"forecaster" poems
Once I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,
And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be--
Dead and ****** and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth,
With a record of unreason seldome paralleled on earth.
While I looked he reared him solemnly, that incandescent youth,
From the coals that he'd preferred to the advantages of truth.
He cast his eyes about him and above him; then he wrote
On a slab of thin asbestos what I venture here to quote--
For I read it in the rose-light of the everlasting glow:
"Cloudy; variable winds, with local showers; cooler; snow."
2.5k
Falling snowmen from the sky
The vision of snow and ice being my surprise
November being winter early
Heaven’s way being surely
Yet blinding storm put me on alarm
Cars stuck on roads and Homes destroyed being harm
Winter’s arrival at Autumn’s season expense
This was something the skies actually sent
The mystery behind the sudden snowstorm that weather forecaster’s can only guess
Yet to drivers and sanitation it was a guest
It seemed to get worse more or less
More snow is scheduled to come
To school kids they want some
But a snowstorm that came at the wrong time to arrive
However it’s ironic and must take in our stride.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
Jack ropes and merriopes
In solicitous rhyme in fer derilious velope
envy implicitous insectuaryan harridannous
Ensole brodequins forbearing to lace
Trace elements of that remaining empoisonous
For failure interred
Is succes disinterred? And if so, form where?
Where derinferred strands failure unerred
By error masked muscovado coloured Breadth
Pneumonic, perhaps caustically mate
Aerial’d on the glib side of acoustical elimination
Veritable under pooh stick discrimination
Matte clouds of drab depression ove in
An area of low pressure
According to yon hypothalamic forecaster. Core has ter
Fail lently viola lapidavitious stretch so she as
fer ter rousse fer ter kamuskova. An epic
Scribbled on der calen.
Sole of brevity then being approximately an inch and a
Bit minus that
Torrent all yendergelpin cleaving
The very schism wit! It cynicism
Be as may be a pea, no spelling bee entrusted
Where? In there? In that jumble of line?
Barely knows his lime from his rhyme, or indeed
Lime from lime.
He’s just trying to fill up that calendrous space
And make some sense of it.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
Severing fingernails, so to, chopped the
toe’s, ate some berries and snuck in a nip
or two. I assert myself, “this drink’s if only
to steal, or seal one last scream,” but,
“decadent’s,” quiet for once; A calm
christened, “collateral,” the parallel plight
and pale ear nigh, if only doors down.
Left to my own devices, I’d imagined
every bad, “thing,” and how they’d
happen; Exact and unlike random
aneurism. So I checked on the plants one
last time. I checked on the only flower,
once again, if only doors down, and one
last time. I abide impatient and remain to
question eternity; This twiddling of thumbs
and silent sliver of sun peeking upon one
and opposing, my alien, “East,” –
I long for my only, “West,” and if only
home, but its love, the other love that locks
my only gate.
And with that I’d lay awake and be, a
guarantee, malcontent, remnant come only
one reminder; A twitch under my right eye
and promised son but days later. So
continued my sequence, my defiance, my
only anything; Come one, “Oh!” and two,
yawped not for Walt, but for me,
“Onward!” awake and in an awkward
avoidance of complacent.
Ensued, were the acts of rebellion, the acts
of life, the acts of desperation in the face of
an already dead incarnation. One day to be
labeled, my suicide, at ends wrought
insurrection and beneath the twin flags,
insomnia added anticipation – Perhaps my
last, should the wolves cull come the hours
next when beds are made, supper’s sooner
cold and once more, the stars are allowed to
sing for someone, for something, else.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
Forecaster's greatest joy
The weather equivalent
Of the sacking of Troy...
Hell and damnation
Aloft in the clouds,
Heavenly wrath from
Funnel-ish shrouds.
My father wakes,
Prepares for chores,
Quick breakfast takes,
Throws on his coat,
Slides boots for wet or dry
On his aging feet,
Heads to the barn
In every weather,
Adjusting to the wind
And sun and precipitation,
Weatherman or no,
Undaunted if he sees
Hard rains
Or falling snow.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
Such a leathery lonely and laboring,
Traveling traitor is love,
griping and groveling for favor,
a fair-weather forecaster,
a fickle friend,
a lonely wanderer,
out in the night.
I kindly ask
that you keep kicking me,
With your calloused feet of hindsight.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
The weather forecaster is as good as it gets
for many
at the predicting of a bright future
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
Long sighs and cigarette burns on the white curtains that cover the only window in your
coffin-sized bedroom.
Pink haired girls feeling insecure, smoke drifting out from the neighbor's bonfire, children laughing with their sparklers lit and sparkling,
and you're crying.
It's not new, though, comes frequently, an every-day forecast told by the same forecaster, each sentence spoken so similarly that it feels like you've drifted back in time for only a moment,
because you've heard it before, you've heard this before.
And we'll hear it again before the sun rises.
Mothers laughing with their young daughters, hand in tiny hand, hopeful eyes so full of life, long sighs.
Pretty girls with smiles that are so much less hurtful than the sun, lovely ladies with pearl necklaces that shine like teeth on their slim necks, they like to lose themselves in the night.
And at this time, the night so late that even the the moon went to rest, everyone left still awake is connected,
a thin, dull white string, tied around the slow breathing chests of the people who remain alone, awake,
eyes so open that their eyelids strain.
Tears dried into the heavy purple bags that accentuate your green-blue eyes like smudged eyeliner,
do you hate yourself because you're alone or because you're lonely?
Road lights as tall as lady liberty, blurred in your glassy eyes, the sky is black but everything is full of light and the subtle vibrations of the miles going past by minutes and you're smiling, everything is beautiful life is beautiful you're beautiful.
and it only lasts an hour before it stops.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
It snowed last night.
When the people open their blinds,
a clean surface, a blank sheet of paper,
is what they will find.
Soon, cars will run it over, and turn it black.
Some will shovel it aside, or melt it with salt.
These things never last forever, snowflakes cease to fall with a sudden halt.
But once it's gone, you'll want it back.
Soon, it will be stained many colors.
We are curious, hard-working but messy, broken, and healing children.
Unable to fall asleep after we've been tucked in under our too-warm covers.
Red and blue flashing lights
show up too well on ivory streets.
God, they're so **** bright.
It makes me sad, somewhere tonight
a bed will have cold sheets.
Rewind. Restart. No ink marks this page.
No footprints obscure the surface, fine like alabaster.
The script has yet to set the stage,
and the weather has not yet met it's forecaster.
Mother Nature hit the refresh button,
and gifted the world a Tabula Rasa.
Use it wisely.
Feb 16, 2021
Feb 16, 2021 at 11:48 PM UTC