"guesses" poems
One monotonous day is followed
by another monotonous, identical day. The same
things will happen, they will happen again --
the same moments find us and leave us.
A month passes and ushers in another month.
One easily guesses the coming events;
they are the boring ones of yesterday.
And the morrow ends up not resembling a morrow anymore.
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My grandpa loves gnomes
They’re all over the house
Sitting by the mirror and useless combs
There might be one that’s a mouse.
Ill give you two guesses at his x-mas gifts.
And every vacation we find a station
That carries the friendly red hatted myths.
He gleefully owns whole generations.
Grandpa looks like a gnome himself.
This is where we think his joy stems.
He fits in too well with his porcelain wealth.
But grandma puts up with it.
‘cause the gnome light keeps her books lit.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
He loves me, he loves me not
A constant phase and a common thought
Spins like a halo occasionally
And it summons me unforgivingly
He loves me, he loves me not
Don’t lose hope, don’t get caught
Losing florets over the flower shop
So obsessed, I couldn’t stop
For I keep plummeting petals
Hands are excessive pedals
He loves me, he loves me not
My feeling’s loaded, my wisdom’s locked
Aid my soul inside the casket,
over the garden,
My harvested heart bleeds red,
Red as garnet
He loves me, he loves me not
Still waiting for a twist to the plot
Maybe tomorrow or maybe not
I can’t remain forever-aiming and then rot
He loves me, he loves me not
It’s getting cold and it gets hot
I can volunteer to squeeze myself until death
Because I’m running out of guesses
He loves me, he loves me not
A rising action and a falling one
What’s done with the rises,
when I am the fallen one?
I faded once but I’m alright
What a fool, to have another try
Here’s to the planets that can be worthwhile
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
I
You came to me in the robes of Cyclamen
But how can I bring you a bouquet of red chrysanthemums?
When I have not found any white chrysanthemums in the bouquet of your heart?
Do not pluck the petals of my pure daisies with your eyes closed, lest you would be fooled by your wild guesses.
Because, you do not need to set your foot on twelve daisies before you can see the dawn of your spring
I will give you neither white nor red daisies after the last swallow of summer has flown away from your alcove, lest your dreams of them in autumn leave you heartbroken in winter.
In my wanderlust quest for Ivy
I did not find you in the bloom of Orange Blossom or in Lemon Blossom
But I found you entangled in the paphiopedilum orchids of Phaphos with a garland of Peach Blossom dangling from your ringed neck
Like a rose entangled in your own thorns
Then I disentangled you before I led you to the lyceum of my Muses
They welcomed you with the petals of Apple Blossom cast at your bleeding feet. They wiped your tears away with the golden petals of yellow roses and bathed you in the pool of the Coral Rose.
They covered you with the Peach Rose and led you into the bed of my Rose of Persia before I came to you with my bouquet of the white Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley
II
My heart is a bouquet of red roses
Red roses in a vase of Michaelmas daisies
As flowers bloom in the oasis in the desert
Red roses will blossom in my heart
So, here I am my dearest dove
I have come to your nest to rest in your *****
I have come to you my sweetest love
Where the roses in my heart will blossom.
For my heart will no longer pine
Nor will my enchanted spirit whine
For as long as you are mine
You will forever be my Valentine.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
**** on my hands
Feet steeped in dirt
My back pains to stand
My raw **** begins to hurt
Excuse my vulgarity as it is not my intent
Excuse my anger as it tends to become violent
Excuse yourself for your ignorance and malice
Excuse my voice, if you want quiet crazy go ask Alice
Watch my face as I start to grin
It kinda ***** to watch you win
My aggression teaches lesson
My death is all that is left
Watch the water as it turns black
Black as my soul
Black as coal
My sin is your deliverance
My goal is your difference
Can't you see how blind I am?
Cant you feel how hurt I am?
Wash the blood of of my hand
Wish you luck I don't give a ****
Can you people guess my direction?
It has become hard to maintain ********
The voices blend into a shout
Hard for me to figure it out.
If you want sleep
Don't be a creep
For your soul will weep
For your eyes will start to bleed.
I can hope you decipher my message
If not well **** my guesses
Of your thoughts and intentions
All apologies of which I speak
Can't help when my eyes don't blink
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
A sigh signals some sort of disclosure.
– glancing over his eyeglass frames
at the slow downward tilt of her chest
her gingham blouse rises again
as she inhales energy for her words,
words intended to clarify or confuse,
he does not know.
His own exhale and a frowning brow
signal that he is listening-
to judge whether her statement
is real or fancy.
Her words a mercury for her mood
no gauge left as he guesses
seeking to understand her,
to crawl through her veins like a virus,
to know her every desire,
every expectation, even every fear.
He is adrift in his own flaws,
unable to grasp precisely her feelings, her expressions.
His distrust is great whether of himself or of her.
Salt honesty with caprice and tasty fare is spoiled.
Gripping the arm of his chair,
muscles straining to lurch forward,
he escapes toward the door
leaving her words
to fill the hollow behind him.
Tomorrow he may choose valor,
today the fear of authenticity scares him to his den.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
There is an algorithm out there,
somewhere on the web
it is calculating my every click
my likes, my comments
how many hours I spend at night
browsing poetry
or probably ****
There is an algorithm out there,
somewhere on the web
it collects my style, my taste
it knows my favorite color,
it has studied my face
the way no lover ever has,
down to the freckle.
There is an algorithm out there,
somewhere on the web
it knows things about me
my friends or family would never ask.
It knows how many times
I have searched the word 'suicide'
how many times I asked for nudes
and how many times I received.
It knows my greatest fears
but also my most coveted dreams.
It knows things about me
I may have forgotten about me.
There is an algorithm out there,
somewhere on the web
it has created an image of me
I would rather not see
nor believe in its legitimacy
yet every time I go to type
its guesses my next thought
with pinpoint accuracy.
There is an algorithm out there...
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
I remember the jelly bean jar
perched next to the owlish librarian
in my school when I was younger.
One lucky soul would win a prize
for pulling the right number of jelly beans
out of an air still filled with fancy.
I can’t remember who won the prize,
and I can’t remember what the prize was.
But I guess as selfish minds are wont to do,
I remember the act of guessing.
It was a childhood of guessing,
and I wonder if any of those guesses were truly wrong?
When the engine of innocence toils away,
any solution, however fanciful,
can’t be false in a world that finds falsity
in far more veritable places.
I digress back to that jelly bean jar,
packed full of sugar,
and to a young mind,
full of promise.
To a mind such as mine,
a mind akin to my classmates
who shared my sugary desire for that jar,
any guess was as good as the other,
as long as any guess was your own.
We clutched ordinary pencils
scribbled on ordinary paper
with our own extraordinary numbers.
In the basket went these figures most accurate.
Days during the week passed
with those store brand jelly beans
mashed against each other,
childhood memories turned ordinary pages
wrote with ordinary pencils
until that singular, self-sure number
mashed against pages turned against it.
However strong that memory of numerology
in a room full of words is etched in my mind; no trace
of the end of the jellybean contest remains in my ledger.
No trace of the disappointment of losing out
on such a treasure trove of tooth decay.
But I guess this is the way of the mind,
it tends to trace out the positives
while it remains filled with youthful levity,
no weight is imbued in innocent minds,
and so tragedy, loss, and disappointment
float away past untroubled eyes.
But time rolls on and much like the crushed growth
under an ever-rolling stone,
our lives start to fall harder on softened memories.
Our lives harden with our heads,
and those days of living out short-lived fantasies
fade with jelly bean guesses.
So as we mature and feign to seek the truth,
a small part of me keeps a singular page earmarked
for a time when the truth no longer weighs
down the air with half-true deceit, and a mind long
abandoned
will return to grasp fanciful ideas
out of an air that’s still light enough
to evade our youthful fingertips.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
JOY ... weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel ... painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face ... slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door gives and we are in a new room ... forever and ever violet petals, slabs, the Christ face, brass keys and new rooms.
are we near or far?... is there anything else?... who comes back?... and why does love ask nothing and give all? and why is love rare as a tailed comet shaking guesses out of men at telescopes ten feet long? why does the mystery sit with its chin on the lean forearm of women in gray eyes and women in hazel eyes?
are any of these less proud, less important, than a cross-examining lawyer? are any of these less perfect than the front page of a morning newspaper?
the answers are not computed and attested in the back of an arithmetic for the verifications of the lazy
there is no authority in the phone book for us to call and ask the why, the wherefore, and the howbeit it's ... a riddle ... by God.
