"forecasts" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Umuulan nanaman
Wala na ata tong katapusan,
Pero baka katulad lang ng pagmamahal mo na akala ko walang hanggan,
Yun pala ay matatapos din naman.
May mga bagay talaga sa mundong hindi tayo sigurado,
Tulad ng weather forecasts sa tv at radyo.
May mga bagay na ayaw mo na atang malaman ang totoo.
Katulad na lang ng "minahal mo nga ba talaga ako?"
Ang dilim na ng langit,
Unti-unti ka ng binabalot ng sakit,
Mga alaala ay nagiging mapait,
Buti na lang sinasabayan ka ng langit.
Sobrang lakas na ng ulan,
Wala na akong makita sa daan,
Kung saan ako pupunta ay hindi ko na alam kung saan,
Tila ba'y naghihintay na lang ako ng hangganan.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
Underneath a silhouette of stars
We confer futuristic forecasts
your skin blends with the ivory outline
of the constellation that envelopes our bodies.
Heard was the echo of
such an ever so pleasant sound
‘twas the rustling of sheets
to the rhythm of the rain
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
By accepting the terms of this agreement, you represent and warrant that you have the capacity to love.
Any similarity to a previous love is circumstantial; this love is not affiliated with other loves.
We assume no responsibility for for the shortcomings of prior loves;
we do, however, assume all responsibility for any loss, error, or communication failure incurred while in possession of this love.
It is, after all, love.
Love is available as is; no specific results are promised.
If you are at all unhappy, you are encouraged to return love.
If you find love to be damaged or defective, well, it's love.
Slight imperfections are to be expected, and add to the character of love.
Love may occasionally send you poems, letters, or declarations of its continuance. If you wish to opt out of this correspondence, you may cancel your account at any time.
The service may be temporarily unavailable from time to time; this may be due to maintenance, or periods of reflection. It in no way implies or forecasts termination of love, unless specifically stated so.
By accepting this agreement, you agree not to abuse love by acting in a manner inconsistent with the provisions listed above.
(please say yes)
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
Today, I am beginning
Only to end.
This body has blossomed in a field of green;
Has bled shades of red;
Stared at a horizon ablaze with yellow;
And now, this body will face
The bluest of skies.
Whether my skies are clear or
Consumed with droplets of rain,
I will always end up seeing
Nothing but blue.
Nothing but 10 shades of blue,
Until I see another sun set
Until a palette of colours are
Painted on the horizon
Until stars are forced to form constellations
Until a beginning of
A new morning.
But one day, my new mornings
Will not consist of
The bluest of skies.
There may be a hint of pink,
a touch of purple,
or a sliver of orange.
And that's okay.
Because weather forecasts were not meant
To only be clear blue skies and
Colours were not meant to have
Only one shade.
Blue possesses a fading beauty
Now unappealing
But never forgotten
It is THE last set of my own primary colours -
green, red, and yellow.
Once I set down this
Familiar brush dipped in
blue paint,
I will start anew with a
Fresh set of colours.
A clean canvas once again.
Today, I am ending
Only to begin.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
Five bedroom house, in estate
BMW, best of late
Cocktail wife, with breast inflate
Kids at play, on playmate
Mr. Jones, my best mate
Repossession of cars, on that date
A victim of my ego, I’ve become
Before dawn, on treadmill I run
Contracts, forecasts, reports my day begun
Sorry, I’ll be late, for supper ***
At home, after the sun
I promise, tomorrow, we’ll play my son
A victim of my ambition, I’ve become
Almost all, my hair turned grey
Its ulcers, that’s what the doctor say
My secretary, she led me astray
For another drink, I will stay
Tonight alone, in my house I lay
A victim of myself, I’ve become
Dec 29, 2009
Dec 29, 2009 at 8:47 PM UTC
IT WAS SOME SORT OF DREAM and for a second time in my life I worked at a McDonald's but this time it was a McDonald's out of a Philip K. **** novel.. a hoveryvibe with this strange baby-blue tint to the walls that sat so quaint and silent reminding the subconscious of aliens or restaurants at the end of the universe... there was a long cyborg tube that spiraled into crafted spritz almost made to look broken and being one of the strangest parts of the dream. working at a McDonald's again made me physically ill and I could taste ***** in my mouth but for some reason it felt like only moments before I had been quietly lying next to a male lover (co-worker with a Colgate smile that tipped his lips to haunt me) and as I leaned in to kiss him, stomach swelling with the lovers melancholic ecstasy, he began to fade, his lips presings softly to mine collision shape-to-one-another as he vomited a little with no loss to his Colgate beauty (I thought him dying or skipping a day of high-school?) fading away slooowwwllyyy to be replaced by that cyborg tube with me standing above it spitting that same kind of spit which forecasts a violent throw-up from the bottom of a wretch gut. I could see the little spritz made to look broken becoming spider-webbed with my saliva until finally the ***** propelled itself from my throat and I collapsed to the ground somehow still looking in only to awake to my alarm clock - - - wheel around in bed to hear music.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
!all men are fair weathermen!
if what they predict and promised
don’t happen quick, a thunderstorm of oops and aahs, follows asap.
quick move on to making more forecasts
with a higher degree of confidence that either way,
may be you need not wonder
a withering whether, or not,
if they’ll come true
always end your broadcast with the
I Love You (You Know Who)
with a wink and no names cause safe
is the fair weather
always accurate
now I know that it can rain oil from heaven,
promises that come
pre-broken;
summers predestined to end and the fall prepares us
for bittersweet cold alone and
the oil rain just smokes
but does not warm
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
Punxsutawney Phil
You're so furry
And adorable
But your forecasts
Are deplorable
Thirty-nine percent true
That makes you a fraud
But cute eyes have you
Therefore a god
Early spring you say
Yet snow and low temps
Flourish today
So conflicted
By this contrast
Indoors now restricted
Godhog is Devine at last
Tomorrow swimming
No matter the mortal's forecast
You say the sun is brimming
The masses praise
Nearly naked in the snow
Why the wintery haze
No shadow, it is so
Now we stand
Swimsuits adorned
Frozen faces
Countenances Forlorn
Faithful in our belief
In you and yours
In fur and sharp teeth
Buds and flowers restore
Trees and life anew
What could go wrong
A groundhog we pray to
In Phil we trust
What's wrong with us?
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
Thu. Aug 11 2022
7:16 AM
~ for Julia and Joanne~
good neighbors
<>
a renewable habit apparently, again, a first poem of the day
(FPOTD), comes early, this old practice, me-bedded and mugged, with music ear installed drowning the noises of television blah,
iPad rests on left leg, left hand pointer finger ejects capsules
of letters, charmed into existence by the Barber adagio.
the Weather Channel forecasts morning-rain and my window
to trample and shuffle this deteriorating body rapid closes,
and the sun, weak, in concession speech, begs pardon, throws
off a few miscellaneous rays by way of apology, fooling no one,
except for the hopeful, itinerant poets, & the bunnies-neath-the deck.
know now you understand the poems entitlement, as is my wont,
you’ve been invited inside, sharing eyes and senses, you journey
today from a vantage no one else possesses, just you and me. Later,
we will drive to the Parrish Museum, studying modern painters,
each will inquire, a poem for me please, I nod sure, perhaps?
promise little, deliver less, is this your best? A travelogue of the
mundane, the little things, that do not stir your heart, smile tears,
and make you think wish I was there, or this, being
just too-me-boring?
The brain growls, no one making them read this perfunctoriness,
nonetheless, you apologize, pardon the no-angst trivia of daily life.
like the acid reflux bile, swallowed and returned to whence it came.
before it invades, tarnishes the peace of our surroundings and
the pleasure of your company, as I read your writings,
*worth so much,
filled with so much angry pain,
I want to easy-soften the everything,
if this missive, takes you-nearer, to the calmer~closer,
this poem, you transform it from perfunctory, to just, simply*
perfect.
8:18 AM
Shelter Island
Aug 11, 2022
Aug 11, 2022 at 8:37 AM UTC
My neighbor and I still hang out our wash,
(I, each Thursday, taking my chances.
She, according to weather forecasts, I think,
or maybe by what she feels in her bones).
We laugh at StarTribune's report of some suburban bans
against clotheslines.
We wonder out loud whose tomatoes will first turn red,
and whether cucumbers will make it at all;
this year, it's been too cool and dry
for normal progress to the fall.
Tenacious dandelions, spread as stars across green-earth skies,
drive in spike-like roots, take hold of earth, and won't let go.
Kids squeeze bunches of stems in tight fists
that will open only to release the buttery bouquet to Mom
who hurries to put them in water, in a crystal vase,
wondering how soon she might mourn both flower and child.
While hanging bright, white unmentionables (some somewhat tattered)
on our clothesline, I, unembarrassed, remember my mother:
with one clothespin held in her mouth
and half a dozen more in her apron pocket,
(thus needing not to walk over and over again
the east-west path to the back door
where full supply of pins hangs on the ****
she does her woman's task with flair,
spacing each garment so as not to block the sun or air.
You'd think she'd held some tool to calculate
where the sheet would best allow the breeze to circulate
or where to place each pillow case and sock,
so each would recognize and meet their mates!
And I know she theorized regarding how to hang those socks,
always with the toe pointed upward, so as not to show,
when dried and worn, a crease or ever-so-slight evidence
of the pin's pressure displayed for all to see
on the exposed ankle,
as if that might be a matter
worthy of shame.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
Watching as they sink
Wreckage after the
Storm of the middle-aged
Oblivious to their own remedies
They saw the forecasts
Were warned of dangers
Still foolhardily pressed on
Told n'one of their endeavors
Clouds crowding
Wary winds
People perishing
Sorrowful seas
Boat bullied into submission
No force like water
Tearing and wearing
The hopeless down into
Shells of what they once were
Suddenly aware of aftermath
Learning of their strife before the wreck
They were warned
Yet, still the knowledge
Curdles the assumptions of family and friends
Fomenting separation
At the breaking of the storm
The aftermath a single clue
To middle-aged unhappiness
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
one of the first times we talked
there was a thunderstorm going on
at your end,
all the way on the other side of the world
(or so it seemed).
perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts --
that i would become enthralled by you,
just as i am
by thunderstorms,
and that you, the storm itself,
would wreak beautiful havoc
upon all that i was
and change me forever.
i was oblivious:
unknowing of the fact that soon
i would be in the eye of the storm --
a ship being beaten down by your
catastrophic flashes of blinding lightning
and the roaring waves you would leave behind.
perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts.
but i didn't.
i was blinded by the serenity
that so often comes before chaos.
the calm before the storm,
if you will.
but like i said,
i am enthralled by thunderstorms,
so maybe that is why,
even after the calm ended,
i still loved every second
of our twisted downpour
and didn't so much mind
the empty hull i'd become.
my darling --
you were the storm
and i was the ship
that slowly burned
with every strike of lightning.
(a.m.)
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
It’s been raining for 22 days straight and I
couldn’t tell you why the evergreens weep like
they do but if you must, the skies ravens are
bellowing what they’ve witnessed in a song we
will never understand and will endlessly hear.
Feathered armor protects the branches that starkly
plead for handfuls of the sponge-clouds above.
Why don’t we listen to the warning calls
of the floods coming from God’s eyes?
The sticky moss resting on the north side of the
rusty hemlocks will tell you, the record is 55 days
since they’ve seen the sun---a dialect less penetrating
than the all-too-inviting cries that echo the woodlands.
Whispers of the breeze flowing through the trees
are not enough to overcome this tempest that is steeping
slowly and surely the habit of nature will wash its face
clean of any inadequacies. Now, if you told me
it rained here over half the year, I’d believe you.
Not just because it’s the Pacific Northwest, but because
I’ve witnessed the consistency of the pure quietude, of the
circling crows that count every beat and divide every lap.
Their dependable vantage forecasts any storm.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
Holbein paints us together.
Fortune teller,
Truth ******
gifted beyond his young age.
So;
let us listen to his forecasts
even if to do so is Folly.
What does the crystal ball see?
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 7:40 PM UTC
the meteorologists predictions have been off key
their weather forecasts are proving to be faulty
yesterday they said rain would come in the eve
but none came to wet the back landing eaves
the direction of the wind they got wrong last week
it blew in from the south and was rather bleak
they need to check their wind vanes regularly
for a wind from that direction is so chilly
they've got modern technology at their finger tips
so you'd think with forward forecasts they'd make no slips
but alas meteorologists seem not to care
whether the weather is inclement or fair
instead of relying on their dodgy forecasts
one ducks outside to observe clouds and wind blasts
a more accurate picture can be seen
by one watching the unfolding weather scene
they've predicted sunny skies for this afternoon
with much anticipation we'll look for its boon
we'll be well astounded if that be the case
so often the meteorologists get the weather misplaced
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
We never cracked the mysteries of Pittsburgh,
and Baltimore bled out inconveniently before
our eyes, another nervous snitch knifed outside
the corner convenience store in broad daylight.
Salt Lake City was too pure, too white,
theocracy carved into a wafer of snow.
We grew tired of watching Los Angeles
pleasure itself in the sun like a **** star,
interminably tan and vacuous.
And Chicago was too ******* cold.
So we settled here, where streets turn
the soles of our shoes to palimpsests
where every apartment elevator
offers a wall of infinite buttons
where grocery stores stock their shelves
with bottles and bottles of octopus ink
where neighbors open their curtains
and stand shimmering in moonlight
where weather mixes with nostalgia,
creating immutable, poetic forecasts
where water tastes like redemption
and the skyline rises like a chorus,
so much taller than the cities
we inhabited when we were
alive.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
Went to the doc.
Told me I was on my way to
Dying
Way faster than I should be.
*Laughed.
Doc, you been telling me that for
Five years
And my poetry is only getting better.*
He says,
Ya think?
Look at you,
You live in a watery place,
Talking to god about sports,
Ripping off O.Henry,
Solving equations
On the direction of the
Bubbles you blow into the skies,
Recording your innermost
In public bathrooms,
Ever ask yourself,
Is that normal?
*Laughed.
Every now and then,
I take them pills
You gave me.
They come in orange cylinders,
30 at a clip,
Supplied my druggist dealer.
I figure for every pill,
Another day, another poem.
But I won't stick myself no more.
Got enough people- things
Sticking me daily.
Why should I help themselves along?*
You right, doc snorted.
You've lived this long,
What ya got to show for it?
Then why do you come
Bothering me,
Annoying me.
You think I like
Spending 90 minutes
With you?
You think I spend
90 minutes of mine
On every poet
That comes thru
My swinging doors?
*Well I like how, doc,
You write down everything
I tell you, so when the archaeologists
And the alchemists
Come a-digging,
Looking for the facts of figures,
In your files,
They will find the gritty story
Of a New Yorker,
Who saw poems in sidewalk cracks,
Street signs, young hearts and smiles,
Even you white starch coat,
Your stern disapproving face,
gets utilized, but got stop someday,
Wouldn't be fair
If I used up more than my
Fare-thee-well share
Of words.*
The doc,
He didn't laugh,
Nah, don't buy it,
Gotta be a reason
Better than that
Why you keep on
Bothering me,
Ignoring me,
Hastening your mortality?
*Doc, done my time,
Sentence served,
Now I'm just coasting,
Waiting for the day,
When I get summoned.*
*Looking for a new view,
Looking down on the young ones,
Staring down, at them struggling,
For the exact right word,
To place just so on their computer
Screens/screams,
I can be the rustling noise
In their ear,
They call inspiration.*
**That will be Part II,
That is what I will do,
When your forecasts
Come true.
So what me worry,
I got jobs done and to do,
And I can do 'em well
Just about anywhere,
But I visit you, cause you,
Are a righteous one,
Cause you care.**
And I will be watching you too.
5:38am
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
.
*What ever happened to fairy tale endings
When did the sun bring the cold winter chill
Why are kind gesturers an act of pretending
How did our heartbeats become ever still
Where is the joy that we found ourselves sharing
Happiness falling on much darker days
Meadows of flowers now weeds never caring
Blue skies are hidden behind sorrowed haze
Dreams slowly scattered on desolate oceans
Washed up on shore as the sandcastles die
Tossed overboard with the weakest emotions
Salt coated tears the horizon does cry
Once perfect mornings now afternoon weary
Gazing on edges cut sharp by the storm
Forecasts are sent in a poem that’s dreary
Standing afraid as the thunderclouds form
Hiding our eyes behind last April’s fashion
No cotton fabric for sale on the rack
Finding that drab is our lone source of passion
Marked down for clearance way out in the back
When did we give up on promises pending
Taking a place after push comes to shove
What ever happened to fairy tale endings
What ever happened to forever love*
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
Executive- My powers are absolute,
thus I am totalitarian.
The legislature and judiciary
are each subservient to my whims.
I pass my bills with attendant
compliance, and interpret my own
terms as the law.
I shut the doors of compassion,
I am very deeply elusive.
I give no room at all to dissent.
I get bloated with the treasures of the nation.
In a leap year's tenure I bulldoze
my way back to my incumbent status.
And when four multiplies two, I impose
a minion to cover my ills.
Legislature- To obnoxious decrees I give my consent.
I inflate yearly forecasts to become opulent.
I am gratified for the cabinet servants' affirmation.
I always my selfish treaties ratify.
I am undoubtedly slavish to executive excesses.
I seek the redress of constituents' grievances
to enlarge my pocket's size.
And above all else, I am largely rubber stamp.
Judiciary- My evasive justice is yours' to reap
if you are a top notch,
whilst I withdraw the distributive
and restorative from insolvents.
I base my interpretations on business
interests,
and make laws for the interests of
a cabal.
Equity and rights are only in my
constitution stated.
But in reality they are no more
than abstract twins.
The sacred laws of our national prospectus
I serve as a weak custodian of,
and weaker still in the face of political
heavyweights.
But with all the lofty responsibilities
I am reverently saddled with,
I can do nothing more than
empower bigwigs because I am weak,
and they are powerful.
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 5:29 PM UTC
There is a cottage by a disused well,
And in it lives a strange and haggard crone,
Knock on her door and she will give a tell
Of future moments yet to you unknown.
No crystal ***** or scattered runic tiles,
No divinations of the palm or flame,
Her forecasts lie in bodies she defiles,
The practice of the necromancer's game.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
I want to journey to a place,
that’s unknown and unfamiliar;
He’ll stop the sense of déjà vu
and nothing can be familiar.
I’d love to get that sensation,
to live without pointing fingers;
when surrounded by holy peace,
I can know His Presence lingers.
Within this blessed serenity,
I’ll find His joy without worries;
Life slows to a Godly pace where
I’m being, not in a hurry…
to escape His magnificence!
Imagine streets without violence,
whereby music fills the air and
sirens are replaced by silence.
There will be no more funerals,
but continued celebrations
of Life and God’s enduring Truth;
we’ll praise- Christ for His Salvation,
The Holy Ghost for His comfort
and the Love of The Great I Am.
Finally, we’ll witness first hand,
grown lions lying down with lambs.
Happiness will be realized
under Heaven’s bright atmosphere;
all pain and suffering is gone,
since our eternal God is here!
No weather forecasts are needed
when perfection is everywhere;
joyful songs of praise fill our ears,
as we rest in His lasting care!
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
1 Cor 2:9; John 14:27; Phil 4:6-7;
Isa 11:1-6
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Perseverance, when trying
to be passive, is like jello.
Submission to jello is some
place for circumstances.
Strong jello is found
in a yoga class. The
active yogi has a response
to the difficult events
of the yoga class. Global
achievers eat jello just
like the rest of us. We
are victims of their
model. They spout dire
forecasts, as if they
were desirable, like jello
or yoga. There's always
room for yoga and jello.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 7:16 PM UTC
wormwood visions
the nibiru hype train
prepares to leave the station
once again
taking the prepper squad
and doomer crew
out to look again
at the vastness of space –
april forecasts
200 mile per hour
straight line winds
2016 the year of destruction
same as 2012
or Y2K
or the bicentennial
the age old crisis
of an incoming body
ready to destroy humanity
for the umpteenth time –
6000 to 8000
biblical years of existence
150,000 year old cave art
made by co-magnum
breeding with Neanderthal
looking to heavens
at the rogue planet
or failed dwarf star –
another checking of the packs
another inventory of the ammunition
one more sideways glance
into the southern skies
seeking validation
and maybe a little more warning
than what the powers that be
will give the population at large –
probably nothing will happen
the odds are this is just a story
like the devil or Santa Claus
just a way to control those foolish
or unsettled enough
to buy in
most likely this year will pass
without a celestial event
designed to alter mankind
push us to the next evolutionary jump
force us to become a single people
working to survive
the electric and magnetized
universe –
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC