"anticipations" poems
They, you and I.
Are?
Interpretations, opinions,
Fears and convictions,
Likes-dislikes,
History and anticipations,
Of life.
All, save the living of it, maybe?
A song heard months back in time
You mused over the major & minor,
I'd pondered over the rhyme.
Each of us
As convinced about its presence.
Winter tastes different in my memory.
Epilogue:
You must choose between
His bespectacled vision
And my retrospective conclusion
But you must know
Which you chose
And why.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Blessed I’ve been with God.
But I’m stuck in the winds.
How much for your soul?
Come pay for your sins.
Nowadays I can’t trust.
It seems so hard to win.
I don’t want to lose myself, amongst these mortal men.
Been in the streets fighting temptations.
Running from my problems and complications.
I’m so moody now that I’m off my medications.
But now I’m focused with more dedication.
Stuck within my flaws.
Smoking, have no wind.
Summers over, now it’s cold.
I've lost so many friends.
Nowadays I can’t trust.
And I cannot pretend.
If I ever lose my health, I’ll self destruct again.
Been in the streets fighting temptations.
Running from my problems and complications.
I’m so moody now that I’m off my medications.
But now I’m focused with anticipations and dedications.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC
Is trust really a delicate dance of uncertainty?
A lamb may skip with innocence over the bright dandelion-covered meadows of our majestic urban constructs, whilst Mother Nature unravels her thick carpet of jeopardy, without reservation or shame.
It is possible for us to refrain from captivations which allure us to the psychological precipice and to appreciate the chords of the blues which beautifully tantalise the innermost recesses of suppressed and forbidden yearnings.
So, join hands with the sonic waves of Saturn and respect the psychological precipice with sober awareness. Darkness and daylight are not dichotomous astrological differences where fatalistic determinism stands in diametrical opposition to authentic internal equilibrium.
Contemplate the soothing and beautiful anticipations of dusk, where the flight of the bat reveals a miraculous contrast against the deep pastel curtains of the night; and acknowledge that twilight exposes her morning glory in the simple droplet of dew.
The shadows hold no substance. Metamorphosis is a tangible possibility in the realms of existence. Do you believe it?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
Give it all you got
Only option left to choose
Tip your cap
Turn your back
Throw up that deuce
But, who woulda knew
That clarity of concentration
Comes from unexpected deviations
From our anticipations
Suddenly
Shipwrecked
Lost at sea
Starin at that deep blue green
Like, it's just you,
And me
And we are the masters behind these sails
When our stories told
It'll be the stuff of fairy tales
The true master misses miserably alot
What matters most is
We take all our shots
So this is my position
Listen up
I don't give a ****
About you *****
Who don't give a ****
You on the sidelines of the game
What's it gonna take for you to lace em
And step it up?
I see you suckers pacin'
Over self-made situations
Like destiny isn't something we participate in
But what if we switch stations
Movin' makin'
Anxious Amplification
Got that body breakin'
Beats to shuffle strutin' feet and
Our music's the motivation
Our life, our part
Art over every evocation
Trumpets triumphantly proclaim the pontification
Sifting, shifting the breeze
The time, they are a' changin'
The rhythms's exquisite equations
Derivative of internal escavated wisdoms
Whimsical inquisitive exploration
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 6:58 AM UTC
Down from Arizona desert cold, absence of ice and snow
three white painted terracotta pots
by the Villa apartment on the tabled walkway—
Christina’s place.
Stacked, each alternately inverted one to the next
stabilize a snowperson body.
Can you picture it?
Black painted buttons all the way up?
Lips of dots, an orange twist of nose,
deep eyes void black.
Burgundy scarf tied around the neck,
positioned just so, it could be fit
to a Christmas Chihuahua.
By its playful form and surprising attitude,
may it well succeed at pleasing every passerby
and draw out, on each scroogey face, a smile.
It’s been doing just that for me, as I park
opposite each night, my headlights there shining.
Still, I have not and shall not peak inside
the alluring, open terracotta skull,
since I have imagined not wishes,
nor disappointments, nor elves and cookies,
but practical ash, randomly spiked with spent cigarettes.
Last night, as I walked out, with my night’s anticipations,
my grab-bag of happy tangles, Christina’s hanging silver chimes
issued soft whispering over terracotta, and I caught
a remembrance of Amazing Grace how sweet the sound.
