"foreshadowed" poems
Lucifer, save us; come up from Hell—
take a good look at the place that we dwell.
You were right all along
to refuse to bow down
to Adam and Eve
and their limitless throng.
And how could you have known that the apple you gave her
would plant seeds of pollution, destruction and terror?
You thought that we’d only use knowledge for good.
I know that you’d take it all back if you could.
Lucifer, we aren't angels like you.
We joined your rebellion, and soon we’ll be through.
Now the recourse from the wreckage that is,
is to bring on the foreshadowed Apocalypse.
So come on, Luci, don’t hesitate:
The Four Horsemen are pacing; why delay Fate.
After the End, there will be a new start,
perhaps without humans; we’ll bow and depart.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
Whiskey kissed lips
a forever favorite.
Though love is not
an attainable goal,
I will let the lips,
stained with liquor,
whisper vacantly
the beautiful things
that please my heart.
Time will tell of a love,
so tragic,
between the two souls,
that should have never
intertwined.
But for now let us sink,
back into that warm place of security.
Fiery passion may not last in love.
But the whiskey kissed lips,
make this foreshadowed tragedy,
sound irresistibly sweet.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
I sank to the ground and all came to halt
Birds flocked east before all shook in vigour
Windows shattered under the weights of roofs
Stone homes toppled before acknowledgement
Clouds of dust rained jagged stones upon us
The turbulent waters foreshadowed more
For waves of sharp heights dominated us
They carried us, and whirled us intensely
Earsplitting cries now silenced by water
And when all had come to a halt once more
The bodies succumbed to the ocean's pull
I was supposed to die, but I hadn't.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
Hovering,
grey slow mist,
I hover slowly remembering each word
that was plucked from your mouth the night the
clouds came.
These words,
stolen from my heart.
Mind, makes decisions
followed by regret.
I watch you walk away,
as I’ve done so many times before.
My thoughts linger
watching you become nothing
but a memory made by
silver linings, and golden dreams.
I fear that even if I speak you won’t hear me,
tangled in poison ivy thorns,
I’ve lost you again.
Wounds open, again.
I take a moment
to reject this pain.
Fading as I drift away.
Breathe deep, a weight is lifted.
It hurts though, I’m half
of the whole that we were.
Here I am,
Caught between the shutter of
Memory, I hear a blue jay
Flapping its cobalt wings.
Clicking at me like your warnings
Of how you'd leave if I
Didn't love you the right way.
If I would only begin to want you
Out of the memories,
Out of right now, and into
The future.
The signs were there,
foreshadowed by cold,
distant mornings, crippled
by your escaped gaze.
Chilling my spine, your thoughts,
and desires left me,
in a state of hallowed truth.
Your beauty held back by
selfishness, my jealousy
poisoning your innocent
smile.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
the ritual is like a dance foreshadowed by the first rush;
a smooth and soothing building block
characterizing my indulgence.
the room brightens and colorful shafts of light
surround my television in waves of heat.
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
here i, walk blind in
unseen sights,
aspired by my will,
to catch the shot in the dark
not dark as in morbid but,
dark as in unknown, unseen
for only, it could be
foreshadowed by some
i will be viewing the past
through the lessons
it has taught while i
keep on..writing,
painting every vivid dream
i have for my brain is
translucent, once i enter
the realm of softness
and dancing moon spirits.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 6:28 AM UTC
1555
I groped for him before I knew
With solemn nameless need
All other bounty sudden chaff
For this foreshadowed Food
Which others taste and spurn and sneer—
Though I within suppose
That consecrated it could be
The only Food that grows
2.1k
Your pace begins to noticeably pick up,
Your breaths are becoming shorter.
You begin to coach yourself mid stride,
"Glide don't gallop, you look like Tigger for Christ's sake!"
Eventually it washes over you,
You slowly fade into a Sudden abyss of Sorts.
You're no longer running nor jogging,
Hell you're not even moving.
You're somewhere else,
Somewhere you told your mind to take You.
It might be an altered memory of a Past victory
Or perhaps a fantasy in the near future.
Where ever you are,
You're alone.
Yet you are crowded at the same exact Time.
You're in complete control,
Yet you have no idea how to enter or Exit this state.
Before you know it,
You come too.
Back into the reality of your bodies Limits.
Your joints are aching and the lactic Acid has built in your upper thighs.
Your arms have grown heavier and Heavier.
How'd I not notice all this pain before?
Where was I?
All questions foreshadowed by this:
..What the hell do I have to do to get back?
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
as the oak is always the acorn,
so the poem is always the word,
no matter, how decimated the tree,
no matter, how faded
the word,
inside resides, the tree, awaiting the catalyst.
inside resides, the poem,
awaiting the esprit.
always, the essence remains,
embedded...
always, is the outcome, foreshadowed...
etched in, by a code,
known, only in it's base intricacy by one...
the creator.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
Deadened
I was terminated, today.
It foreshadowed a phone message of my father's demise.
Penniless on a reservation, I am deadened.
What are aspirations?
I am lulled by my rich heritage to live imprisoned in this space.
Like a broken and discarded snow globe, I feel irrelevant in this place.
The familiar has become the mundane.
Without enough cash to collect my Father's remains,
an estranged childhood friend pays for our one way tickets of escape to a place more barren.
Father, I wonder why you fled to such a desolate land.
What were you seeking? What was your plan?
Flashbacks of childhood dreams unfulfilled flood my mind.
Longing for our ancestors' way of life, realizing but not admitting it will never be ours.
Not belonging to the outside world, we return in my father's beat up truck, unchanged.
I promise to acknowledge my friend,
but we both know we will remain estranged.
Life on a reservation renders you reverently passive,
and without aim.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 9:48 AM UTC
this is the dwelling where wind is a bell and a beacon for death.
where youthful pursuit is punctured by family names or famine of fortune.
boys in bands buoyed by Onos and shared women.
lawyer fathers and social ***** mothers whose children are forbidden to **** up.
one street reserved and smothered by talking townsmen
whose belligerent brides keep tabs on their fellow middle-aged malicious
minded low-lifes
engorged in gossip are the parading fat men who rise early to feed off ones business capital tragedies
****** shortcomings of the stuck and single prey off tweens tweeting of body glitter and b-cups.
clique chick coquettes play house with their shiny image seeking male counterparts
who sing songs of their leather faced lady friends with plastic claws they now admit they would never marry
antagonizing cute couples secretly copulating with former loves' lust
only to mingle with conspirators molding to dominant thought
once a waitress always a waitress
with overdrawn bragging rights and unemployment checks
serving snobs like themselves who sip savignon
self-righteous polo popping perverts accompanying their prized play things
who join the charles river emigrants and stale french pastries
scouting the waste colored palace of prejudice.
now blades of winter draw months of blue blood
bringing forth frozen thoughts slowly dripping onto thawing skin.
another warm summer sun forthcoming
foreshadowed by this wind-chafing forlornness.
though i will fall in love again
and bridge rats will always be kings.
Apr 21, 2011
Apr 21, 2011 at 3:33 PM UTC
On a day that was
fraught
with anxiety and anger,
I sailed on
to the
other side.
The two pens that
blew up in my hand
foreshadowed the
prolific writing
streak to come.
Six poems today,
a personal best.
Bukowski would be
proud.
He might even
wonder
How I did it without
******
***** and
cigarettes.
It was easy.
I had bluebirds for
lunch, and listened
to Vivaldi.
I just let the telephone
ring
ring
ring
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC
He was afraid that if she closed her eyes they would never open again
She was always tired these days, her smile stunted, the crinkling in her eyes when she laughed, foreshadowed by the tears,
Like rain droplets underneath which they danced at 3 pm in the Missouri crossings,
And after the luminous laughs shared and warmth shared between their lips came her sickness, closer than ever, threatening to force them apart
Fever always forced her way inside her head, and cough rented her lungs paying the rent in the form of monthly hospital trips
He always held her hand, kissing the back of her palm, clutching it harder than an addicts grip on white powder,
They diagnosed her with tuberculosis, her lungs, breathed out melodies of Coldplay and Laura marling for him when the night felt too long,
Now they breathed in his pain, his fear of losing her to darkness.
Her sunken pale face, wishing on anything and everything that proves to be lucky, an eyelash, sight of a black car when driving underneath train on a bridge,
Crossing fingers to survive through this nightmare that has sketched its outline,
And filled its grey shades in their lives.
He cocoons his body around her in the white bed, her fragile body, connected with an I-V, they could have been a beautiful butterfly, but destiny stunted their growth
She just wants to close her eyes to wish, for the last time, to be able to see his face every day for the rest of the eternity,
But he is afraid that if she closes her eyes, she might never open them again.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
Yelling at a screen after-hours
With old friends and passersby
Getting drunk in desperation
And hooking up with a boy I didn't know at all
After smoking a jointswith a boy outside
Who I cared to get to know, quite a bit
Dancing around the house that I couldn't have known
Would become a strange sort of home;
Covered in candle wax and visions of Depropheria
With brand new, beautiful friends
Neck craning upwards in the Grove of
Titans: the closest thing to God on Earth
New beginnings and transient visions of forever
On a magical bus ride to New York City
Making love for the first time in my bed,
Our bodies joining and intertwining while
My future slept on the couch downstairs
A teary goodbye and a journey to a lakeside
In the middle of the night where that future,
Which blew through like a whirlwind of a summer storm,
Was foreshadowed once again
Empty bottles lining your counter and you
Tearing down, just before leaving,
All my fences too
Making love for the last time in your bed
Right before the bubble of us popped,
Leaving me only with a bowl of soapy water
And a bendy straw: so many
New chances ahead
A whole community: the family to get me through
That love just passed and the happy moments too-
Falling asleep next to someone new
And clinking glasses on the dock
With a vegan pizza to top it off
The final falling apart of April to August
And a new heartbeat pulsing in
The quiet spaces between my fingers
Trying a new drug at the top of a tree
And laughing all through the journey,
The LSD nothing and your friendship everything
Flickering fluorescent lights reminding me
Of all I've lost; of all I've gained
In this beautiful year
Of 2013
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
water drizzles,
eyesight changed,
intuiton foreshadowed,
as
my
mind....
is opened by the plesant sound of water.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 6:29 PM UTC
These days the human race
is red-faced
in a battle of wits and wallets
over a Walmart shopping cart
Insanity.
A Christmas wish in a shopping list
the ultimate gift
unattainable
slaving over a hot stove for the perfect dish.
Christmas tradition
is more a religion
Crosby's voice
silky smooth over the radio airwaves
next to a roaring fire
surrounded by loved ones
while another outside loses their ear
to the cold.
From rags to riches
we're less familiar with the former
than the latter
we have to close our eyes
to silence the clatter
of sleigh bells a crackling fire
soothing Crosby and wishing wells
75 percent off and Hallmark originals
blinding Christmas lights up before our neighbor
lasting 'til the 4th of July
the only part of Christmas that makes it
beyond the winter season.
Lights still ever brighter in the hungry eyes
gazing upon shiny paper masking
a rectangular treasure trove of financial woes
shoved under the carpet 'til the tax returns
are our saving grace.
But what of the shining light
that pointed to a springing plight
foreshadowed in a squalid den
where a savior's life would begin?
He soon received gifts of men who lay at his feet
in worship of a hope in the flesh
they'd thought they would never meet
if the child only knew then that He would later be gifted with
a crown of thorns, the spit and curses of his friends, the kiss of a traitor, nails in his hands and feet to a splintered wooden cross.
What if we traded our presents for his presence
Sought our brothers and sisters in love because of his gift
one we could never have given but can graciously receive
one we will never deserve or earn but by his love we are set free.
If we set our eyes to the unseen how much more we will see clearly
that we can shed this wrapping paper like wiggling free of a spider's webbing
that we can no longer fret over the perfect gift because its already been given.
This Christmas season, lets get back to the reason
we love and we live, we laugh and we give
not in the vicious cycle of materialism and consumption
but in the holy light of grace and redemption.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
My arrival be somber farewell,
In jazzy silence, my essence await.
Lo, sail for the rising horizon!
Sunlit glory marks my precarious path.
An eerie dawn heralds my journey.
Behind wispy clouds lie hidden stars.
Burning minds under siege from rain,
Where art my refuge... a warm embrace?
____________________________________________
Subterranean, its my exeunt.
Beyond the fog lies fresh adventure.
Shackle my pride, envy, ignorance,
Marvelous wonder upon colossal peaks.
Brazen meadows shimmer under solar scrutiny.
Foreshadowed by towering nobility,
A morning hue bathe the sylvan valley,
An idyllic breeze ruffle my hair.
____________________________________________
Dreams of avarice,
Coveting all property.
Faster and faster,
More and more, eternal.
Liberty for people,
Nay, for the few.
Aristocracy!
Ruling class rules... to sin.
____________________________________________
I am falling toward the sky.
Instantly mesmerized by your bright eyes.
Feelings of perfection corrodes all my might.
Your light caught me by surprise.
Our paths crossed as the planets aligned.
Our eyes meet, you make me feel the vibe.
I wonder if you are so inclined.
Terrified, I just want to make it out alive.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:16 AM UTC
hold on,
just for a single
moment.
minutes fly by like seconds
& you fly out of my mind like a cannonball,
puncturing my ship of dreams in
slow-motion
all the way from one side
to the other,
shattering every structured thought I've ever had,
slowly flooding the decks with memories that would've been,
that have been,
that will be.
I hear the stained glass windows of
heaven
explode as splinters of hope
fly
past my head,
threatening to rip my feathered fantasies to shreds as I adjust the brim swiftly
& unsheathe my silver offense,
forged out of
hatred,
longing,
lust;
already dripping with foreshadowed revenge.
the captain's coat hangs
heavy
on my weak shoulders
as I drag my soaked guilt to the bow,
boots
slowly sloshing
through the blood & terror on my deck.
I feel my tortured breath,
in & out,
mixed with the harsh taste of salty rejection,
hear myself shouting orders even I cannot understand
above my men's screams of hopelessness.
I turn back & look at my ship,
eyes wide,
open to the world,
like a child who still has much to learn.
yet I fear I have taught myself too much as I look back on the chaos that is the sea.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
Isn't it sad to watch a flower die?
Isn't it ironic that we're so happy when we pluck one from the Earth;
a happy and senseless ******
Plucking is a lot like loving.
We want it to be ours. We can't just let it grow and let it be;
a selfish interruption of the naked soul.
We dress it in suits and ties, don't we?
It's important for things to appear as though they aren't tainted;
like true love awoken from myth.
But underneath her red velvet dress,
lie insecurities, a lock, and a key, to make sure he never leaves;
a trap for the foolish and the sweet.
The flower wilts inside the vase,
unable to breathe and spread its roots around the world;
love enclosed with foreshadowed defeat.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
The pressure of your lips
The dirt on my tongue..
It all tasted the same.
I never knew what it would be like
To feel hollow
Until my knees crumbled
And the floor became my home.
The wind was never
A good friend of mine;
It only whispered under the sun
But whipped when I was bare.
And I'm starting to wonder
If that foreshadowed
The way our hearts
Are always in the wrong place
At the wrong time.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
Israel foreshadowed in Egypt
Untouched by the Plaques
Passed over by the Destroyer
Egypt broken and bowed
With strangers, Israel walked free
Handsomely ransomed, a nation is born
So shall Israel again be in the Tribulation
As light for sight and salt to taste
And again with strangers
In haste and with bitterness
Come out of the World
Raptured as the First born of God
Jan 23, 2020
Jan 23, 2020 at 5:23 AM UTC
I typed out a text to my best friend,
But deleted it because I didn't want her to tell me it'll be okay.
I typed out a text to a lover, but deleted it because I didn't want sympathy to bring him back.
I scrolled through my contacts but each contact somehow foreshadowed an annoying response that wouldn't have understood what I endured in the last 2 hours of my life.
It's as if this night could've went so many ways in so many places, but it landed here happening to me.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
how is the weather today,
the inquiry semi-formally, mumbly delivered
(in pj's, eyes closed, body turned away)
and I softly smile for somewhere here
the poet-boy once wrote
"all my poems begin with weather"
and the composing begins, which of course,
is the decomposing of me-pieces
into nanosecond emotions
that each becomes a verses
until a certain voice
wise whispers "no mas"
my reply, nano bytes of me,
is a forecast personal and tailored
to our GPS location,
the bedroom
"Swami says
looking inside, outside too,
report and retort
it appears quite nice,"
(quietly semi-whispering,
100% chance of snuggling, followed by severe
love making, its arrival foreshadowed by lighting biting and
foot rubbing, and licking winds of heaving breathing,
conditions, we explorers of the caves and local mounts
so oft encounter on our Atlantic captive isle,
and bravely sally forth to face its bullets of kicks 'n kisses)
from under the covers,
we hear swarming,
warning bolts of
snorting derision
but this fire eating ,
most fearsome
nostrillian, reptilian morning beastie noise,
we hardy sailors hardily choose to ignore
but lack of detail is unappreciated so our response amended:
"looking outside, report and retort
it appears quite nice, with 100% chance
of showers of coffee and kisses"
which earns me a sweetie kick
all my poems, the poet-man once wrote,
"all my poems end with whether"
*apparently, this one as well.
oh well, oh well!*
7/8/17 8:14am
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
Angels float in my mind
When I'm in Heaven
Or engaged in Hell
Provide me smirks
In remembrance
And smiles of joy
Foreshadowed
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
Ilsa's hair blew like silk in the soft Parisian breeze.
Rick looked 10 years younger driving his sportster
down Champs-Elysees. Arc de Triomphe was in the
distance. Young, radiant, Ilsa was the most beautiful
woman in the world. Every man who ever saw her
instantly fell in love with her, myself included. The
German army was only a day from entering Paris,
but that didn't stop Rick from proposing to Ilsa in
La Belle Aurore as Sam played AS TIME GOES BY.
That Ilsa didn't meet Rick in the pounding rain at
the train station as they had planned to take it to
Marseille on their way to Casablanca foreshadowed
the protracted, brutal war the Nazis had already
begun one conquest after another across Europe.
But ****** was not prescient enough to realize
"...a kiss is just a kiss...." and in his Berlin bunker
first swallowed a cyanide capsule then put the muzzle
of his revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger,
his only constructive act since becoming Chancellor
in 1933.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 7:59 PM UTC