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Mij was a storm of laughter and defiance,
A stubborn spirit, ever demanding his way,
Yet when the drinks flowed, oh how he shined,
A madcap maestro in the delirium of night.

Johnny Thunders on the speakers,
Hanoi rocks and Lords of the New Church
Echoing through our wild, endless journeys,
Tunes that stitched our misadventures into memory.

He’d promise me refuge in sunlit Greece,
An open door to his scattered sanctuary,
A place I longed to visit,
But lost my courage amidst the clamor of his drinking.

Now, two years on, silence aches where he once roared,
And in the quiet, I feel the bittersweet pull
Of laughter mixed with grief,
Missing the man who was as difficult as he was dearly loved.

In every clink of glass and every chord played,
I hear Mij’s defiant laugh a reminder
That even in chaos and excess,
There was a spark of beauty, a story worth every flawed moment.
Two years since your passing, and I'm only just starting to understand what you were to me.
Set upon a walk I did,
Through my hometown,
Silent in the cold.

And as I walked as I did,
I passed by such a mortal sight,
A garden dead,
Which once bloomed in twilight.

And shed a tear I did,
Yet of sadness not,
For I know new flowers will bloom again.
Inspired by classic poetry and it's grim takes of mortality.
Believe it or not
The Parson is right
We shall return with zeroes
Many zeroes.  Let’s be Heroes
For and to the world. Let’s not be selfish
Because we shall return with zilch
With nada, mit nichts, perhaps with empty zeroes
Which mean nothing. Let’s pause
To think. Let’s be wise and humble
Love is essential. When the trees tremble
And fall; when the ground shakes and burns
When the soil slithers and slides, the world yearns
For peace, sympathy, compassion, and love. With nothing
We shall return, just like we came on earth with nothing
The sky will always stare at us, as we raise our head
Heaven will remain at the same distance
And we shall leave alone, with nothing, with no bed
No castle, no money, no power and no incense
Believe it or not
We will be blessed to be in a wee lot
After the soul departs
And the ash rots
Believe it or not
The Poet is right.

P.S. This poem is dedicated to the kings of the world.
Copyright © January 2025, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
dead poet Jan 13
death is humble;
death does not discriminate;
death is everything,
but life.
Bonnabelle Reed Dec 2024
3 dollar kalimba
from the thrift store
only eight notes
never any more
3 dollar kalimba
plays a little tune
got it as a gift
of plastic hewn
3 dollar kalimba
heart shaped acrylic
lets the light through
of nothing in specific
3 dollar kalimba
that doesn't reverberate
too small a structure
to support sound ornate
3 dollar kalimba
with some added stickers
one of a rainbow
the other a faded picture
3 dollar kalimba
the eighth note is flat
but its melodies continue
in despite of that fact
3 dollar kalimba
how i love you so
your metal teeth ring
from high to low
3 dollar kalimba
forget what time it is
when i hear your sound
don't care what your price is
an appreciation of the smaller, imperfect things in life.
Only you can take
Me out of bed and
Get me through the
Dullness of my day
Only you can give me
Energy enough to keep
All those intrusive
Thoughts at bay

No need for sugar
No need for cream
I like you dark
Bitter and true
I believe we make
Such a perfect team
When we're together
I never feel blue

So call it love
Call it addiction
I couldn't care less
If I have a cup of
Hot strong coffee
I won't fade to stress
Just one cup will be fine... or maybe twenty.
Midnight Zoomies Apr 2018
Dubai has reared herself a throne,
In a strange city lying alone,
Far down within the Middle East,
Where the rich and humble consume and feast,
Their shrines and palaces and towers,
Resemble nothing that is ours,
Around, by dunes and winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the desert sky,
The melancholy waters lie.
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