Mojo my psychic dog turned me sharply then:
he took me away–we two, hunting the moon
in a starless night.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
Between Five and Seventy Five By Phyllis T, Halle November 9, 2009
At night, we would whisper, brother and I, that we simply could’t wait
For the coming days to fast fly by; til that breath holding, happy morning
When, while we were sleeping, a little fat man in fur trimmed coat and boots,
Would sneak into our house and leave gifts so grand; then we’d rise with hoots!
Oh! The time would fly by!
and he did!
and we did!
It was grand!
At night, now, I think to myself, that the days are still whizzing past
but no jolly morning is coming on fast
When the house will be filled with family and laughing and song
So, I think I must have done something forbidden, cruel or very, very wrong
For my life did fly by!
And memory taunts
And loneliness haunts
Yet it all was grand!
For life is a series of anticipations ! I always taught my children, " Anticipate nothing! It is the only way you won’t ever be disappointed! "
Yet anticipate we must. It is something that flows in and out of our days and nights.
When the day arrives that nothing is worth anticipating, then life has lost all meaning and becomes a black hole, ******* all light and joy from breath and thought.
~.~
So, now, no red suited fur warmed chubby fellow with cherry cheeks and hard working reindeer will ever come again, to delight this child’s heart that still beats (though sometimes, reluctantly.) Now, reason strongly teaches me: This Time! Yes, This Time! you can indeed anticipate and no disappointment will drown your hope and joy! This Time!
This time! You will not awaken on a bright morn, where there are harsh words and quarreling, nor sad, nor chilling feelings, nor to seek comfort from the cold, hard, stiff legged, staring doll that lay under the sparse little tree. This time! The promises of that bright morning will prove warm and true and my earthly mind will no longer struggle with 'whys' and 'what ifs' and 'help me, Lords.'
For the promises of standing before my Maker, my Savior, will make all that was confusing and difficult, come clear and easy before my soul.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
It’s a race to the bottom of the bottle
between sanity and sober realization
to every impaired negation and how to
alleviate and mediate the dependancy I
place on finding new routes to the
end of the flask. —
The hands of the bottle hold
dreaded burdens above my head,
bringing life to each morrowed breath,
and write hyms towards yearning
a long awaited wish for death,
sobriety weaves this addiction
of solitude through each thought of
halted life, and pushes it’s back
as it’s heels leave crevices to follow,
a view of darkness to come,
with turning back placing another knot
down a throat with attempt to swallow.
as each run of whiskey drips down the
walls of my throat the sinking ship within
my veins finds strength to stay afloat.
a Wiser whisper tickles at the anticipations
towards taking another sip,
the Hennessy tendencies stutter
a ****** equilibrium captivating
and inching my sanity towards
a shot of sequel librium. —
As ***** spews and consumes
the inhabited ground, a paroxysm
of unconsciousness feels
mentally sound,
blacked out with the following
morning full of acts to repent,
the monetary blackness
proves to be nothing but content,
recollection of priors
seem to fade with the desire of
sobriety and eliminating any hope
towards thoughtless propriety. —
Momentary happiness through
intoxication provides no mediation
between a sober fight for death
and a drunken one, the wish for
lifelessness is just subdued by
stumbling to bed and the inability
to steadily hold a gun to my head.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
I am pleased, might finally speak about my witch friend
share with you some of her wits and trends
Masters today desecrate the truth,
meditation and visualization are nothing but outdated tools
Culturally, relatively free i write fearless,
Contemplation overcomes meditation,
Spirituality conqueres religion ,
I formless, will not abide to your anticipations
I renounce my knowledge and education
Transparency , revolution,
Love works,
It has been scientifically proven
We are what we think
Thoughts procure reality
it has been confirmed quantum physically
So what's your excuse?
take control and imagine the best version of YOU
Imagination is the key to reaching everything and beyond
Words Of Harfouchism
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 7:27 AM UTC
You aren't entirely charmed to being whipped, if you don't take a moment to see what being merely "whipped" is even about. Showboating a charmed effect for something other than something else to "whip" itself back into shape! Lust! Ecstasy! All charmed effects without anything being whipped normally. When being whipped by a single charm defies ALL expectations for normal anticipations to fall prey to. Creating a very frustrating hypnotism functionality. Whilst also creating a very flustered trance that none can escape alone!
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 8:55 PM UTC
A thick veil is sensually wrapped across the face of those presumed intellectual and spiritual insights, and heightens the awareness of your sublime intrigue.
It truly is a paradise lost, where ancient illusions continue to tickle my raging nostalgia with eager anticipations of forbidden refreshments.
Yet, I am not unaware of the concealment of those predictable and ludicrously mystical allurements, which you so proudly pronounce across those who are deemed to be inferior to your supremacy.
How trivial are your so-called strategies, as you are always captured after an effortless and psychological pursuit.
Therefore, how adept are you, thinkest thou, in your futile system of narcissism?
Vanity is a deplorable emptiness which scoffs at those who are deemed to be subservient to the lofty heights of your utmost divorce from reality.
The definition of a delusion is a fixed and false belief.
We have now constructed a picture where the application of this psychological veil exposes your profound ugliness.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
Pass up until you have it
Wait up until you need it
Tell me the password
I’ll show you and light it up
Give me a valid reason
Inhale until you’re weezing
What are the magic words
Flunked conversations
You have the pedigree
I’ll stay up until your free
Blank revelations
Song inspiration
Pass up until you need it
Don’t rush you’ll have to save it
Tell me the password
I’ll show you and light it up.
They give you lame advices
Trippin’ the lane you’re passing
Timely decisions
They’re on a mission
Talkative boy’s on fire
He gets the double score
He does no picking
Swimming on double rivers
—
I’m just another option
The secondary mission
When he’s out partying
Practically speaking
Pass up until you need it
Wait up until you got it
Tell me the password
I’ll show you and fire it up
Give me a valid reason
Inhale until you’re weezing
What are those magic words
Anticipating
Stay put your inner spirits
Hit it until you miss it
What is the password
Tell me the magic words
My life is very tragic
One hundred percent logic
No fun and happy games
To feed your spirit
Show me your hidden feelings
Give me a point for living
Anticipations
And convolutions
—
Pass up until you say it
Wait up until you keep it
Tell me the password
I’ll show you and light it up
Give me a valid lesson
Inhale until you’re teasing
What are the magic words
Dumped conversations
Never to be belonging
Clingy from floor to ceiling
Am I assuming
This love is blooming?
I’ll take you up the mountains
Reserve a room what happens
I don’t initiate
The pathway to heavens
You may be here just wond’ring
Why are we doing nothing
I am a loser
But never a user
Now you’re showing your body
You are getting too naughty
Tell me the password
I’ll keep it then light it up
—
Igniting the inner senses
Decluttering all the messes
What is the password
Tell me, I’ll act it up
Pass up until you see it
Wait up until you touch it
Tell me the password
I’ll show you and fire it up
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 12:57 PM UTC
What reasons could there be?
For sure, none just that you should be alone!
So bright struck from your eyes, like stars
The rays of hope when first I saw you
That I said the day was dark for me
If I had failed once to look upon your face.
So now I peer the while, expectant for you
As the earth turns toward the sun for morning light
Revolving in my mind your form and features-
How they draw from me lively anticipations of your caress.
Alone?
If you’re alone, it’s not for want of charm or beauty
But that Man’s grown dim of sight and hard of heart
Not to be moved, as was I, by one marveled glance of you;
For once enough it was for me to look into your brimming eyes
And swoon with ambrosial thoughts that you might grant me favor-
So fitly joining each, as one
Enraptured with our prime humanity!
Smile then, for I am wont to play the courtly fool for you
And entertain a simple dance of meaning.
Yet one thing, it is no jest-
If your heart’s as fair as your form implies
More I’d serve respect and high regard
Far better than this playful verse I now employ;
For this, I’d broach with awe
And if you dare my innocent and eager wiles to try
Up-springing I will throw a thousand garlands round you
Whispering sweet admirations of the soul
That you, for this and laughter, then must say and true confess-
I am not alone, far be it hence!
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
~
bits and pieces,
lines and creases,
dusty shelves
of storied past;
where could-haves
turned should-haves,
make half-lives gone by.
haunt in our reticence,
expressed in our sigh;
they hide in our silence,
betrayed by our tears,
from missed opportunities
down through the years.
this is no stroll
o’er memory’s lane,
but a pot-holed, hard-roll
on a boulevard unnamed,
where deepest regrets
must defend against shame.
~
i make my peace
by drawing a line,
before it can fade
shifting with time.
i say *“enough!
this far and no more!”*
i give it my heel
and walk out that door.
past the garden,
past the fences,
to the edge of my mind,
resolve saying, “goodbye”
to this pain i have known.
then for reasons unfathomed
i turn at the bend,
to see what i'll miss
as if that place were my friend,
yet that house where i lived
so long and knew well,
was standing no longer,
up in smoke, gone in flames,
now just ashes and bricks
are all that remained.
~
so homeless i felt,
with no place to return.
no basement to bury
the ghosts of my past;
no attic to wander,
no hallways to creep,
no corners to ponder,
no front porch to weep,
lost without home,
now no pillow to sleep.
“please turn around,”
spoke, a voice on the breeze
“there's a new life ahead”
and then, to my relief,
*“you're not homeless, my son;
you’ve a new windowed view!
square your shoulders
to the pathway,
see the journey anew!
in promising thoughts
so hopefully wrought
of brand new can-be’s
that only dreamers can see
these, are your new life
you're not abandoned, but free.
let regrets turn to fuel
build steam from this fire.”*
~
as i turned back to thank
the voice offering these words
i found no sage of advice
but here’s what i heard.
*"offer thanks to your own heart,
to strength buried within.
the matches lay dormant
’til your heart found its stremgth.
the mere act of leaving
was the spark for your fire;
for in striking your new path
your past built your pyre.”*
~
*post script.
after much stirring, much wrestling, we are now with anticipations imagining what will change as we light the fire. i’m excited about the possibilities as we let go.*
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
Telltale stories of a girl too drunk to tell
Drunk on love
Drunk on lies
On drinks she knew all too well
Secrets held her mouth when she wanted to scream
Forced her to instead close her eyes and dream
Dream of something with more hope and more validity
Something with more solidity than the webs she continued to weave
The life she continued to lead
She just wanted to leave
Drunk on perceptions
She soon learned that truth was second best to pride
So all the things she wanted to say always remained inside
Lies upon lies hiding her heart
Tearing it apart
Feelings trapped within
Drunk on love but never giving in
A false grin
Drunk on wishes
On false hopes and anticipations of honesty
Why should she expect that when lies spill out every time she breathes?
Everything is a fabrication
Her dreams are reflected in her words
She sounds absurd and everyone knows she’s lying
They catch her crying
She blames it on a drunken state
Drunk on the desire to set things straight
Drunk on drinks so she doesn’t have to think
The drinks do all the talking
Her secrets are knocking, begging to be revealed
She swears her lips are sealed
Forces a suppression of expression
A ceasing of all that could give away
She’s a drunk
And a complete cliché
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 6:35 AM UTC
in a setting sun
reflected with imperfections on the lake
she waits under the summer tree
its lively conversation with the wind
stirs shadows and returns lost memories to her
like wayward children asking for bread and a sip
her fathers stern voice on a cold night
her first kiss by moonlight at bible camp
her cat's purr
these things come back to her in a rush
but the stillness of her face undisturbed
her's is a setting sun
reflected by the lake with imperfections
night is a sour brother to day and sits heckling
her from the window
that she should endure the hour alone
that her time fallow ground
the seeds scattered without care
but her hand scatters to her sleeping poet
and rests reassured on his feverish brow
she draws his form in fine lines and shadows
a black and white reflection of imperfection sleeping
she lingers with her smile
and by moonrise she is curled up in his arms
both dreaming reflections of the days reality's
but dreams are imperfect messengers of meaning
and hers is stuttering images of yesterday
in a rising sun
perfectly perceived
her bare skin wakes him
with anticipations of lustful hungers
he sees only her perfections
sees only the bright beauty of her body and soul
that is his imperfection
we are all slaves to our sunset's
we are all hopeful children of our dawn's
they are both imperfect
but together they are perfectly imperfect
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
A peg of person
Hanging on my word
Show'd itself to me
Wooden, carved roughly
Surfaced on linen, varnish
Shallowed man.
He felt nothing to me, at me
He told me riddle body *****
I ignored, bored hated words of worry
But felt them myself, little
Anti-anti-anticipations
And trembling lumps of merryweather met us
But we came to a pond, and drank the green green wealth
We spun a little, splashed like ripples do
Onto a blank canvas of a conversation
Muddy murky words came out
'Sex *** sex' little bee, buzz for pollen, buzz for me
I couldn't. I'm not.
I'm not another, you're different, distinto
I'm feeling nothing, angsty man,
Through rides and fairgrounds together
I found a lost child, and he set me
I told you who I am and I found me.
Roughly cut, varnished wooden man
Burned in envy, dusted away
I felt nothing, watched his anguish
And figured, hammered, rutted out
A sense of self-belonging,
I guess we don't belong, I guess we make our own self-pity,
But at least we know.
I said goodbye, he did not, I left the day before yesterday
I wrote a confusing poem to figure it out
And people read it
Quietly I confined myself to words and Bibles written for me
For a bitter version of myself
I burned away, burned away,
Burned my, burned my burned away.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
Cloud gazing, and yet head hung low
Duct workers maintain their pumps
Assumptions of the first red curtain show
Will the Black Lady come up trumps?
Defending she does of a savage blow
Boundaries pass, still have that lump
Fear dissipates fast, you just know
Wet fish slap, touch down bump
Mission seamed so clear at this fresh start
No predictions of a brain confuddulation
Hike, zigzag, spin to the coldest part
Lump no longer lonely, face mutation
Back to back days of kart
Winning is a fictitious temptation
Easy(ish)-flow braced up for the heart
No longer now is there frustration
Excitement and passion, give me a smack
‘Give a **** overtakes fear in a split
Dee Bath bound, spells **** good craic
‘cos you know darlin’, you are fit!
Anticipations of caressing your back
I’ve even tidied up my flat of a pit!
Panic not of spending a whack
Fly when cheapest, I’ll see you in a bit…
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:46 AM UTC
He's a streamlined man,
now on the road to return.
The spirit farmer,
taking breakfast in the fields,
found his sister soul
and his woman of the world.
He was running blind
with no aerial boundaries.
To communicate
he would watch his life go by
because it was there,
the taproot, the naked stalk.
Free swinging soul, with
silent anticipations.
A Phoenix fire
torched, is once again spring buds.
And ready or not,
the Gospel, the Oracle.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Here I am
Missing every piece
Of moments
Had brought me peace.
There you are
Continue to grow
To another year
Anticipations follow.
I miss you.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
An anxious amortal
archnemesis
affectionately
allowing an amoral
animosity
achieve an attitudal
agressive and aversion against
any and all
annoying,
aggravating,
afflicting,
and almost annihilating
alliterations,
although all
aforementioned actions
are absolutely
artificial.
An amiable
abomination
and architectural abuse
at an alphabet achieved
after aesthetically
arranging ample
arbitrary
alternatives alone,
amounting an acclamation.
An affinity at
awkward avante-garde arts
arising at
an astronomical acceleration,
aside an archaic
argumentum ad
antiquitatem argument
awfully appraising
an atheistic and agnostic
apparition,
anthrophomorphically
alive and apparently
alright after asphyxiation,
alluding an astral authority
absolving accusations
and all allegations.
An advantageously
astute and adroit assassin
always actively
acting and assaulting
alone, ain't assisted
anyhow,
already
antiquating auxillaries
altogether.
An alliteratious afterfocus:
Aborting all anticipations.
Anticipating affirmative antagonizations.
All are alright.
Already airtight.
Adios, amigos.
Author: anonymous,
an acorn-afflicted,
assassinatrix affiliate.
attributed as Agent Argent.
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
We were told to expect snow
Snow, again.
Greeted by crisp hope and freezing air
We waited…
Dogs sniffed the air and each other
Hawks sat and wrapped themselves in feathered shawls
Discreet expectations
Anticipations of broken routines that might
Hold us captive to our homes
Caressed by comforting teas and naughty cakes
It didn’t snow.
Still, we stayed
Home
Held the dogs
Surrendered to self-imposed captivity
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
Horrible feeling
Hanging on the stale air
flowing through the receiver
Painful
Aching
Stomach
Unknown answers
Like waiting for the pop
Of a pastry rolls can
Or the opening of a college letter
The anxiety of the unknown
Not an agreeable feeling
Not dandy, or fine, or agreeable
As you wait for their words
To follow the preparations
They’ve given you
For a hard blow to the heart
Painful anticipation
Of the hurtful, ending words
They’re about to whisper
Tell yourself to be brave,
To be strong
But with the pain comes temptation
To hang up
Prevent the words
That emanate from their end of the phone
Dreary, dismal, deadly anticipation
Of the words you already know
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
Sprinkles shower backyard fescue
Fighting against dry August air
Still days
Smiles cross aging cheeks
Love’s invasion flows upon
Discontent
Chest rises, bolstered anew
Expands with
Zest
Fieriness slithers away from
Heartbeats no longer on the prowl
Attachment
Cardinal chirps as if
Aware of a simmering fire,
Anticipations
Sprinkles immerse damp grass
Fighting against diminishing daylight
One more hurrah
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
So we find ourselves, once again, succumbing to the very anticipations of our ever-entrenched customs. What lies in store for us, is not yet revealed. But trust me - my deep, spiritual and connected partner of positional variation: just go with it. The musky scent of agarbathi is sensually captivating amidst the fiery secretions of India. How powerful is your experience?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC