M-emories
A-nd
R-emembrance
J-ust
O-ffer
R-eminiscence
I-f
E-verything
C-omes
A-gain
R-ecollecting
A-ll
N-oble
D-eeds
A-nd
N-ice
G-estures
©bfa051625
Monocrostic (Birthday of Marjorie G. Carandang)
I laud precious memories when cold nights prevail.
Those that fan love's flames against Winter winds
for in those images my lonely heart beats again,
if only an interlude where grief holds no reign.
But mourns my heart when they are bittersweet.
Each one a dagger plunged too deep.
They cannot be banished or cast aside,
for with each attack my wounds bleed again.
I cannot escape the sorrowful tears
that trickle when those memories come unbidden.
There's no antidote to stave off the infection
of the melancholy sadness my mind recalls.
But there are melodious moments,
joyfully sweet dulcet thoughts
when gentler memories flow.
They brush across my heart like paint on canvas,
as treasured works of art being recalled.
When a smile, sans apparent reason, reaches my eyes
making them shine as if emerging from an eclipse,
a cherished memory is being recollected.
These are the priceless souvenirs I relive.
As
I watch
the waves crash
and unfold gems
in neon blue dust
across ivory shores
silky reflections scatter
upon moon glazed tides in cadence
and flaming twin stars whirl in circles
sprinkling magic upon Poseidon’s realm
There's a turquoise song for the healing hearts
ruffling as lyrical melodies
along idyllic crests of hope
where memories float in a
bottle of souvenirs
ferrying sapphire
swells of daydreams
that ebb in
tune to
faith
The best dreams occur when the eyes are open
When some miracles or a few good things happen
At a time, when life is supposed to be monotonous
Then suddenly out of nowhere, you reencountered
An old friend who brought back forgotten precious
Souvenirs and times gone by that we both revered.
Dreaming while awake does not happen too often
When a unique event is revisited, the word “Heaven”
Comes to mind, and the mouth is full of a sweet saliva
Once swallowed, it’s like sipping alcohol-free vodka
The best dreams take place, not when the eyes are shut
It is when one is lying down and reminiscing like a nut
Memories and times gone that are revered
And remember always that time on earth is a breath of air.
Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
In the edifice of memory, we slowly blend...
a citrus scent of tangy orange peels
with freshness sniff of cinnamon cakes.
an ephemeric smell of wet shampooed hair
with a spritz of cologne ruminating the spray.
an evening brew of chamomile soothed tea
burbling in resonance with expreso sunrise.
a whiff of sandal lingering in bath towel
with an ambrosial soul, in lavender incense.
that seductive night with a jasmine garland
delighting feminine fragrance in a rose pool.
perfumed petals wafting on gentle breeze
with a nostalgia of infused wet petrichor.
In the castle of these redolent remembrance
transfusing our breath, inhaling an invisible
It's love at first smell, an odor that's too near
diffusing pheromones of aromatic souvenirs.
He consulted a warlock, a wizard, a priest and a witch.
The witch finally asked “did you pick up something you shouldn’t have?”
He thought about this and remembered.
He had collected seashells, sticks, rocks, and soil from a national park.
"Kind of", he admitted.
“From Volcano National Park?” the witch asked him.
He nodded yes.
“You have to send it all back. Then your luck will change.”
He had not taken anything important, but his luck had changed.
His child had nearly succumbed from Covid-19, his wife left.
Sales were down by forty-six percent since he returned to the mainland.
He refused to do what she asked at first.
Then his mother and two uncles died.
A voice in his head said “send it back; send it back.”
When the box arrived at the post office in Hawaii they loaded it into a truck.
Heading for the beaches and the forests, to return all ninety-six boxes together.
After his items were returned to the national forest, order was restored.
His business perked up, and his wife returned home.
He decided to never pick up souvenirs again.
The witch had been spot on.
because she had done the same thing
years earlier....
Inklings of Love
Love is a never ending daisy chain
Lovely as damselfly sparkling with dew
Joyful as rainbows in sky after rain.
Cherish that you have a treasure so true
Celebrate that her love glitters and glows
Lovely as damselfly sparkling with dew.
In fragrance of daisies where'er she goes
Enlighten her she's your favoured flora
Celebrate that her love glitters and glows.
Tell her often you adore her aura
Sprinkle stardust when’er she pirouettes
Enlighten her she’s your favoured flora.
Admire her for her exquisite assets
Create glorious memoir souvenirs
Sprinkle stardust when’er she pirouettes.
On her bestow moonbeam, smile through the years
Love is a never ending daisy chain
Create glorious memoir souvenirs
Joyful as rainbows in sky after rain.
*+*+*
21st April 2023
Inklings Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
four pebbles ...
from brighton shore -
the souvenirs in pandemic
-- Souvenirs of Silence, Soman Gouda
Woman, you were so pretty. You were so beautiful
You were so enlightened, so verdant and full of life
You were so kind. You were so wonderful
You were so tender and distant from the caterpillars.
Oh! Woman, I remember, I recall your smile
So radiant, so extraordinary and so phenomenal
Oh! Oh! Souvenirs, memories of yesterday's hours
That leave the heart thirsty for a brighter future.
Love of a yesteryear, I'm still enjoying
The young spring of my life. I'm still strong
Obviously, it's too early to think about death.
Oh! You used to be so pious, now you've lost yourself
You no longer exist for me. You left with the cloudy shadow
You live somewhere else. Now, I'm proud to be away from your shadows.
P.S. Translation of 'Les Souvenirs De Ton Sourire' by Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © October 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
Silver candlesticks and other thingamabobs
Of questionable use in these modern times,
And riffraff scattered throughout in gobs
Most are reminiscent of long-ago pastimes
Of younger years spent happily gallivanting
Around the globe in search of new ventures
Now I spend entirely too much time, daunting,
Searching for my eyeglasses or my dentures
And trying to figure out how to dispose of
The knickknacks and what-nots I’ve collected
Not enough drawers I can into them shove,
On shelves they are dusty and much neglected.
I’m thinking that’s what my executors are for
So, I’ve designated a few people who will care
Who will make an inventory and open the door
For an estate sale, when I have gone over there
Time comes when my collections are scattered
To the four winds and have lost their meaning
Folks enjoyed them in my home, I was flattered,
But, now I am doing some necessary cleaning.
Written July 23, 2022
boxful of Scotland souvenirs at a car boot sale
a life’s possessions
in thirty or so boxes
from the back of a white Transit
knick-knacks from Scotland
a wee man with ginger hair
tam o’shanter
and a corkscrew
a picture of Ben Nevis
with all the red vibrancy
sucked out of it
by years of rising suns
through flat windows
a toilet roll holder
from Edinburgh
cartoon spider and an inscription
taken straight from Robert Bruce
“if at first you don’t succeed,
try, try again”
an empty whisky bottle
shaped like a hand bell
a small bundle of colourised postcards
in brown, green and purple
of the Scottish Highlands
a tea towel with a stubborn brown stain
of the Isle of Skye
a pint glass with a colour scene
lettered Aberd—n
and a dried bunch of heather
bound by a tartan ribbon
from the banks of Loch Ness
that bunch of heather,
forty six years picked
owned from honeymoon to death
thirty or so boxes
of worthless detritus
to rummage and ransack
on a summer Sunday morning
a life lived
in one of thirty boxes.
6.6.2011
revised 6.6.2022 6:45am
White
Clawing its way out of your eyes,
Fear,
Leaving behind only sour
Bitter bleak brilliant
Memories
Of what you used to be.
Not a person,
A body
Sustained by the past
It being your electricity.
A voice slithering in your mind
Narrating your days
With things from before
Throwing your souvenirs at you
As you plead
Beg
Hope it will stop.
Carmine nails clutching
At the place where your heart should be
Bent over
The floor absorbing your pain
The tears.
Burning this page slowly,
Gold flecks
Leap into you,
Skipping under your veil of hurt
For once
Not the gold of those city lights
That once shone for brightly for
The two of you.
Rising hope fills your skin,
You don't want to ask him to dance again,
Perhaps catch him in a dream,
Weary now,
Restless for something new.
Memories raining,
intermittent rain drip ouch
immerse in dolour ...
creased old love letters
many times read in silence-
gushed a stream of tears
November 18, 2020
Among the souvenirs
I treaded,
Through memory spun cobwebs
and wicked repartee,
Surrounded by remnants
of the past,
Never once remembering.
Overwhelmed
by lingering soul prints,
my sighs erased the dust,
Beneath a coat of armor
I found a heart
embedded in rust,
I started to remember . . .
some things are better left
Untouched.
Through the stained brash mirror
I saw no one
stare back,
There was no tangible evidence
of any former being,
Only the essence had remained,
all the while
Remembering . . .
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