"diviners" poems
The Anorak diviners see
their market jolted, killed off
Already Magic numbers's 64 and 200
are side-lined and downed,
all they have are memento boxes of
once household brands ,
liquidation like implosion sees,
ISO granularity choice further compressed,
those remaining niched as Professional film
to milk the last remnant of expediency,
in the midst of adversity
they should pledge their mounts
as a salvo to tomorrow.
Earmark them, gifted for
Local History Musems
pristine images from yesteryear.
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
For her eighteenth birthday,
a gift from the fates;
she knows how she will die.
Before, there was a vague notion—
A shadow cast by a hungry dragon
who roosts on the branches of the family tree,
devouring her ancestors, waiting and unslayable.
Now, the diviners speak to her in pedigrees
and punnett squares, leafing through a deck
of tarot cards, checking vials of her blood
for patterns in the tea leaves at the bottom,
hardening the shadows at their edges and
twisting peripheral horror into prophecy,
a promise, and she sees it all,
she sees everything, laid in front of her
and stretching out like a golden string
towards the vanishing horizon:
The sharp burn of dread at every twitch
and missing memory, jellied elegies oozing
from the center of others’ puffed pleasantries,
years spent watching her soul
get thinner and thinner, trapped
within a broken heap of matter and flesh,
cursed bone, misfiring electricity,
eroding endlessly, self destructing,
never ending, ending soon,
and, at last, alone, gazing back on a youth
spent gazing forward, ****** and dying
and derelict, and decades in the making—
she asks herself, what would she not give
for the chance to unknow,
to trade the dragon for the slow, soft lull
of the indifferent stars,
and to die whole and confused,
like the rest of us.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
young, so full of youth,
filled to the brim with
*** and desire and the
quest for flesh,
we are living the lives they
write about
we the young, so full of
uncontained emotion, so
happy to be alive and yet
not even realizing it, we
talk of suicide but never
believe it exists
we are perfect in our
decided ignorance of
our imperfections
(it gives us strength like
nobody knows)
-
spreading across the globe,
to China, Europe, and the
Southern Lands, our disease
is no plague
to the youth of the enslaved
places, to the poor countries,
and those shackled in the old
traditions:
we give to you our itch,
our burn, our aching and
hurting that drives us to
go out and do what needs
to be done
we give to you a reason
to make things better
(just as we give ourselves)
we are the reason
the earth still spins
we are the drive
behind every new
empire
we are the innovators
and the diviners
the makers of tools
and seekers of
riches
the creators of gods
and the gods
themselves
we, so young, so full
of energy and zeal and
lust, we the ones who
create and destroy, we
who so thoughtlessly
hurtle the human race
forward
we take ourselves to bed
each night, not wondering
with whom we sleep or
where we will awake;
knowing only that adventure
is worth having in itself.
that the morning is our treasure
and the new day is more fulfilling
than any golden trinket in the
tombs of the old kings
this we sleep with, smiling,
dreaming of the wild chances
we are challenged to tame
-
so young, so full of youth,
filled to the brim with ***
and desire and the thirst for
a definition in this grey and
blotted world
we awake each day
and drearily attack our
lives
we the pioneers, the philosophers,
and historians
humanity cannot live without us
(and I mean to say they have no
choice)
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 9:48 AM UTC
Concise, smooth
... in the mind's motor
Change the gears
... in the mind's motor.
Smooth transition
Up & Down
Forward & Reverse
The clutch
is not the crutch
the crucifix logo
on the bonnet
covering the forehead.
Pain on the dashboard
Diviners, decals or designators
Inflictors, innovators or inflexions
Pain on the Dashboard
Ignition, perception, cognition
waits for the turn key
in the soft tissue starter motor.
Turning indicators
flicker flash
amber red
there is no green.
Headlamps a dull glow
in the white hot agony
of the parking lot.
Robyn Youl.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
The Analogue diviners
200's swirled and drowned,
ISO granularity further compressed
in the midst of adversity
we will pledge our mounts
to prosperity.
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
Promises made by diviners: first,
the month of my undoing dissected,
uncertainty excised. Fingers splayed,
the prophet makes a pretty ritual
out of ribcage. Says: any bone
can be an oracle bone, given time.
Unhook the vertebrae, then.
Plate apart the musculature
and there’s fate, that red spool,
that hungry spine. Ask me if I
believe. I believe all prophets
are butchers. The small chime
is her fingers at my glass rib
and not my leaving. Ah, fate,
that tangle of guts, of chyme.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
There once was a man named Rick
Who had a diviner's stick
Into the desert he went with it
To find a humongous water pit
His diviners stick found water neath the dune's mounds
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
Their presence sketches like acid,
almost pythonesque
point blank opening bus windows
in the chill of the British winter
only because their ,
over clothed shopping sweat
induced the delirium,
stares the weary answers why not !
If I could only notate your wrongful expression
to sweep away your feigned surprise
the world would right itself.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
Cyprian, from Cyprus
Named for the trees of his kingdom
Prince or king
Livia, envy or blue
Beautiful daughter of king Divaro
Ruler of the kingdom
In the four seas
Lucius, the light
He has a way with words
King or prince
Hilaria, cheerful
Accurate for such a child
Who only smiles
But daughter of which king
Nero, strong and aptly named
Impossible strength in a lithe body
Prince or king
And of which kingdom
Aurelia, the golden child
Men have gone insane for her
Of which king
Felix, the lucky
Rumors to carry the
Tears of the water sprite
King or prince or thief
Avita, ancestral
Sister of Cyprian
But who us the king
Cato, how wise
The brother of Hilaria
A prince is revealed
Dulcia, a wonder
Lost in translation
Daughter of which king
Of which kingdom
The diviners of the south
The scholars of the north
The ocean people of the west
The skilled hunters of the east
Or maybe the mountain dwellers
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
if i were to be a patriarch of a religion,
rather than a random prophet of one,
i'd say muhammad is too much a
patriarch wanting his children to take revenge
rather than a solitary figure of being right,
but if i said that, i might say that:
well, you want to join my religious
ambition, you'd be initiated aged 21,
inhaling the sage of the diviners (salvia
divinorum), suffered a brain haemorrhage
and continued... not the **** easy
sprinkle of baptismal water on your babe
forehead... no you'd be dead...
don't bother... esp. with your heart broken
by the one who lied to you about its effects
being akin to l.c.d. beneficial by an ex
russian girlfriend... it's not about starting a
new religion, it's about one enduring...
aged 21... surviving a brain haemorrhage and
heartbreak when lied to by a friend...
survive that... you become a friend...
but don't bother... as i've attested 9 years later
with a poem like this one;
too much ridicule from christians asserting
a perfect society they constructed worthy of
an export to places where despotism actually works...
because there aren't enough people
wanting to be pyramidally showing their
identity of goo goo dolls... among the shouts
of american head charge's rock 'n' roll ******
of patti smith.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
one hundred mile an hour winds
due say the weather diviners
all will be lost that's not tied down
phone internet ferries
"Bring it on" I say bravely while its still calm
and wait fragile as a feather
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
we read the sky
guess the forthcoming weather
diviners, alchemists, soothsayers,
poets in love with clouds.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
High truth for a high court?
Ha! I'd like to see it
Down here, where the doubting
Dowsers and diviners
Give away their gifted
Gimlet bits of wisdom,
Scraping for escape and
Scared of what they're saying.
Dream a little dream of
Dreary hours, sleeping,
Finding where the fire
Fries a firefly like
Loving something lovely
Loves yourself inside it
'Til the timer's ticking
Tells you you're done cooking.
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
With hands holding a Willow wand,
I seek to detect water's source,
flowing deep within the ground!
Exerting its will upon my hand,
energy exuded by water;s force
discloses where it can be found.
This gift, with which I was born,
brings blessed relief to those in need
of water, for it brings great satisfaction
when seen flowing from source to bourne,
as a consequence of my diviners reed,
which I regard as reward enough for my action.
For some, dowsing exudes a mystery,
possessed of an obscure magical property!
When water sought, is thereby detected,
The Rhythm of Life proclaims a victory?
Records show that way back in history,
Black Magic was seriously suspected!
So why am I possessed of this ability?
A gift, some think an arcane anomaly
that locates water, through my hands!
Dowsing that baffles watching spectators,
defies the efforts of charlatan imitators,
who’d benefit, from a force, no one understands!
Should you too, possess this cryptic force,
you’ll know dowsing, for hours perforce,
is most rewarding when success is reached,
and it proves an exciting moment for me
when The Rhythm of Life - water - runs free,
and its source is discovered and breached!
Rhymer. March 21st, 2018.
It was pure happenstance I learned I was a Dowser or Water Diviner back in 1960. Have used it many times since. Our present water source, comes from wells I discovered and wells dug in 1998. Always an awesome experience. Ciao Rhymer.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 6:56 AM UTC
While the interpretators are putting together
the interpolators
are extracting out
Then presage
dubulators
encliticly
compile
their mistakes
The soothsayers
are cloud-mongers
diviners of the light
They go to bed
and rise again
like anyone who might
The sorcerers
possess broken shreds
flinging incantations
and drugs about
While the dreamers
examine the threads
of last night so they claim to find it out
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 6:40 PM UTC