"foreboding" poems
the Silence became
like an old lesson learned
a broken heart intones
a voiceless song
resonating a refrain of Silent echoes
in a voice that never heard a word
yet spoke so clearly ... lingering
in realms of subtle ambiance
soundless remnants
stacked neatly as
building blocks;
another brick in a wall,
already too tall to see beyond—
growing like a bunker
without a sense of safe harbor
as the Silence became
time and space,
a stillness beset the melancholy air
as if a world without song
foreboding an unpredictable storm
beget vestiges of broken windfall,
reticent leftovers hushed after a gale
s i l e n t l y
an acorn fallen — became a mighty Oak
a wind-broke twig — became a weeping willow
a neglected child — became mother nature's son
the Silence became
a blind prophet —
in its voice held forth
smatterings of truth
and undertones of an unrequited
fool’s hope
the Silence became
a strong, abrupt rush of wind
uttering voiceless exhalations of breath;
a hovering dawn mist
befallen after a summer storm—
surrounding all in all
bedewed in a feigned peace
... the unabated sounds of silence
become
Jesse Stillwater ... July 20th, 2018
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
Foreboding walkways
With weight of a million wreaths
Pulling in the walls
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 6:59 AM UTC
My little deer
Is that you
peeking between the trees
peering at the stag
but your heart's
still not at ease
... time ago
a short time
a stray cupid's arrow
shot the night air
splitting your spirit in two
frightened you took off
from the foreboding
hiding in a lea
there was sun
and cloudless skies
but not really
as your insides
raged
in a storm
in a hourglass
with sand pebbles fighting
to heal
for the best
now as you peer
between the trees
of salvation
do you hear
birds singing near a brook
... songs sung
so beautiful
in concerto
with the chipmunks, ***** crickets
then, as you take
that step forward
so lion hearted
peering
between those
branches
of redemption
my little deer
are there rays
of sunshine
peeking back
LR-4/23/17
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
Ashen doves float within the waves,
slinking like silent demons in the night.
They curl around my body,
jaws operating like steel machines,
gnashing at my limbs.
I begin to scream for help,
but they ****** my breath,
they drag me under their tides of black,
unleashing my unremitting fear of water predators.
their teeth, sunken into my flesh,
gnawing at my mind,
painting me my new mortality.
These are my demons,
the sharks in the bath when it comes to hygiene.
the fear of the below and the depths of human mentality,
the untraceable percentage of human worthlessness,
the detestable attraction to the demise of our minds,
I float lower into the aqua,
pressure building,
unforgiving and foreboding
I close my lids, and dream of the sand,
praying it to be underfoot when I open my eyes,
but when my lids open, the doves loom closer.
The irony of a hydrophobe,
dying at the hands of the sharks.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.
Logan Robertson
6/6/2018
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
Butterflies kiss the sage, where sun drips off primrose
into mute lily horns who know but cannot say:
This is the day. In yonder Sycamore a cardinal's question
is answered from afar: This is the day. Sleep no more
fields of green. Arise and be heard all who dwell within.
The night has been, has poured out all its darkness like water
onto parched earth that cannot be gathered up again.
When with eyes as good as closed we peered into the night
what stain had we beheld? Was it ink upon our canvass,
dripping from the trees, running on the lawns and fields,
the gardens deep in slumber, staining dark foreboding hills?
"Be thou, " we cried, "a lamp unto our feet, a light unto our eyes."
What then should we have seen who could not see,
or known who could not know, what has once been made,
once beheld, once loved, what was once our own continues still?
This is the day. Let all who have a sound to make proclaim.
From among the pines, from within the thickets come. Let each one
make his song. This is the day. We shall not sleep therein.
Arrogant and proud the night, let all the living cry. Profound
the darkness. Grave the depth of night. Become a dew
for unction of the lilies who know but cannot say this:
This is the day. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
Swept in on the sixth of the first
Icy winds sluiced on dripping fleecy snow showers
I saw a raging storm coming with vile foreboding nursed
Staple in peace in love in goodwill laid a fitting banquet for all hours
Rewards for toil and strive in minds attuned and goodness versed
I knelt supplicant before my Lord
Laid my just heart bare and without fear or dread
laid a ringing vow as in warmth or bellowing thundering cold
I rest in the forethought I am girded to sail sun's flames un thread
For no blooded being can justly state I harmed or injured in my fold
I will walk this vale of tears
Meet with demons and the ****** of the outer worlds
Face the volcanoes in hell and shame blazing red lava ingots
I will not cower before deadly serpents or baulk at icy frozen walls
If I fall I will stand again an again till God's time uneaten by maggots
I implored my Faithful Lord
Take me down grind and cast me asunder and bereft
If this be ordained that an innocent soul pays an unjust price
The darkest storm has raged wild and furious a depraved joy theft
My God upholds me and holds that truths and honesty never a vice
[email protected].
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
A bottle of wine
ordinary cheese
the foreboding of
the evening breeze
Soft honest words
murmured across the station
And silence for
contemplation
Another slice
another drip
As your mind
begins to slip
Across time
across the rhyme
What's real
so intertwined
I can't remember how
to make blue
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
Reflecting disdainfully, remembering painfully,
upsetting, annoying, troublesome
Bickering, sarcastic, disputing, bombastic,
arrogant, conceited, unwelcome
Fastidious relations, private fixations,
foreboding, disturbing resentment
Silently scheming, nobody weeping,
selfish, unblinking, TRIUMPHANT!
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 10:23 AM UTC
Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor.
I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood,
Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe,
Hanging on for it's own amusement,
Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time.
I feel I shouldn't like your racket,
My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound,
But also a daunting undertone,
Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters.
Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving,
Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery,
Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones.
For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage,
I hear only the low notes,
Out of time with my quickened pulse,
And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps.
But you play for no pay,
Busking in this hospital,
Doing good both night and day.
Yes, you are well known in this place,
Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance,
And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering,
Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto.
But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allowing flourishes and improvisations.
But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly,
The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments,
Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family,
As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again.
Now I am older and a little wiser,
I reflect and ruminate on this period;
My memories of family are more than just hospital visits,
And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you?
Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC
Brought forth from a darkness so secure, baby boy relentless in the pursuit of education gazed upon the egg shell walls and sterile environment.
Breathing as if it were natural.
A construction of steel and concrete was the new cocoon , the window was an eye to a neoteric world. Bright white lights shone from within and a dull foreboding cloud loomed beyond the glass for the child to appreciate.
Mother exhausted collapsed sighing. She is the antidote to all that is evil, she is the mother to the world. A usually stick-thin figure now distended but leisurely relaxing.
Nursing her son as if it were natural.
Swooning nurses swaddle infants, the original factory workers. Substantial days grafting, workhorses prancing throughout aseptic halls.
The heroines of our world.
A tribe appears from dust clouds, over the dunes, panting, half-alive. Heavenly Ethiope arriving in time for the world to begin. Tumescent in her ecclesiastic luminescence bearing a King destined to travel great distances primed for expulsion from the cimmerian safety of the womb.
The seas of the earth accumulate before the small band of tall-standing creatures of exquisite anthropomorphism. Creatures from across the great unexplored continent at the centre of our world gathered in frenzied crowds. The Elephants marched in earth shattering herds, the lions of the Savannah put aside their differences and sat amongst the wild dogs of Ethiopia and the grévy's zebra, the dibatag stood and eagerly waited. Shrews, mice, gazelle, otters, cheetahs and giraffes all surrounded the tribe. Taking a silent vow and allowing stewardship to be passed along to a new generation.
Every mother is the mother of the earth. Her earth, the personal concept of earth that only she may understand.
Both children are connected by the planet they learn to walk upon. Connected by a thousand generations but connected nonetheless. They are one and the same. Each bought into a world in which they have no knowledge, each merely a slate eager to be scrawled upon by the elders of this fine rock.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
It creeps up,
Silently,
At first you think you have control,
But then the flame burns,
And you can't control passion,
I think I'm addicted,
Not to a substance,
It's not like you assume it to be,
Not a substance like liquid or powder,
Nothing is that simple for me.
Addicted to the ache,
The ethereal beauty of you,
Such a delicate warmth,
That crept up on me,
Blind to potential,
The foreboding,
Now I am burning in the fire,
Trepidation set sail,
Addicted to a person,
A person who longs to be set free,
Time is a healer,
I pray it will heal me.
~LC~
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
Quiet crickets.
Quiet light of moon
Quiet cars along the road
--Go'n be home soon
Quiet AC on too late
Quiet humming charger in the outlet
Quiet bathroom 'cross the hall, water dripping from the faucet
Quiet floors while set'ling in
You're too old for all that whinin'
Quiet creatures awake before the sun
The signals when it's shinin'
Quiet indistinguishable shadow still yet so foreboding
Oh, you're just a pile of clothes that I never got to folding
Quiet drafty window singing with such vigor and such soul
Catch a chill from that night air
Might catch a runny nose
Quiet thoughts-that handsome stranger, worries, deadlines, dreams, 'n stuff
Quiet bedtime playlist streaming
Clearly you were'nt good enough
Quiet poem bursting from me my
Admonition of defeat
quiet quiet.
too much quiet-
quiet, would you let me sleep?
2:46am 8.30.18
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:51 AM UTC
I spent over a hundred dollars
just on chocolate
for her
last year
every once in a while
i'd surprise her
with one of those organic peanut butter bars
she liked
i'd buy em from aldriches
during photography
or video productions
never told her where i got them
because they gave her something
to depend on me for
i never tasted a single bit of that chocolate
i haven't been aldriches in months
and i haven't gotten one of those thankful hugs
since that last one
in july
that was half kiss, half hug
and less thankful, more lovestruck
but also silent, tear filled, melancholy, foreboding
that was after i bought her reeses,
the only time e ever went to qfc together
i don't buy chocolate anymore
i've saved alot of money lately
but i've lost so many hugs,
avoid half this town
and no one relying on me like that
she was my life
it's time for a new one
©Brandon Webb
2012
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
*oh i saw you my darling
looking up at me
bug eyed beauty
in your spider web gift store
waiting for a fly
i felt so close to you
like we where in love
although you trembled at my immensity
can you feel how much i care for you
i blew my soft wind of grace
like a souls supple kiss
at your tendrilious daddy long legs
i wept feeling your patience and hunger
wanting you to know
heart to heart
that you could stay here with me as long as you liked
that in you i felt the pain and the love
of the world soul
of every child and creature
of every foreboding
of every passion and cruelty
and the terror of being eaten
are we not the same
you and i
bound
by desire, effort and destiny
so spin your gorgeous web
my pretty one
may you know only kindness
please stay with me
i hope a fly comes soon
that you may have a juicy morsel
i love you little spider
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
Space and dread and the dark--
Over a livid stretch of sky
Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train
Of huge, primeval presences
Stooping beneath the weight
Of some enormous, rudimentary grief;
While in the haunting loneliness
The far sea waits and wanders with a sound
As of the trailing skirts of Destiny,
Passing unseen
To some immitigable end
With her grey henchman, Death.
What larve, what spectre is this
Thrilling the wilderness to life
As with the ****** shape of Fear?
What but a desperate sense,
A strong foreboding of those dim
Interminable continents, forlorn
And many-silenced, in a dusk
Inviolable utterly, and dead
As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes
In hugger-mugger through eternity?
Life--life--let there be life!
Better a thousand times the roaring hours
When wave and wind,
Like the Arch-Murderer in flight
From the Avenger at his heel,
Storm through the desolate fastnesses
And wild waste places of the world!
Life--give me life until the end,
That at the very top of being,
The battle-spirit shouting in my blood,
Out of the reddest hell of the fight
I may be snatched and flung
Into the everlasting lull,
The immortal, incommunicable dream.
4.7k
This is a terrible romantic
and sadomasochistic narrative.
The artist's mind is clothed in fabrics.
Fashion is his vocabulary.
Grim-tales are often told with foreboding,
exacted further through sharp, perceiving lenses.
Collections of sharp silhouettes speak of
a masterful and sensitive touch.
A turbulence of emotions exploded in
delicate and mesmerising theatricals.
Taking delight in challenging popular notions,
Alexander left audience continually in a
lingering aftertaste of shock mixed with wonder.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
Forgive the malicious repetitious dismay.
This quarrel so vicious, flagitious swordplay.
Inauspicious foreboding, one lover’s display.
Seditious naught, my miscarried parlay.
Delicious divulging- in this adventitious decay.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 4:27 AM UTC
Crept in sinister and foreboding
Announcing their warnings in silent contrails of clotted red
Though the signs were not heeded
The impending extinction civilization was to face
From this reality humans turned their eyes away
The war was soon in coming
The blood parasites set their war machines humming
Singing songs of death and gold coins
Rubbing their hands with mad glee
As death profiteers cackled and rejoiced
Veiled widows sobbed quietly resigned and forlorn
Black strangling stench of rotting bodies and lies
The look of defeat in helpless glazed eyes
Tears running down accepting streaked faces
The sounds of fading souls and lost dreams
The screams of the dying lessened and eventually ceased
When Crimson skies in the morning
Crept in sinister and foreboding
All Rights Reserved@ Tammy M. Darby Nov. 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
Candid smiles radiate waves of happiness,
And the promise of foreboding tenderness.
Pupils dilate at the sight of chaste skin
Your body position enumerates control, we’re ready to begin.
Vibrant red rose petals sprinkled on expensive white lace
As I lay pressed against you, I hear your strong heart race.
Your eyes undress me, while your mouth seems to grasp for words unknown to individuals,
But known to every pair of souls entwined across the earth, who feel pure love, not strictly ******
Scratch marks on your back, the air is heavy and intense.
We move together, our senses heightened, slowly building suspense.
Loud screams and moans, a lovely and true symphony of feelings, then we’re through.
You lay back down, your breathing is rapid, I climb in your arms and kiss you.
Love is a verb, a doing word,
Love conquers all, undeterred.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
my dark waters stir
turning the moon's placid reflection
into a chaotic dance of broken light
echoes of churning
deep water
saturate
and raise your foreboding laughter
up and over the old well's lips
but you will not awaken me
to burn this nightmare into my core
rather I shall sleep into dawn
awaken to a silent Sun
you once held my heart below these waters
but unlike all those that followed
I survived you
you may impose fear in the heart
of a wayward toad
or other spineless woodland creatures
but I sleep well
immune to your frozen tears
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
moist moist moist moist MoiSt mOisT moIsT MOIST
now stop reading it, say it
moist
it's a weird word
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
a storm is coming
and I can smell it, feel it
MOIST
on my skin- slick
it wisps into my mouth
dirt patches aren't meant to be stoic
the storm approaches from the north, northwest
I am headed that way- north, northwest- approaching it
we have not yet converged but I can feel it
moist
it tastes of dry dirt
not local
nomadic
the clouds are foreshadowing --- foreboding
parting only to show more grey
we have yet to converge but I can feel it
the grey
the parting
the moistness
I am not yet there but I can feel it
wisping through me
I am not meant to be stoic
nomadic
the first d
r
o
p
refreshing
I can feel it. really feel it.
moist on my skin. weird.
the clouds are parting
lightening [effect] thunder [effect] convergence [effect]
I am the storm; its core
moist
grey
parting
wisping
can you feel me
approaching...
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
Foreboding in the Green
Wet cobbled cobwebs
Circumference hemmed in
All-out hampering threads
And stones that missed Mary Magdalene
***
Oh, and so luscious and lush is the green
Dewy petals weeping they can’t caress my skin
Wrapped up in rushing hopes, buoyant buds exploding
Fluffy breezes prance, ignorant of the foreboding
***
Sticky sharp spiders’ snare
Circumference hemmed in
A cut-out smile shrouding the glare
Icicles that missed Mary Magdalene
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Do you realize that races are overrated,
since God is no respecter of persons?
Colored perceptions of hatred and bigotry
may ultimately destroy our existence.
Who needs people that:
• Lack brotherly love and respect for others
• Lust for power, wealth and **********
• Lack vision and purpose
• Lack maturity and wisdom
• Have attitudes of superiority
• Are poor in spirit
• Lack discipline and self-control
Colored attitudes, regarding skin tones and hues,
pale in contrast to uncontrolled emotions.
Without responsibility and accountability,
people get themselves in trouble rather quickly.
Who really wants or needs:
• Red’s lustful, passion for someone other than your spouse?
• or Green’s destructional envy of others’ wealth or possessions?
• or Yellow’s fear, smelling of ***** from peeing ourselves?
• or White’s collection of powdered deaths?
• or Blue’s inner sadness or coldness towards others?
• or Brown’s poverty, shame and overall uncleanness?
• or Orange steadfastness for a Godless life?
• or Purple’s smugness from a self-conceived ideal of royalty?
• or Black’s foreboding sicknesses and death?
Our human collective needs to find real commonality,
within this brotherhood of man, as planetary stewards.
Under girded with a genuineness of concern and love,
true understanding can lead to harmonious relationships.
We all have the ability to commune with God’s Spirit;
however, we each must have a desire to do so.
Utopia may be unattainable, unlike… unity of community.
And yes, I forgive you, for thinking I might be racist.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Acts 10: 34; Gal 2: 6; Deut 10: 17; 1 Pet 1: 17
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http: //www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:42 AM UTC