"predictably" poems
Give him a skinhead, insignia, boots
Less scruples, a swagger-stick, crowds, money.
No black shirts visible. Just business suits,
and pride is restored: tragic but funny.
Proud like a skyscraper, godless as sin
Babylonian promises, towering lies
Reality shows when plutocrats win,
Their rhetoric raining from empty skies.
She-wolves, elected by uninformed sheep
behave predictably, eyeing the flock
Their wool (and the lamb-chops) are hers to keep
Grazing voter—this should come as no shock.
It’s a bitter pill (more like pilloried)
So shall we now be ******* or Hillary-ed?
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
If you watch a candles flame She
burns calmly and with such strength
Her integrity is never in question
She can soothe your soul as she disappears into the atmosphere
And Dancing her majestic tune she can capture you
Predictably unpredictable she lights the darkness in her unique way as she sways
Tranquil she remains, the knower of her own destiny she burns for our peace
If you watch a candles flame She
burns calmly and with such strength
Her integrity is never in question
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
Average-joe protagonist wipes beer glasses
at the helm of his sports bar, blissfully ignorant
of the imminent laughable tragedy. Clouds circle,
and there's that obligatory radio broadcast,
the one that warns of inclement weather-
rainy, with a chance of Selachimorpha.
You hum the Jaws theme, tracing pickup lines
on the skin of my back, while sharks pour from the sky,
the improbable tornado dropping great whites
on the California shoreline. One arm curled
around my waist, you tickle erratically
until I squirm away, only to creep back again,
and put my head in the mouth of the sand tiger,
wandering too close to the edge of the water, foolish,
but this is a b-movie, we swam out too far
knowing how it would end. The extras
scream and scatter, arms flailing,
going through the motions of surprise,
stumbling in their scripted attempts
to flee the inevitable. Predictably,
they fall. We all fall, and the girl trapped
in the hammerhead's belly
has this peaceful expression,
as if she can't quite remember why
she ran away in the first place.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
It is another Sunday in the winter.
I am properly tucked in my quilt.
I browse through the top headlines of the hour.
It says the temperature outside is two-degree centigrade and I quit
all ideas of leaving my quilt.
Sundays in winter were my favourite days
and letting me play on Sundays my cookies
for reading properly for six days.
Those Sundays, which seem to be distant memories,
are some of my best memories.
Saturdays were the days of preparation.
Arranging bats, ***** and bicycles, at least, four,
deciding time and venue for the action,
making strategies to sail us ashore-
were some important tasks to be completed before.
I used to sleep a bit early after setting
up a thousand alarms, in case I missed a few,
to ensure I woke up in the morning.
and then I would make a few
calls to wake up the crew.
Though while gearing up,
I would move as little as possible
my Mom would always wake up
and then I had to wear all the clothes ‘cause cold air made you susceptible
to sick and sick made you feeble.
Before I could leave home, I had
to close the door as slowly as possible
because I didn't want to wake up Dad
for he was predictably unpredictable
and it was too risky a gamble.
We dared not look into uncles 'n aunties'
eyes while asking our friends to come to play
for their looks could terrorize
anyone. We'd then go to the decided play-
ground on the shared bicycles without delay.
Quarrels to bat at the top,
the endless running around to save a few runs,
‘barking’ on fellow players lest catches they drop,
heated discussions on run-outs-
these memories still give me goose bumps.
The celebrations after winning the matches and
blaming each other for losing were
the customs of the day and
mom made ‘chicken’ and a good after-
noon nap - a perfect finish for a day to remember.
A lifetime has gone by
since we last played together
and bade each other goodbye
but those memories still lurking somewhere
inside our brains adhere us together.
I usually do not write about myself or my memories, which makes it special. Those days are some of my best memories. And in a cricket crazy country like ours, many definitely have similar memories.
© Devashish Kumar
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
Direction can bamboozle me
An autist mind thinks different
As if in a maze, so divergent
Can his thoughts be
Getting lost so often
Every new place seems alien
Looking to trap you
Till you lose yourself
From asking for directions
To seeing shakes of heads
Losing hope due to inaction
Not getting any leads
Especially when it's south Mumbai
I hop on to a bus
As it goes on and on, I cuss
Wishing I were back in Chennai
Predictably I get down at the wrong stop
Greeted by a run-down lane
I was early, now late
My panic rises to the top
As taxi-wallahs say no
Even as I give various landmarks
I wonder where shall I go
I am clearly in the dark
I see a gentleman in a car
Probably my last hope
I plead for help
Thus apparently lowering my bar
The gentleman offers a drop
Which I gladly accept
A big relief in this heat
As the ride comes to a stop
He says we will meet later
Since he stays in my locality
In him I saw a lot of humanity
As my day suddenly got better
I had got the inspiration
For writing my next poem
In such an interesting fashion
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 4:50 AM UTC
Hands that look sunburned
at first blush
count the silent ticks of a cognitive clock
grasping and releasing in stilted syncopation:
one-two-three-five (must avoid the four)
Did I remember to lock the front door? Out
of bed—again—freezing feet tumble
down
into slippers
awaiting the circular inevitability. Again, again.
Pad, pad, pad:
light shuffling accompanies the one-two-three-five
pounding in the head; that mind ricocheted with worry—
worry about the front door, the evil intentions of four,
insidious germs and subsequent scrubbing-scrubbing-scrubbing
in bleach and Comet. Pad,
pad, pad to the front door.
It’s one hundred and thirty four steps, so take a baby-shuffle:
still avoiding the four.
Cold, unyielding brass **** Locked.
Deadbolt? Check. Creeping black.
Chain lock? Check. Crawling germs. Oh, god.
Pad, pad, pad to the kitchen.
Clorox-fume greetings in the sparkling sink
from twenty-three minutes before. Never twenty-four.
Clorox on the cracked fingers, blistering
out that imperceptible blackness I know it’s there
blackness choking, bleeding in the bleach.
Scrub brushes, pumice, and fingernail files
wear down the nubs where the blackness may hide.
“Shh” the steaming water soothes
as it stings, scalds. “Shh.” Burn it all out;
conclusion so comforting. So predictably round.
This is the last time I can do this tonight. Pad, pad, pad
back to the bedroom. Downey quilt beckons in lover tones,
pleading pillows nudge against that head, that infernal head
still panicking amongst the softness:
Did I remember to lock the front door?
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
Here now
the pain of love’s bitter reality… surrounds me
But how
can they be better if love always leaves…
every time? (Lost in a fevered dream)
Every time.
But if we lie now, will we make it?
If it hurts, surely I can take it…
Is this really what we both need?
Is someone better who you’re dying to see
or is someone better who you’re trying to be?
Love, now
You’ve poisoned everything in my reprieve…
with insecurities
And now
You’ve returned with doubts, undoubtedly…
You’d love me (was it an opportunity?)
To hate me.
Is there someone better that you’re dying to meet
or are you waiting for someone better than me?
Will I be a better someone for setting you free
or am I someone better that I can’t see?
Someone better… (for the love that you need)
Someone better… (for the love that I seek)
Time and time again, you push me to the brink
To abandon ship and swim before we sink
But these thoughts don’t fade away when I sleep
Isn’t someone better who you’re supposed to be?
Because you were the one fall in love with me
The future is no surprise if you can predictably
say ‘someone better’ is someone I’m gonna meet?
Cause I’m sure as hell that someone better isn’t someone I need
If someone better is who you’re supposed to be.
Is someone better God has yet to create?
Because someone better always seems to escape
“Someone better” - an excuse to abandon and break
When you won’t accept your love’s been a mistake.
© 2015 Neal Emanuelson
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
Tomorrow will be different I predictably once again mutter
Wake up feeling brand new and rid my life of all the clutter
Familiar friend snooze shows up again and closes the shutter
Each vibrant night so filled with life then awaken in the gutter
Lunchtime sleeps in again just woke to a say good afternoon
Sneaky evening sweeps in again, happy hour came too soon
Priorities drank to a crooked ***** now found a mate to spoon
Tomorrow's excuses are tonight's mistakes, I blame the full moon
What better day then tomorrow I say, to start to stop to procrastinate
Appropriately bleak is the morning when the sleep I seek is tasty bait
A vicious deprived morning guy curses the night guy"s life with hate
He replies to his morning eyes, sleep when we"re dead, but it's too late
A veil blankets the city with tranquility as the hours seep rapidly into the deep night
Each passing minute jealous of the last for being too fast and now it's all about spite
If sleep was just wrong, then you could write a song, about finally wanting to be right
Reminded again, right on time as I'm finally tired at the first sight of the morning light
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
The fire in her eyes tonight
calls forth the thought that they invite,
though I recall, not long ago
my absence seemed more apropos.
The smile that lingers on her lips
says more than many verbal slips -
the times it pierced me, sad and grim
lie in the past, though far from dim.
She flayed me once... nay, more than twice,
she flayed me both with flame and ice,
and once again, predictably,
she primes me for catastrophe.
The curious naively watch
her try to carve a deeper notch,
for even they don’t claim to know
the depths to which she’d really go.
Upon my face a smile appears
which hides my thoughts, obscures my sneers,
for now I too have learned the rules
from her - ah, yes, the best of schools.
Because I’m acting somewhat cool,
thus pouring on her fire, fuel,
she burns and yearns and wants me more
than when I was her cuspidor.
Since, unbeknownst I’m not the same,
she plans again her guileful game.
But when her teardrops seep and swell,
will she be proud she taught me well?
The others leave, I stay behind
(they all know what she has in mind)
and take her in my arms once more
then slip her through her bedroom door.
She whispers secrets in my ear,
as I once did (she didn’t hear);
I listen with a mirthless smile
while thinking of a desert isle.
The night is passed, her trusting grows;
I leave before the morning glows.
Aroused, she’ll seek a waking thrill
but find instead a dollar bill.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Feel free to self-govern;
rebellions have shown consistency of
bringing more rebellions
but does this actually bring change?
Boston lead to Bastille
****** Sunday to Bolshevik
Each a milestone for this
sophisticated species.
Accomplished aliases of these turning points
were the pioneers of a never ending cycle:
discontent, revolution, reconstruction, new order.
To control brings demise
To revolt changes tides
and as long as the moon circumnavigates the sky,
the tides will predictably relapse.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 3:34 AM UTC
Some people give the gift
of peace and tranquility
to every life they touch.
They are always who they really are.
They are blessedly reliable,
dependably good,
predictably pleasant,
loved and treasured
by all who know them.
You are one of those people.
The best of them
You are a gift
of peace and tranquility
in my life.
In every life you touch
Happy Birthday, my love
And have many more
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
Motown mojo hops down
Through speakers,
While neon lights
Flash smiles.
A cool, green liquid sits,
Untouched in a lean glass.
Mellow lights give
The place a quiet class.
Amid the pulse of an
After-midnight entourage,
The clamor of
Celebratory laughs.
What’s going on?
Two birds fly by
On the way down South,
Where dancing tunes
Can be heard,
If you listen just right.
Down there, it’s a maze.
I’d rather stay up here,
And park myself
In a trouble-free simplicity,
Letting my mind wander…
Off the beat.
A shift.
Gazing out the window,
And past a yawn,
The fuel of the night
Is far from gone,
Because I can dig
Marvin anywhere.
My attention predictably
Short-lived, I become engrossed
By a bead of dark whiskey,
Which lies upon a neighboring seat
(An elegantly tall bar stool,
Probably made from a cherry tree).
And it’s there I am reminded,
It’s always been the night I seek.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:51 AM UTC
How numb are we to our existence
That the everyday melts
Into a melodious wave
Crashing and swelling so,
So predictably.
The bricks blur and
The sun sets before
We can remember it rising.
And we look to leave
Strive to escape the banality
That is the compass of our life.
The comfort of discomfort
Spawns an egg in the crater of our brain.
Nature alters the hue of another world
We see through a biased lens
The peacefully rolling hills
The staunch mountains
The tempting lust of azure water.
But we all see the same moon.
A different angle and a slight of hand
But it’s still the same moon.
Why isn’t it beautiful here?
Jun 8, 2011
Jun 8, 2011 at 4:31 PM UTC
For Selena & Justin
Sometimes...
When the heart
Is broken
And the spirit
Is dying
And love
Is fading
Overwhelming
Sometimes...
When the eyes
Are so blind
And the sun sets
On Paradise Lost
And Gilligan's Island
And the captain's
Forgotten
Sometimes...
When the fragrance
Is a touch foul
And small dog
Walks away
With a big growl
Perfumed air
With wide smile
Sometimes...
When Silence
Is Golden
And harsh words
Are forgotten
Never to be
Spoken again
Reawakened
Sometimes...
When gourmet tastes
Greasy spoonfuls
Mouth waters
Sinfully
Delightedly
Unexpectedly
Predictably
Sometimes...