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I'm like a genie, but I won't grant you three wishes.
I'm an estimation without the guesses.
See, maybe that's my problem
But I won't take the time to solve 'em.
I deny the facts when they're written in pen
I flick your forehead over and over again
Ill treat you like a dog because I know you won't run away.
And when you do I cry and cry and cry
Bye, bye , bye
I know it's all my fault
Bye, bye, bye
Steady cruise comes to a halt
Lullaby Lullaby
I'll only sing you in my head
Lullaby Lullaby
Or maybe I'll write you down instead.
Oxy of the morons, merely the worst one.
Pair o' foxes, paradoxes, scary boxes
I'm too afraid to open it.
What if it's bad? What if it's ****
I'll never know will I
Bye, bye, bye, precious Lullaby
Bye, bye, bye
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
Plead on naysayer
Like the pride of a mouth breather
Calloused like the fringe of a broken guard rail
You're sharp, and your halfwit isn't enough to keep a light lit
But you're clever and you're under my skin with your blood *****
Have you gotten close enough to check my pulse yet?
Tell me what it says, I'm sure it's morse code for something
Because It's been speaking to me in languages I've never heard of, but based on the hurt I've taken bets
Risky guesses better then what the wind lets
If I let go it'd take me back to limbo
Where the rats and the people scurry all the same, it'd take me somewhere, I don't know
I've let you pull me apart to climb inside to take a tour of my heart
To let you punch me so hard, something on the other side would come out as a show of art
Like a line of blow to the nose, the rows of the pews awe align
To make a sound so hurtful, not even your father would turn to give an eye
Embarrassed I let you tear me apart, just because I wanted to know what was inside
I can't say a word, but two, and all they are is good bye
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
ones shadow is ones best friend
constantly there till the end
it's the best friend one ever possesses
and of its owner it never second guesses
so be glad it stays so close
ones shadow ones best leaning post
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
He was asking for something,
I took out an earbud to hear what.
He was born ten years after me
But looked ten years older.
He told me I'd never been in jail,
Never been homeless.
He asked if I knew
How he knew.
I said, "Good guesses."
He told me I looked different from other people,
Said there was no fear in my eyes.
He was proud of knowing so much about me.
But there was more he did not know,
Such as what makes me different
And why there is no fear in my eyes.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 9:35 AM UTC
Run rotten, for things have gotten out of hand.
Turn coat ducking, torture got him singing and eating outta my hand.
Getting scraped by the beater like youse a percussion instrument;
maybe that’s why a group of people are called a band?
For we all play our part to either be an influence or to be influenced.
Yet we won’t know anything if you never venture into the forest and meet the temptress.
When one experiences all six senses, when in present tenses, which then puts the body through stresses.
That makes the mind flood with guesses that clouds up our lenses.
But that’s just what war is like for one is always in the trenches.
Whilst other’s sit on benches, but each choice brings rewards and consequences.
Which bears questions on what your quest is?
To run free or to be held back by white picket fences?
For being hard pressed brings out either killers or medics.
To choose to be real or synthetic.
To become abstract or symmetric.
However, things aren’t always so metric.
So be wary of being a critique for just like branches of mathematics in arithmetic,
We have many great qualities but when in a group we can become manipulated.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
Lo, the drunken ordinance of light through
stained glass, lest to rehash the peopled
white of infinity.
Reach...with what folding passion second
guesses the labor of its love...the warm
footfalls of the sun overlaying the intricacy
of a snowflake...as captions of bone
dissolving upon the motion picture.
Perpetually opening seasons enamored
directionless...cancellation and activation
which is The Spark upon dark...striations
of dreams upon the gyres of galaxies.
Proofs positive of palpable breath, given
and taken in gloried passage.
The cloistered ghost gifted the laughability
of its cloister.
A polish fit for heresy...listen to the
crystalline structure as it bats its eyelashes.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Framed so poetically, there it stays
Never steps out of its flimsy boundary line but
it takes in everything with him
Inside a a static sea frame, there
roam all the wild guesses you
took:
all blue
all trapped, as erratic and diminishing as it was named.
Was you were to throw that time when
you tried to take to the sea
all into it?
There is no need to make me open my eyes to see something as obvious as this for a even a blind man can see it so crystal clear
in his pitch black vision
I'm closing my eyes and hope it stops
but
***I remember waking up
somewhere in midnight term
drowning in salty seas
and making bitter coffee to
recede the former taste.
I found your diary on the sea
shore with all of the demerara
sugar sand
disconnecting wires in my mind
with overflowing water in the
bathtub
and getting electrocuted.
Alarms when off buzzing with
tick tocks
I found myself with
a pacemaker also
your dying digital clock you had
since forever, displaying
blurs of phobia***
Am I wrong to be trying
to breath underwater
Would it be right to despise
the blue sea that should soothes us
that turned grey for all our
fears we threw in without hesitate
I put all of my fears into this sea,
as a glitched version of your
deceiving eye hue,
demerara sugar on the edge of
your lips lingering in my coffee
chronomentrophobia oh thalassophobia,
yet I was to choose between icy cold ocean air and
falling into clocks' icicle-like hands.
This
is much of an error as it is
a tsunami washing us with a tide of heartache like
over sugared coffee with still bitter taste that melted into
my inner cheeks when I had ulcers
and
you wearing wristwatch while holding my hands.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
stepping stones
breaking bones
babies walking
old men talking
girls in pretty dresses
boys minds full of guesses
neighborhoods dark, silence
houses crowded, no senses
minds filled with clutter
hearts dying of butter
nonsense in the form of rhymes
a silly girl typing to pass this time.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 7:10 AM UTC
i never thought i'd become this but here i am not knowing, just doing. you don't say the things you used to say and i guess that is alright, i guess that is fine, i guess i'm running out of guesses now. my actions are full of consequences and those consequences are full of nothing important will you tell me that the sky is the limit, you're eyes are the limit with limitless depth. you said that one day everything would be okay. you ******* promised me that you would never stop calling me beautiful, but now you don't disagree when i say that i feel like a *** what do you think i do? i can't do anything but pretend like i never loved you. what can i do if it's not being deprived of sleep you being the thought that fills my brain god it hurts. your eyes matched my name and we were meant to be together but nothing goes as planned.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Was it a chance that made her pause
One moment at the opened door,
Pale where she stood so flushed before
As one a spirit overawes:--
Or might it rather be because
She felt the grave was at our feet,
And felt that we should no more meet
Upon its hither side no more?
Was it a chance that made her turn
Once toward the window passing by,
One moment with a shrinking eye
Wherein her spirit seemed to yearn:--
Or did her soul then first discern
How long and rough the pathway is
That leads us home from vanities,
And how it will be good to die?
There was a hill she had to pass;
And while I watched her up the hill
She stooped one moment hurrying still,
But left a rose upon the grass:
Was it mere idleness:--or was
Herself with her own self at strife
Till while she chose the better life
She felt this life has power to ****
Perhaps she did it carelessly,
Perhaps it was an idle thought;
Or else it was the grace unbought,
A pledge to all eternity:
I know not yet how this may be;
But I shall know when face to face
In Paradise we find a place
And love with love that endeth not.
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Say hello to a world of ***** shots
Coloured pills replace jelly tots
Her hair is a mess when she comes downstairs
No second guesses at what they did up there
The room pulsates to an electric band
Welcome to Teenage Wonderland
Get caught up in a fast-ticking clock
Play with imagination's building blocks
Darling, you've no need to fear
They're just trips so get over here
Drop that bomb and taste that tang
Welcome to Teenage Wonderland
Come to dance with Satan's girl
Faster and faster the room will twirl
A glint is wicked in her too-big eyes
Calm your nerves, drain the bottle dry
Someone else puts a joint in your hand
Welcome to Teenage Wonderland
Your senses have fully woken up
Just one more sip from the golden cup
Then they have you smash another line
This feeling has got you in a bright-thorned vine
But it's too heavy, you can't withstand...
Goodnight to Teenage Wonderland
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 3:46 AM UTC
In the eyes of the child
I read what it thinks of me
what it sees or guesses, how
I can be a lioness
can be everyone's friend
in word and deed
ready every day
jumping over any ravine
to the place where I want to be
finding of itself new questions
in the eyes of that child
with which an adventure begins
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 3:52 AM UTC
In algebra there is a method for factoring polynomials
called "guess and check."
You figure out the factors A and C
and mix and match them until you find something equal to the original problem.
It's a good analogy for this feeling, these moments, where a direct answer escapes me, or you.
So I am left with no other method,
besides "guess and check."
Sometimes the first few guesses find the answers, sometimes you have to try it twenty different ways.
I am exhausted by this constant guess,
of what A and C equal.
An onerous search for the variables to solve the equation of making you happy.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
Somewhere at the watercourse-
Silvery brume.
Shining through, like pulsing light-
Golden iris are in bloom.
Tongues of brazen flame-
Snap their reflection against the lukewarm mirror-
This is where order looms.
Felicity-
Serenity-
Vestigial depression.
Second guesses-
Underwhelming quests in wrong directions.
Oh elixir. Oh watercourse-
Oh inanimate eloquence.
How you tempt me with your evocative consonance.
You remind me of a woman-
Her husband and her son-
To me you are a drifter-
You remind me of the sun-
You remind me of a king-
of a man with sore eyes-
Mourning late son.
In the mornings sun rise.
Watercourse watercourse-
Lazy eyed shadow.
Left handed perfectionist-
Seething pale shallow.
Watercourse watercourse-
Your body feeds the worms.
Your souls seams have torn.
Watercourse watercourse.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
1.
Late-spring's dilemma
Is unabridged and sweet;
Beardtongues and fuchsias peer through grass blades:
Blotches on the bristly canvas.
Camellias? Still in April.
2.
Slices of rye shift on my plate;
Miramar’s war machines whip overhead;
My mouth opens into the Gulf of Kuwait;
The toast becomes
Moldering lips of Pendleton.
3.
There’s a single-story house on a hill
That to helicopters
Looks like an easel.
Great canyons open
To the south and west; the street clings to time—
A pianist’s metronome
Waltzes crosswise on an eardrum.
4.
The eucalyptus bends the deafening breeze.
Are you still dredging Coronado's cradle?
(The tide
Disintegrates the illimitable skyline.)
5.
An unlit Anza-Borrego beats about my ears,
Stars piggybacking the horizon.
The cacti shrivel:
Glitter in a hurricane.
6.
End-of-spring guesses
Prey upon a betrayer’s conscience.
Stilted, they flash ephemerally.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
I dedicate my heart and give you all my love
For you my sweet are like the flower called Dove
Your distinctive features give off such power
Soft and beautiful like a Lewisia Cozyledon flower
Colorful like a wild Daffodil, giving off a sweet smell
As bright as a Rose Swallow with a head built quite swell
Shaped like a pretty Lily, curved and slender
Lovely as a Buttercup, radiant and tender
Built like a Red Rose, with perfect formation
Giving off exhilarating fragrances that imbues such sensations
Your pedals are firm, and round and thick in all the right places
Silky and smooth, you earn stares from all types of faces
Unique as a Kadupul flower, but thankfully don’t perish at dawn
As rare as a Ghost Orchid, won’t be found in just any old lawn
Men and women a like, have wished to re-plant you in their home
But with a little help from God, in my garden bed I have you all alone
I cultivate and regenerate you, giving you nutrients to keep you well
Providing you space to breath and warmth wherever we dwell
My enriched soil is full of caring and understanding of your needs
Keeping you safe from harmful pests and ridding you of weeds
With you by my side, life is a refreshing spring breeze
Enthralled with your beauty, you knock me to my knees
I knew my heart was right, no second-guesses, I was not tricked
That you truly are a rare flower from the first day you were handpicked
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC