Ask our beloved late brother John W. Ono Lennon
He would tell you straight: ‘There’s No Heaven’
People on Earth are lunatic, crazy and flashy
They destroy or ravage everything they see
They don’t believe in brotherhood or unity
Yet they dream and aspire to live in paradise
For what? Why? That’s a farce, a prank, a disguise
They should first organize their affairs well on Earth
Before thinking or dreaming of going or flying there
They want to go to Heaven, but they’re afraid of death
They want absolute happiness, yet they’re freaking unfair
Racist, ignorant, superstitious, arrogant and jealous
Nobody can prove vere, verbatim et literatim that Heaven exists
We can talk, chat, shout, curse, rhyme and sing all we want
People are crazy, loud and gaudy. They sing, moan and rant
People always imagine or invent things that arouse desire and grandeur
Let’s start with Peace and Love, and then we’ll move up the ladder.
Copyright © July 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
Quote by Vere X. Campbell
Keola – Rhyme
I know people who exist in darkness,
NO persuasion altering illusions,
Not ONE spark EVER pricking the shadows;
their sight IMPAIRED by inky conclusions;
THEIR draperies are ever tightly drawn;
opaque lenses distorting weak EYESIGHT
BY always LOOKING ON the negative,
THE lovely morning viewed as black of night.
I know others facing difficulties,
With expectations of a future, BRIGHT.
They choose the best, the joyful SIDE, of life,
Advancing forward, facing toward the light.
February 28, 2022
Mistress al' Vere
I NEED THEE EVERY HOuR
MOST HEARD TESTIMONY
NO TENDER VOICE LIKE EXALT
AFFORD TEMPTATIONS CAN
I NEED THEE; O I NEED THEE;
EVERY HOuR I NEED THEE !
OBLESS ME NOW, MY SAVIOR
I COME To THEE !
PRAYER IS THE BURDEN OF A Sigh
THE FALLING OF A TEAR.
THE UPWARD GLANCEING OF AN EYE
WHEN NON BuT ENDURE is NEAR.
O'vr far are the vestavules
vere where'st thile rise
Stile spile forle the bestabule
of chosed classed sighs
Spring comes
Quietly--
Not with the bleating of lambs or
The tweeting of birds or the
Beating of butterfly wings
Spring comes
Silently--
Celtic through the Neolithic stones,
Unheralded by peering shadow-seekers
Rummaging around on the Second of
February, and unannounced by a
Banner on the front page of the
National Enquirer…
Unpresaged by pregnant April
Showers,
Spring comes--
Alive
Nota bene: This is one of the few pieces of juvenilia I have preserved. It was written when I was at college (the University of Florida), in 1979, when I was in the English Department High Honors Seminar. We had an assignment to write a poem about Spring, but to try not to fall into the usual cliches. I thought it might be fun to mention some of those cliches ironically. We had one-on-one tutorials with a number of well-known novelists and poets; one of mine was with the poet Richard Eberhart. He told me he liked this poem and that it was a good one, so I have kept it these four decades.
Everything fades away
softly or harshly glowing,
growing smaller,
end of cycle
already written
in the fabric.
None
to escape the thrill
and fascination,
all the pain
to dry in the sun
'til hard and withered
we lay down
to feed the grass
beyond the pines.
It's been marked-
there's a stone
already for my Neverland,
where everything that happened
could've been something else.
I should've been Pearl De Vere.
Among those ones
who gave up easy for the kind
of fame that creeps
from joyous burial mound
to wash us with stories
that don't need roses
for happy endings.
Lighting fuses not
to watch them burn-
but burn if must!
They didn't run.
Our nature shakes
beneath the core of us.
We tremble in ways
we can't outrun.
And they whisper-
Why so ever wish
to run?