#speculation
On the outside
I see
Less
Than others
But beyond physical sight
They are the blind ones
Mar 6, 2025
Mar 6, 2025 at 5:55 PM UTC
This gun you point at the kitty,
It comes with a responsibility.
Purchase shares,
Hold them longterm,
Forget the glares,
Adorn them over your years,
Hold your fire for decaditty...
Watch your children grow,
Teach them similar patience,
Money market,
It can pay you bright,
Or it might bite,
But tell them to not be scared,
Don't be scared or obsessed...
Don't speculate, oh dear trader,
For speculation is so immature,
Invest thousands,
You can reap millions,
Think of your kids,
They will thank you even later,
Much later, after you're gone...
Remember, the Devil feeds on your fears,
It dies when the fog in your mind clears.
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 6:57 AM UTC
QUSTIONS AND ANSWERS
Questions – like flowers that open
too early before the color deepens.
They enter and leave mysteriously
in a cloud of confusion, hanging
on the fates of life, safe from neither
bliss nor danger.
Anwsers maybe whispers in the wind
or the touch of a warm palm on a cheek,
a timpanic clamor or the sound of
untouched strings, a thought that
ripens slowly like a color that sets,
an unexpcted letter in the mail
or something unknown in the air.
A question is fragile between
good and bad moments, coming
and going, unfinished.
The answer creating hope
or undoing expectation,
a reminder of forgotten
feeling startling the heart
with strange happiness
or sudden fear, or a bell
unstruct, silent as white
moths against a screen.
Jun 7, 2024
Jun 7, 2024 at 3:21 AM UTC
There’s no substitute for life.
I find myself,
seduced by yearnings.
I’m flourishing here,
contemplating sin.
I’ve nothing to do
when I’ve nothing but time.
I’m reusing solitudes -
they’ve become ragged.
What’s the answer then?
Should I seal my girly heart,
engage in uncaring kisses
like it’s ‘casual friday’ -
connive brief excitements
- just to feel a pulse?
Mar 4, 2024
Mar 4, 2024 at 9:42 AM UTC
It keeps me up at night,
The future,
Such a beautiful place of impossibilities,
A place that holds the laughter of my son,
The tears over my just-passed wife,
And my grandchild's love of books.
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 12:22 AM UTC
i see myself -
unshaven and distraught, at peace with who i am and despaired by a world i saw coming but couldn't prepare for.
i see myself -
sitting in the old house, civil war ghosts whispering through the cracks in the dry red clay. sherman burned this town once and now i get to watch the sun do it again.
i see myself -
the hedges are overgrown and i never stopped smoking cigarettes. the shadows on the walls are mapped out, a mimicry of life in an empty heirloom.
i see myself -
head in my hands thinking about history. The Last Gilded Age. The Second Gilded Age. what good are comparisons if no one's left to draw them? how does the past make room in a world already strangled by its present?
i choke back -
the same addiction that made geraldine shoot herself. it occurs to me that i am probably the last person alive to remember geraldine ever existed. i think that's what drew me to history - i've always had the past living inside me. there's a whole family tree intertwined with my ribcage, like kudzu over tarred lungs.
i fill my -
flask with weedkiller. i inherit an open wound. i try to find my place in a history that no one will ever read.
May 4, 2021
May 4, 2021 at 2:15 AM UTC
●●●
*the mind of a person
overwhelmed by Self-deception
does not try to know reason
to think or believe in
advice and criticism given
by someone
contrary to his speculation
he always examine
as it was an insult to his disposition
he continuously remain
in the grip of apprehension
hostility and aggression.*
●●●
©deovrat 26.09.2020
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 12:15 AM UTC
When I was a youth
I was ambitious
to be recognised
as a know-it-all,
and so I often spoke
beyond my experience,
speculating when I did not have experiential-evidence;
Now that I’m wiser,
I never speak beyond the evidence
of my experience.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 5:34 AM UTC
i am reclusive
you are elusive
i step away
you slip away
maybe it is best
that you are so fleeting
you pass by
your shadow lingers
for a moment
and in that instant
i feel my chest collapse
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 12:40 AM UTC
Time to come home—
Before you never know
What happened to anything.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 7:03 AM UTC
**Speculation and Introspection
Predatory Skills Possess
You Are The Prey**
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 4:25 AM UTC
I'm told the sky is blue.
God is dead.
Lead is heavier than cotton.
I'm not convinced I know where the sky starts.
You need proof, like a birth certificate, to be declared dead.
Cotton and lead can both weigh a gram or a tonne.
So, my conundrum... how do I write about what I know.
My name is Francie. I have a birth certificate, and it's yellowing...fast.
Whatever comes after this is pure speculation.
However, our opinions are weighed
With equations and laws. Laws.
There's a thumb on the scales.
Reason is subjective. Water is wet... warm... hard... vaporous... dry...
I can write about death, while I'm alive, believing in it.
My forehead is bleeding from pounding my lack of truths into verse
For readers to think of the possible, for certain.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
My hands above my head,
I grasp for purpose,
and pull the Sun to my chest.
Circles become arbitrary.
Squares, the cousins of
rectangles are discredited as
man-made. That's why metaphors
known as squares are seen as
vulnerable shapes in a misunderstood spectrum.
They are dotted lines
dependent on right angles,
left ashtray to explain anomalies.
So for order we justify lines.
We contain music within them.
Until, of course, the Holy Ghost
is found. Because that strike
against the canvas is thought
to be premeditated.
But that isn't human nature.
That isn't God.
It will only become recorded
notes on a page.
It's retrospect.
A future remembrance of the past.
It's the Sun in your heart,
knowing that containing that
kind of energy is hazardous
to your health.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
Our reason is soon tested
By germs of gas
As we softly seethe among the flames
The nightmares of our pasts will awake
To hunt us through our older haunts
The death of our hearts soothes
The dearth of our souls
We lie
Drunk, unable to lie
In truth is ruth, but also
Joy
Maybe suffering is first, or truth
Second
Because the poem is another
Of my seeds
Another to grow into mushrooms
Of inhaled gas.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
So hot that it melts me
and me,
not in a foundry, but
in an open place
it's like a fireplace
a river of sweat rolling down my face,
not on its way to some serenity at sea
it's
just
soaking me.
and now the ice lolly
I thought would be jolly has
dropped clean off the stick
making me sticky
I lick me
it tastes of strawberry.
Man feels like a snowman i
melt
let me go man
so hot
and now a spot in the shade of a tree
I
think a dog started ******* on me
no rest for the wicked.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
Do you love me
The way I love you?
Do you love me
The way I love the air I breathe?
Always sweeter when you are near
Do you love me
Across the distance?
No matter how far
Do you love me
The way I love your laugh
your smile
your eyes
your voice
your touch
Could you?
Could you love me
As much as I love you?
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
I was never satisfied with being the observer
or the healer
I wanted to be healed
I wanted to be fun to watch like the many people I observed and loved at a distance
I had a habit of seeing things from one set of eyes only
I tried on different masks
I felt lonely
I felt numb
There was nothing to me
except speculation
But I pushed this away
It only came in between helping others
I used to think I lost myself in guiding others
But I had never found myself in the first place
Reflective states would come in waves
But I had forgotten how to swim
The day I fell into the sea
It may have been a river
But I couldn’t tell
Because I was just a pebble
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
The poet looks
and delves.
She wonders if he ever stops,
him, this rushing-forward-breathlessly train,
if he did park himself in fantastical paragraphs;
the poet is dumbfounded at him
ceasing.
In construction sites of grammar,
where free ideas float in ruins,
poet wonders how,
how, how
he came to plan to live
up
to an exclamation mark.
And condensed so many dribbles and strikes
of strange and fruitful, even withered
paragraphs into one line and pointer -
a smile and a lope-stagger dance of a walk -
an exclamation mark.
The poet stares, once again
astounded by the little streaks of the universe
and longs to hold on to something.
Disarmed,
she can't quite put a finger on it,
his gaping honesty and his quiet one,
that contradiction
shouting in her face
while whispering in her eyes.
The poet laughs -
laughs of, in, out
of sleep.
Summer is here.
And she chooses to notice.
He laughs too,
but he's always been noticing
and the poet writes down how
she learnt to bite and chew into the fruit of the world
and taste
it sour runny sweet cold explosive lingering
just as him.
The poet saw all
colours rolling in one
strange song of limbs.
She did not like the music
but she made herself a blank white canvas
and listened
and laughed
clean, silly laughs
fluting out of the incongruity
of simple,
simple
moments.
Fun life, easy stretch of the mouth -
it is possible to smile down at
what a clown pain is.
He declares this boldly
without saying a word
or two.
The poet is dumbfounded at him
being.
She did not see and had not seen and now only began to picture
but she was blind.
He said he was blinder and that
was true. The poet
did not smirk but giggle at the irony -
he lived in pop-bold spectacles,
she slept in black and white films.
But both were blind.
We cannot see and
we
are blurs.
The poet likes that life scrapes away at her
because she can see chinks of white sunshine
through all the sheared-off layers.
Clean, clean,
bright, bright -
he teaches her in a beam
without a hello.
The poet writes poetry
on breathing action prose.
And she laughs -
You are everything I don't want
but I'm curious.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
I have heard that words strain
But I have never felt it as acutely
Hypothesizing as lustreless
Than when I spoke
Trying to paint you images
Speculation in rhyme
Present a piece of my soul
Save some secrets
Sealed behind some lines
But speech failed me
And words
Strained and shattered
But even so
A strand of a connection shines
Can you see it?
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
Foot hits the pavement
Alleviating impatience
Lighter than a feather
To better cushion the jaded
Stomping through the cemetery
The behemoth breaks his back
Stumbling over tombstones
Seemingly jagged in every crack
A man, half a monster,
Half a mouse, mostly bleeding
Drowning in the oxygen bank
Indian given breathing
When the rabbits loose their roots
Aside trees what speak and breathe
The kings are parted out
While the beasts break even clean
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
He lived within my normal
Without catechisms
One leg at a time
Pants and glory
He loved within my normal
Without judgment
A freedom to live
The freedom of happy
He lays within my Normal
With complete peace
a freedom to laugh
A kindness to smile
He loved my normal
And put me to sleep
He slept, we sleep.
Then dreamt
My normalities became his freedom to be
His laughter Her Cadence
A rave of emotional dialect
Nothing to conquer
Nor ranks to achieve
He lived and loved within
Within my normal
Within the normalities.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC