"forecasting" poems
Evening slipped into the long abyss
So fell the red moon
Malicious shadows forecasting doom
For the cursed animal man
Inhabiting the precious earth
Fearsome rolling rivers ran dry
Black smoke filled the spanning azure skies
The churning murky green oceans gave up the bones of their dead
When the moon turned red
The crust of the hard ground shook
Split and burst into deep fiery crevasses
Dark yellow orange smoldering nooks
Swallowing all of life
So obliterated was mans world as we know it
Destroyed
Barron and dead
When the moon turned red
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.10, 2014
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
There's two eyes of the Hurricane
both blue
flecked with grey.
Incalculable
forecasting the direction.
Ominous hunch
it is heading
my way.
The stability of shelter
is a lottery
of hope;
defenseless
if caught in its
path.
I'd be squashed
like a paper cup.
At a glance,
she can obliterate you
just like that. (click)
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
It's the Grim Reaper
It's the Boogie Man
It's the wolf in the closet
It's the monster under the bed
It's the phantom that's chasing you in your dreams
It's the madman who dances delightfully in your brain matter
It's the poison in your coffee
Paralyzing
Petrifying and penetrating
A flesh eating
Bone chomping
Soul *******
Grave robbing Ghoul
Right within the halls of your head
Grotesque and greedy, it is
Gloom everywhere
An anxiety production line
Breeding anguish
Bleeding you out
Windpipe choking
Werewolf watching
Witches brewing
It's dreadful and dooming
It's horror at every corner
It's a newspaper dripping in disaster
It's a future forecasting fatalities
Your obituary in every new edition
BUT IT'S NOT REAL
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
The forecast on the radio
I didn't need.
I felt it coming
In and through the threads of my light sweater
Tickling my skin so my arms embraced
One another.
The barometer falling
As are the remaining Ash leaves
Of yellow, like canaries rushing about
Certainly saying goodbye
To the past
As they must
When the wind picks up.
Hurling chilly
whips of wind
down
The East canyon
Announcing its arrival
I think of my warmest coat
And how long I'll have to wear it
As I sit on the porch in my shivering
Bare feet listening for what is to come
The seasons change
How will I?
Nov 23, 2023
Nov 23, 2023 at 4:07 PM UTC
Every employee's name was listed in the address field
Except for one
The one I never noticed
That we never noticed
We all marched into the meeting room as ordered
Found the CEO on an extra tall stage
To tell us
"Today is Emma McGurk's last day
But she says it's the first day
Of her tenure
As Director of Forecasting of Unintended Consequences
She's not going
So I need all of you, all 300 of you,
To help me terminator."
(Or was that terminate her?)
So we gave each other Brady Bunch nods
I had to look up to make eye contact (or is that I contact?) with superiors
Then we marched to
The cubicle of Emma McGurk
Me remembering what Santa Ana had said:
"With a few hundred more men like the San
Patricios, Mexico would have won the battle."
And the battle wasn't to be won by us
It was to be won by Emma McGurk
The CEO tried to move her
Ten of us tried to move her
Then one hundred
And then all three hundred
Even I made an effort
But she wouldn't budge
So we had to move...
To another building
Hearing that Emma McGurk was still ensconced
In the position existing only in her noggin
Until finally the old building had to be imploded
A fifth-grader winning the honor of triggering
That dusty downfall of Emma McGurk's cubicle
And the building that sheltered it
It wasn't until Signing Day Eve
That I saw her again
Pouring ink at a haiku-con
"The pay wouldn't be that bad," she told me.
"If it was by the snicker instead of the word."
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 9:35 PM UTC
State of union
as we're unified, we're lateral
parallel,
paraphernalia in our religions
to add to this televised broadcast
forecasting short cuts and short comings
Sure—
I'm running out of excuses tongue-loosened painfully,
but who thought,
the chief that is,
invited everyone to our ghost dance
they stand and applaud,
Me at the helm of our podium
they **** and they gawk,
you at my breast plate
the air I drink is futile I cough,
But Is it kosher?
Nova Scotian landscapes supplementing dinner,
The candles on your dessert,
reminds me of our fire,
We once had, We flicker,
Once singular now plural -- yes adulting made us thorough,
through the rigours,
I feel different
YOU'RE TRIGGERED,
them posts traumatic symptoms I remind you of
frequently,
I listen
I sin again, I sin again
Differently,
You take me back,
Religiously,
And say,
meditation is key,
Khalad would be proud
emotionally I'm wolverine --
Untouchable,
But that was yesterday and I'm trynna say,
Sorry
I'm trynna be unguarded
as a point guard off the inbound,
Pointing to your tilted crown — Adjust it to your coils
Flag a waiter down,
Beef is not what I wanted
nor pleasant to your palette
major key — take the salmon
Overall I think we're better now,
I asked my mom about you
and my aunt about your culture
What you really need is closure
Instead of asking for permission,
settled for forgiveness,
you sweep your pride away in the name
the victim,
Treat me like I treated you
Treat me like you're bullet proof,
Treat me like those systematic flaws --
Unforgivable
You left me?
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 8:50 AM UTC
As the crow flies south from capital city
With soaring moonshine he coasts into synchronicity
Highways below dissolve into forgotten whispers
Like a rear view mirror sees only memories in its disappearing
Visual ****** initiates and fills this polychromatic cruise
Starting with a quiet historic ruse
Contesting over which of the two
echo shadows for optical repeal
the many leaves of kaleidoscope hues
That keep a running legacy since time before our time
and / or
Buried horizon from endless layers of skyward hills
Hills that have been storing a primitive foundation for the growing of substructure foliage in order to be able to drop its petals and leaves
Resolve is left with the one true and unbiased impartial decider...
the wind
to form a fair measure of mediation
From the human view
All are merely a preview for the impromptu quest
In an attempt to catalyze foreshadow and paint memory for the drive out west
To approach from afar
The destination appears to be a resting
shape of an antiquated location
splashed with opaque aromas,
sensory weaving visuals,
and
Melodic tones of nostalgic definition
Emitting vibrations of soothing tremolo that quiver throughout the body
this multi-strip string of singular select shops
Is the alignment initiative in the countryside
forecasting a manifest
for the hazy occasion
Anointing inspiration over the heartland’s artland
That nearly only hope,
could create
Invisible snows sprinkle over roads like a magic red carpet of threaded tranquility in its coat
Enticing, Welcoming, and Lighting up this neck of the west
And opening into the
Woodland Hills of Little Nashville
———-—————————————-——————————
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
your eyes send signals forecasting a tremor.
so i pull you close and kiss the cracks
on your parting lips tonight.
broken glass and land slides,
tidal waves and ruined city,
you taste like catastrophe
waiting for a trigger.
but no, i am not complaining.
your mood may change like tectonic plates,
drift apart and rearrange
but never will i fear
your unpredictable seismic waves.
for this is a part of you
i have accepted long before
my heart began beating your name.
you may shake my world to pieces,
rive it with aftershocks and sinkholes,
but for now let's turn off the lights.
let me lull your troubled fault lines.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
Bottled up emotions,
Accumulating,
Ready to pour out.
You're heavily on my mind.
Yet these clouded thoughts,
Makes me wonder,
Should I dive into this never-ending cycle?
Forecasting what it might weather,
Would it be a lasting dance in the rain?
Or would I be flooded with shallow scars?
You never know what each day may bring,
But hope that there will be light of a better day as we pass these storms.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
There is a madness brewing like a sickness violently spewing lunatic crazed remarks into hollow minds. There are ideas stirring, bubbling and boiling; while stifled thoughts surface with no more than their existence as a warning of fore coming depression.
What a natural phenomenon, the emergence of insanity within a sane able bodied mind.
There is a foretelling of a sign forecasting an upcoming discension into the chasms that are my souls wretched sins reincarnated into the halls of Hell.
Ideas inspire though pride, gluttony, malice and envy give my breathe meaning through the inconsistencies of life.
They ignite within us a flame not readily contained by the constraints and shackles of love and time.
**** me now, and I shall forevermore hold peace in my heart and a quieted mind.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
The exterior is thick with humidity,
damp with rain,
and I’ll never experience fever like this again.
My body is being taken
(through the wind of a thousand hurricanes)
to a building with no climate;
I will be my own meteorologist,
forecasting eroded rocks and failures,
and seldom I might discover a window to peer out of.
Squinting,
I could catch the stories –
those of capability, disability, and susceptibility –
my willowed reflection screams.
And, though I will always have my wrinkled palms,
they will never hold the weather.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 7:02 PM UTC
And so it is another day
Plenty of sunshine
Rainy and grey
I'm sure change
Is coming this way
To the good
Or to the bad
To much weather
Can drive one mad
But what is weather
If not the force of change
Ice and snow melt in pain
Puddles of mud fall in love
Tracking dirt in
On the living room rug
And there a stain
Upon the heart
Forecasting storms
Will never part!
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 2:03 PM UTC
I am half-awake in the August rain,
the last strain of summer squeezed
into my glass and cooled with ice.
It is nice. To be up this early with
the morning news, Palestinians and
Jews at war over berries and wheat
in the broken streets of Gaza.
The cats are sleeping on the suite,
ears pinned up for a flash of sound
or stench of meat. My brother is
planning his moves for the future
against the ways I have failed in the past.
I have been half-asleep in debt and
addiction. I have buried myself in a
dream of words; into worlds of
all-talk and no action. I am no longer
a fraction of beer bottles and ashtrays,
fantasies of easy lays, or notebooks left
incomplete and full of cancer fears.
They are in tears; brown-skinned and
forgotten rights, a desolation site
of ground-zeros and a desperate fight
for life. Depleted uranium laces lungs,
as well-versed tongues in heavy suits
kiss the shoes of the corporate brutes.
As empathy trickles down in political
verse, a hypnagogic curse for liberal thought
and consciousness. They are forecasting
sorrow as the sun comes up, to detach
from our Earth, and the late summer rain.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
a humming flourescent bath
singing the blandest tune
and a sticky tile line graph
forecasting certain doom
as time weaves a boring stretch
on his relentless loom
it occurs to me I'm still
the worst part of this room
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
No - no, I am not a vampire-bat,
But still I stay awake in the night,
Gazing the ceiling's glowing clock,
Forecasting our conjoined destinies,
Either we meet sweet success in love,
Or we are posed with strict resistance,
All our possibilities are weighed by me.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
people who cry way too much know the signs of a breakdown like the back of their hands.
this is sort of like predicting a tsunami.
these people would be good at
forecasting the weather report
on channel nine action news
in the evening.
2015 was not a banner year for me
but lowering my expectations of life is no use because i wouldn't have anything to live for
in the morning
see in the winter
i survive because the weatherman tells me that spring
is on it's way.
my heart is still
heavy with icicles
my eyes are still
producing a sixth ocean
every other day
that my hands are tired of drying
because it loosens their grip on the future
i cling so tightly to
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Do you ever feel like
When it snows
You're in a snow globe
And the world has been dusted
By Gods very own
Icing sugar
And in the fall
The leaves are blown
From trees so tall
As though by design
Creatively decorating paths
With leaves of red and brown
Burnt orange and yellow
Placed neatly side by side
Artistic even though they've died
And the sun shines again
After it rains
When birds are ready to sing
For the spring
Then blossoms shower
Like wedding confetti
Forecasting baby showers
And finally the grass is greener
On your side
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
One foot in front of the other
Thats how we live life
The faster we run
The sooner we avoid strife
Because we're angry at the world
And the way things are
Then we're angry at change
And the way things aren't
Rain keeps flooding our minds
Clouding our thoughts
Our faces predict sunshine
While our insides do not
Gray days are nothing
Compared to our dark emotions
Somehow we know how to hurt
Without causing some kind of commotion
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
Your eyes portray a childish gleam,
hopeful and bright,
as if excitement was second nature to you.
They cast diamonds of light,
holding traces of warmth.
The sky resides within you,
the stars twinkling back with each glance.
It's not as though that sky has never seen clouds in it's forecasting,
It's because of the rain that they gleam so brightly.
No sky could exist without it.
And yet these stars are a galaxy.
They hide the soul,
keeping stories upon stories on each new star.
Undiscovered and shining more brilliantly than the last.
It's a wonder to behold,
And I count myself lucky to have seen this treasure trove of stars.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
Bought gloves a couple of weeks ago.
So glad I did,
The predictor of weather forecasting ice cold winter winds, along with bright white snow.
If it falls overnight, it shall lay pure as a ****** till it enters our sight.
One step at a time.
Shining glory, at first impression.
Then, an hour or two, post the impact of shoe.
Will present as mud and slushy muck.
Ice, unkind ice will cause feet to slip.
Hopefully, not on a striking doctors day when old people break their hips.
Doctors have to make their point, their hours are long.
Glad I'm not one!
(c)LIVVI
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
the halo
your arch
drowned
in the starch
of our mutated
fractures
most things break
frosty mountains melt
scattered promises flare
driving planes on icy lanes
forecasting plastic tactics
arguing drastic gambling
how fast your clothes fly
my sidewalk is
the cushioned path
of things that are best
left in the past
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
.
I have tasted tear drops
Acid from my eyes
Streaming under muted smiles
Cutting deep into my skin
Leaving trails of sadness
Glistening reminders
Along lonely cheeks
When damp expressions
Weren’t expecting rain
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
I get nervous still, but not because I'm terrified of the crowd or the consequences but because I'm terrified of my words not connecting the dots between your thoughts and mine, there are uncountable ways of which one could compare the simplicity and tragic nature of a kite or balloon to life, the government, business, and thought..
And this seems to poetic to have any root in reality but maybe that's why I'm speaking this way.
I told you last time we met that I found myself thinking of you the other day and what are the odds of that, that we'd meet soon after.
But what I meant was I catch myself thinking of you every day in fact you'd be hard pressed to comb through my life with the Hubble telescope to find a moment I wasn't.
But I can't tell you that.
So dear sleep, why do you continue to evade me when I need you the most...
I'm injured by ricochet bullets from my own machine gun mouth.
And sliced open by my bladed tongue.
So come soon, because 911 has their hands full and I've been on hold for a while with a killer in the room and a little pink elephant.
The storm clouds outside refuse to cease and desist, the weather man has given up hope forecasting anything other than hail and grey skies, I don't mind that so bad, but dear sleep can I get a little break.
I've gone through three pairs of sneakers pacing around town already. The 3rd shift convenient store clerk has my usually ready at the walk through counter every night, but I never remember her name.
Work gave me a month’s medical leave, since then I'm not sure if I talked to anyone that wasn't a hallucination.
They all sound the same now, the only way I distinguish one from the next is if they are coming or going.
Those seem to carry their own tones, like some kind of polite masquerade where no one wishes to say what their really thinking because they’re not sure how it’s going to come across.
But it's all beyond me that anyone would care, because then what's the point of speaking?
Perfection as a concept is a sick joke and I don't understand why we feel restrained by it.
But dear sleep! please unlock the door and let me in,
for one the dog house ***** and two I get the point,
I should never have neglected your dreams.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
Bubbles boiling over my
Hot-hot-hot tea ***
Rising up like the tingling
Corners of my mouth.
Toes tap-tap tapping
Along to your soul-swinging
Tune tearing straight through me.
Oh my feet could fly away
With your endless running riffs,
My head reeling with fantasy
Fabricated figments of mystery.
Can't hide it! Can't hide it!
Wearing it on my hands, arms, chest,
Screaming it in soft whispers.
Oh racing round and round
On the edge of my seat
To jump into your lap.
My legs won't stop bouncing
Gotta shake it out before I burst!
Teeth been showing since
My eyes glimpsed your shadow,
Head falling back with laughter
To watch the stars that are twirling
Above my crown
Shooting blinding light into my sight.
Oh baby, won't ya dance with me?
Quick! Before I drown
In this sea filling faster, faster,
Teeming with unknown possibility.
I've been forecasting a wild fire,
It's bursting forth from my furnace,
Ferocious and consuming.
Be careful baby, you're fanning my flame.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC