Since second I was born you showered me with love
Made sure I was aware how adoring you were of
Michael and I
We were apples of your eye
Just wish I would have known how quick the days would pass by

my arms around your architecture
swimming spotted salamander
my whimpering whispers fill your ear
your emblazoned enigma bring here
cupid, bullseye
apple of my eye, you’re mine
cupid, bullseye
apple of my eye, you’re mine

They consume hot dogs
Too
Like you
But they don’t eat dogs
Never, ever
They do not eat cats
They do not eat pets
Never, never.

Immigrants eat wild boars, wild hogs
That’s hot Griot
They don’t eat rabbits
But they eat spicy Tassot
And of course, they eat hot dogs.

Haitians eat and drink Soup Joumou
Which contains vegetables and of course carrots
Haitian food
Is very, very good
Immigrants consume good meats
Like you.

Stop being racist
Stop being supremacist
Years ago, your ancestors used to eat dogs
Not immigrants, not West Indians
Not Haitians
Quit the hate
Think about your fate
On the final date
Immigrants eat fried wild hogs
Like zillion of Americans
Who love apple pies
Stop the lies, stop all the lies.

Copyright © October 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous collections of poetry.

There once was a seed,
With some love,
That seed had grown into a sprout.
Day by day would go by,
Week by week would also,
Slowly that sprout had now grown
And a beautiful tree emerged,
And on that tree there grew,
Little bulbs unknown,
And as months went on,
Until the right time,
Those bulbs became ripe fruit.
Round and red they were,
Ready to be picked,
As a hand reaches out to grab the fruit,
That fruit was called an apple.
Crunchy, juicy and sweet,
The taste was so delicious,
This fruit named apple was so good, that now they grow forever.

The Smell of Honey,  Coffee and Apples and Messes of Words, but
No Love Poetry

<^>

my poetry suffers from a literately literacy,
the adjectivally of imagery wears away with
time and age eroding the imagination, when one’s
days are numbered, being serious is an natural
unpleasant hazardous haze, never in doubt

The morning meal of cooked oatmeal, steel cut,
laced with wildflower honey, slices of honey crisp
apples and Hawaiian coffee brewed,  
singes the
Tropical Storm Ophelia thrumming humidity
that overhangs the ugly grays of NYC sky-paths,

one tickles me awake with contradictory impulses:
sweet and sour,
a robust stimulative, competing with the smothering of
grayling clouded weather weariness of
48 hours of rainy continuity,
a spirit suffocate

you see!

give you myself, my environment, in précis,
unimaginative exactly as it occurs to me, sensually, yes,
but cannot shake my disappointment that no,
can’t combine visionary notions that spin your swivel
chair around, powered by your exclamations of
ooh, ahh, and little stabs of weeee punctuating
our shared atmosphere
and bring forth
only love poetry

but no mas,
the love poetry doesn’t comes to the fore,
the forehead stuffed with words best listed as
basic, observable, factual,
Miley Cyrus, accuses me of being jaded,
but not with accuracy, more straight jacketed,
way past that half-way point of no return,
turning back is not a listed menu option

love poetry
demands, requires and requests
envisioning, precursor to dreaming,
but I am choking on matters-of-fact,
questions of survivability,
that do not
shed love poetry words,
I
love exclaiming
to any and all within hailing distance,
my loving firmament, but the damp atmosphere
swallows my hopes and sounds, even though
still can smell the lingering nearness odor of honey and apple,
yet, other hints of memory beg to differ,
and I sadly and easy confess,
this is not a lovely poem…
- * -