange snickers
resounded throughout the canyons
Chanting nocturnes as irking
as a rhino horn against a chalkboard
yet the prophecy remained clear
I had to find this beast
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
Time of sorrowing,
My words wander through
The vast emptiness of dark stars
And blood stained carnations.
Come my black hearted lover,
The great sorrow is our forest,
The blessed truth of a drifting
Reality beyond the villains of love.
A raven flies from tree to tree
And greets the infinity of your soul,
Which is just as nocturnal
As the black rose unseen
As though a queen was dying;
Oh beloved embrace your darkness.
Look, I see your eyes deep,
Free your fiery hair to the wind
So that it may shade the sun,
The wild magnificence of your
Womanhood which is like
Silken flattery of crimson kisses
From the moist of your lips.
I will catch Oscura,
The Dark Star and enchant
Him with your black eyes,
The sweet season of the nocturnes!
There is a cavern
That surges with a dark glow
And beautiful dark elves play
There in a spring of water
Naked and playful,
They caress the darkness
And you are their Queen.
You were there since before
You were born in the crystalline
Lament of the dark glow
From the days of antiquity
When the first words were yet
To be spoken and you flattered
Even the Poet Saints.
Oh Dark One,
The shadow of your breast
Under the howling moon
Where dragons sing a fiery
Hymn over sonorous waters
With wings of scales.
See the dark stars glow
Blood red to honor your beauty,
It is the harmony of the night
In a cluster of lightless constellations,
The fragrance of nightingales
And the souls dancing under
Your very eyes.
Do you see the night?
I am one with you lover,
The pale moonlight swells
Under my manly throat as I
Speak the forsaken language
Of the night, the soft kiss
Of the dusk vibrates within
Me as I ****** your body
To the music of the dead.
Close your eyes lover,
Blessed darkness awaits
As the universe pours itself
Into our bodies and bound
Us into the sacred night.....
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 7:51 PM UTC
The aloofness of the moon in the effervescent night
In between the clouds teasing the sight
As the lavish words of the owls permeates the air
Summoning the wolves to howl in despair
Unable to muffle the loquacious toads by the lake
While the fluid branches of the trees dance to the nocturnes of the wind
How they cradled the woods to sleep
Still there is a flurried silence
Inexplicable gloom
Emitted by the bright moon
Spreading like wild fire in the meadows
Creating eerie shadows through the glass windows
The lake glittered as if the stars have fallen in the waters
She dipped her nakedness in the aching cold
Emotionless
Her face illuminated by the reflection in the silver waters
She submerge her breath to fill her lungs
She never felt as light, numb and hollow
The moon signed as witness
To the blooming flowers that midnight
Ever hungry for the moonlight
Like her convulsing consciousness desperate for salvation
And to the corpse of the maiden afloat in the lake
The unapologetic moon stood to watch
The beautiful soul as it slowly swells
Along with melancholia
Writhing across the serene lake
-Melancholia, Margaret Austin Go
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
outskirts of
Seagull-Sunday
tethered
in darkness
the road
is moving
at the perfect
speed
intermediary
spaces
like peaceful
trees
blend into
the fog
of circling
insects
brittle
nocturnes
an overnight
journey
spent
staring out
the window
forming
itself
entirely out
of the interstitial
moments
that make
for a sort of
homecoming
Apr 1, 2024
Apr 1, 2024 at 10:29 PM UTC
i.
we were insatiable last night,
impelled by the alienation one finds
at the bottom of a bottle-
our numb bones in need of warming
on top of and then under
covers, under clothes.
artist's hands fumbled, frantic for an answer,
trying desperately to become closer,
as if your nails in my spine could render
us inseparable-
as if i could, with my touch,
memorize and recreate you with me,
sculpt us together
forever and not just for the night,
my labor for your labored breath,
as fleeting as your consciousness.
ii.
as i ardently watch you dream
countenance softened by sleep
i know that come morning, i'll split
and we will lead sovereign lives,
divergent until your nocturnes play
and you serenade me once again.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
Her hands are neither soft
nor attractive.
They are a white fish belly from too
little time in the sun.
Her nails are stubby and unadorned.
Her fingers are tentacles projecting
unnaturally from undersized palms,
tips rough and calloused.
I must stare
I cannot help myself
Then it begins.
The movement.
The tentacles scamper here and there.
They reach
They touch
They pound and poke
and stretch and crawl
and in their grotesque fury
teach me to love.
Mozart and Chopin
Prokofiev and Bach
The piano is a time machine
transforming the tiny practice room
into the mighty concert halls
of Vienna and Prague.
From the gallery I am
entranced by rhapsodies
seduced by nocturnes
and consumed by symphonies.
I murmur,
does the music stir your soul?
She glances up
briefly
and returns to work.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
we dress our wounds
in sweet nocturnes
like pebbles in an hourglass
we shatter dreams in moonbeams
and fail to make these moments last
never speak to me in honesty
or drown me in your past
because i know, because i know
because i had always told you so
that atlas sleeps on soundless keeps
and shares his arms with the world.
wake up to my yesterdays and wait
for me to wander by, i'm there all the time
when you're not sure what to think
or if you're deserving of anything
i'm written in the roots of trees
and all the ugly little things
mushrooms from the rain that
dream to be clouds, and you always wished
they were proud of you
and i'm every little ghost in your broken home
the abandoned palace where parasites roam
and ask theirselves why as you ask yourself why
that you're loved, if they're loved.
and you're the second hand in my wristwatch
the clock towers that fail to spin you up
the raindrop on my windshield when i drive
but I've lost the will to stay alive.
you're the moments that i let slip
the glass i wrapped in aluminum foil
and placed in my broken fridge to spoil
why do i risk everything by risking nothing?
you were right. you're always right.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
stars and stardust, we were
from the press impelled by the loneliness
from the incessant at the bottom of crowds.
we ache for our numb bones
and false amore on top of the love-
folie a deux covers under
the shared madness- artist's hands.
attachment is trying desperately-
infatuation is "as if"
with deadly symptoms- us inseperable.
red roses lead to "as if i could"
with roses dropped, so memorize and recreate
from vases shattered, sculpt us together
so life is forever and not just golden hair,
my labor for your blue eyes,
and as fleeting as your weapons.
cities sunk and yet i, ardent, watch
from the depths of countenance.
it's all for you, i know that.
perceive its aftereffects and
we will lead its hangover headache,
divergent until you're sprawled over your serenade.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug), bolt upright, uplight, reattach yourself to the liquid of the music,
soothe the irritation, slowdown the shaking hand,
give god or his creatures, the nocturnes and sonatas,
a chance to restore the pounding of the chest to a leveling
equanimity
to no avail, the sleep angels have fled from the
forest fires in the chest, and the helicopters must quench
with the commence of dropping clouds of wet words,
when, when will I be released from a life that has no
easements
words, words, words but another drug, a habit that gives
everything but a temporary state, every poem nothing but
another her, another lady puncture in my restless body,
another juncture, where all your choices are the way of
error
the high will last, shorter each one, but the track will exist
for all the time, a token of human foolishness, the more is
the inevitability of the ending, writ, drawn a little closer,
and comes with a hand written spongy-apology begging for
existing
in his notes, motes, dust mites of titles, single verses,
elegies, essays half written, passing thots claiming to
want to be wannabes, this appears and it's a perfect
ending
there is no security in poetry, only the unresolvable
man in his perfect certainty, never was, nevermore, n'ere will be never, and one poet walks a razor's edge, that is his three tenses struggling for mutual coexistence, one of
a calming beauty, a dark glory, a perfect closing, choosing
a final solution, a belief in relief, that simultaneously
engraves, erases, and
equates
another new poem fissures to the surface, and the palpable
is a magician's illusion, a trick, a feat of dismemberment,
an excise of a piece, a drink, a Tennessee whiskey of him,
an emission that never gains remission status, all this fakery,
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug),
excellent, worthless and self-
effacing
{|||}
3:48am-5:46am
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 5:56 AM UTC
Beyond the piles of fractured rocks
And the dunes that echo empty
Lies no more songs of the wind
Or any fruits of pleanty
The sky it darkens so much so
That the nocturnes all come out
But not a star nor moon is there
Just black fog seeping out
The trees are withered well and good
From poison tears that fall
The creatures move - mirages
Of what they were before it all
No more ocean and no more skies
When plastic people pester please
The forges of nature overrun
With men of metal and guys of greed
- Anisah Mariah
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 1:15 PM UTC
For Dr. Harry Braeuer
The day is mercifully warm when we come to visit you on Christmas.
All is calm o’er the city by the gulf; the salt in the air is sweetly gleaming.
All is bright with glowing hearts by his cradle we stand.
I play with a kitten that looks like Lily because I cower from the realities of your dying mind:
Of silent and holy nights;
Of sins and errors pining;
Of falling on your knees;
Of demanding to know what you’ve done to deserve the larghissimo dying from a disease that makes you forget the intricacies of Chopin’s Nocturnes or your daughters’ names.
You hold your face in your hand and study the eggshell white tile while Michael plays Clair De Lune.
Oh, hear the angel voices!
As if every flowing wave of moonlight of Debussy would cease the decrescendo of life or bring the lucid dawn of redeeming grace.
And after the final note pianissimo, you try so hard to rise from your wheelchair to give your grandson a loving ovation.
You clap your wrinkled and meticulous hands that cannot forget what it is like to cut open the mortal
—to bury the dead.
But please don’t get up, Dr. Braeuer.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices.
Stay warm in your bed.
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Bravo, my sweet grandfather!
Oh, night divine!
Lay down your sweet head.
Oh, night! Oh, holy night!
Enjoy the tender music instead.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Lorsque brusquement et soudainement le jour
Devenait la nuit la plus obscure, compatriotes et amis
On ne savait pas si on devait courir en se disant bonjour
Adieu ou au revoir. La terre tremblait jusqu'à l'infini
Sans halte, comme des trains nocturnes venant de plusieurs
Directions. L'heure était vitale. On cherchait la lueur
D'un espoir pour s'échapper de l'embrouillamini surnaturel
Où des milliers de vies ont été disparues. Les biens matériels
Ne sont pas importants, on se voit partir tel qu'on est
Venu. On doit reconnaitre que l'argent est futile et la paix
Est la chose la plus précieuse qu'on nécessite. Le passé
C'est là que réside un bonheur furtif, éphémère et volatil
C'est comme la fin d'un monde. Oh! Chaque être est utile.
La faille a ouvert sa grande gueule pour engloutir: bébés
Adultes, chiens, chats, maisons, édifices et routes en entier
C'est l'apocalypse, c'est la fin pour des milliers de citoyens
Qui ont disparu comme de la fumée dans les nuages ensorcelés
Les trains étaient invisibles mais les gens montaient, les mains
En l'air, dans des véhicules sans portes et ni pneus. Les pieds
Lourds pesaient dix fois plus qu'un éléphant. On partait vers des
Destinations inconnues. Les cris abasourdis et muets étaient
Partout. La Terre tremblait. Elle a tremblé comme si elle voulait
S'engloutir dans la mer où le flux et le reflux s'atterrissaient
À la jupe du rideau où la fumée et la nébulosité se rencontraient
Heureux sont ceux qui ont été sauvés et qui vivent en paix
Le séisme est un avatar infernal qui apporte peines et regrets
Haiti, notre pays a perdu des gens charmants, des petits enfants chéris
A cause de l'égoïsme des dirigeants safres imbibés dans l'hypocrisie
On ne cesse de dire à haute voix: pauvre Haiti. On ne cesse de pleurer
En se demandant quand les larmes cesseront de sombrer et d'exsuder.
Copyright© 10 Janvier 2021, Hébert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 10:29 PM UTC
I was once a classically trained pianist:
My nails cut weekly down to the bit
and internal tongue *ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee
ta-ta, tom* tuned to the metronome.
Daily hours meant:
bent stick straight up
scales and etudes then
sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias
and movements memorized
by fingers that knew the way
and weight of adjusted arms.
What is the value of
a wrong note alone
or amongst many,
of memory incapable
and fingers fallible?
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
I joust myself into jovial life
Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness
Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts
The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life
I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out
Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands
He said she should have left the house
Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry
Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside
You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart
Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps
Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair
Crossing the wires of substrates
Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined
Nocturnes, from the centuries
Of ten old centurions
Came down to the Colosseum
Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire
I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope
Tenants of this Roman Empire
Fighting for your rights
Fighting for the people who cannot fight
For the weak, requires peace and understanding
Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity
This earth is an orchard of flowers
Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature
Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes
Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds
Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation
New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS
Shooting flares into the sky
To reach so low, and to reach so high
Shouting slogans, written by the poets
Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets
Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky
Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds
The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 1:01 PM UTC
"Go on", prodded the elbow.
Allow the weep that nocturnes with the hum of a thousand trapped butterflies;
puddle in their escape through tear ducts once blocked.
Howl and trickle with a presence of mind and let proud the sob as the waft
of spring onion, wild and potent, fumes in displace.
Foetal in a pool of rusty violin strings, that in gesture of their fanciful flight,
rock amongst the reminisce.
And then and _oh yeah_ then, clamber tall the sodden bojangle, survey the encounter and with eyes anew, washed fresh, see it all, _truly see it_, as the ****** of crows that it is.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
His niceties were inherent,
as were his empty bed
and the empty chair
placed next to his
at the small cafe table.
His women were nice,
clean and crisp,
but they only undressed
in the dark,
and they never
stayed the night.
He woke up
alone
and reaching
for no one;
praying for nocturnes
that never end
or a noose
that wouldn't slip,
when there was
nothing else
to be done.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
night
shrug off flannel coats
leave them alone with each other
on the floor
get reacquainted
night whispers nothing all too sweetly
with its sore throat
down the hall, in the bathroom
now
on a floral sofa slipcover
reading two books with one light
allegretto
night expects rain to peek in
barely humming nocturnes
barely ambient
barely
burying faces in crooks of knee
dips of side
curvature of neck
night relaxes
contentedly fallow
chilled
closer
Apr 23, 2011
Apr 23, 2011 at 9:01 PM UTC