When hands touch
Warmth ignites
Sparks fly
Fireworks
Starry night
Vincent's soul
Lost somewhat
Sometimes...
Boy and girl
Love and hate
Song and dance
Fire and water
Coals simmering
On Summer Camp's fire
Waiting...reigniting
Written by Richard Wlodarski
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
I have come to a conclusion.
We are in an endless cycle.
We wake up and think about food.
We eat sugary cereals for breakfast
so we go to school or work thinking about food.
Afterschool, we watch food and beauty advertisements
that make us feel bad about ourselves,
so what do we do?
Shop for food and clothes to make us
"feel better" and to "fill the void."
After shopping, we get tired and watch television
where we, yet again, shovel even MORE food
into our lifeless pieholes.
We also don't want to cook anything,
so our meals consist of Campbell's soups, frozen pizzas and leftovers of whatever casserole is in the house.
Even after eating dinner, we are tempted to eat more,
so we have DESSERT!
Because of our constantly on-the-go lifestyle, half the time we are not even conscious of what we're eating.
Ironically, yet predictably, we go to sleep thinking about what we will have for breakfast the next day.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
We live in a world of noise,
of parallel and asymmetric movement,
where nonchalance has become the norm.
Sweet, melodious and pleasing
is our phony makeup.
We are animals that reject our animalness.
We dread nuclear, secular, red lights, cockroaches, love,
threats and non-threats alike.
Fear has taken us on its morning stroll,
and predictably we bark.
(The sun is almost up)
We are turned on and turned off
by oil-, wind- and hydro-powered switches
that respond to clapping.
There are beige, mauve and burgundy
curtains to choose from,
and supersized french-fries, pots, and cars.
We have lost ourselves in a mess of options,
and strive incessantly to complicate.
We fly in formation
and flow through carefully placed
and beautifully colored rocks made from Styrofoam,
down an improbable slope
of over-romanticized hypotheses.
We are ******** ego-centric and nepotistic,
and asexually multiply.
Thought and all other wasted rationality
keeps the axes of our unsustainable and fanatical wheels
from breaking loose (into free space and true autonomy).
We create meaning where there is no meaning,
and scientifically and thoroughly flout
god and the truth,
whilst we absorb, photosynthesize, bear fruits and grow leaves
(we are still, essentially, vegetable).
With every step we go deeper, and faster and better,
and farther from our selves.
Hence, we barely feel.
We are deaf and blind and mute
and approximately frozen;
and dance, swirl, sing and scream
in our vague, whimsical life,
till we fall.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
Desire expressed
manifests in moments
Genesis to geneticist
alpha to omega, Eden Armageddon
and a particular flat stone
I'm flinging at that pile of H2O
It skips, predictably, causing surface ripples
under a line of predefined arcs
each described by gravity and water molecules
neatly arranged in surface tension that
reflects this day ... blue as the clear sky
and a peaceful wavelength
we know as
harmony
I'm wondering who desired such perfection...
Enabled energy, proclaimed pebbles
Caused a lake to feel at home right here
Read Darwin some respond
you're only here because
a primal pond appeared
somehow someway backwhen
and that famous fertile germ
opted for a brave new world
with homo-sapiens
conveniently mapped to its single cell
Dadadadaaa! Dumdeedee dumb!
Dvorak wonders too
Backwards, on slow-motion rewind
lofty intellects scratch and munch in flaky wonderland
ever plotting the self-indulgent, Lemming way 'ahead'
Independence day drags drearily on
Take fifty! ... A more human-friendly God
created in our image ... lest we forget the beast
I, me, first-person-one, Oh you're lookin' good!
Lets put that that triple 6 trinity to work
Replete, till death us do part, we do things My Way
ala Frank (and certain gorillas with cigars)
Thus is the compliment returned
Man attains an ever lower High place
Pass my slice of cake please
Myopic, entropic moments
loop their mobius strips
ever further down the food chain
Highways congeal and earth chokes
desperation
Small wonder Wisdom opposes pride
Shows His face to humble folk
Invites shepherds to witness
Jupiter in Virgo's womb
Rouses them with a shofar blast
come Kingdom come.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
Have you ever left a kettle on the stove?
Eventually the water inside will boil.
The steam rises
Triggering a whistle
Subtle at first,
Just to signal your attention.
But sometimes we don’t listen.
The whistle is an alert from the kettle.
It’s only way to communicate.
To say “I’m ready."
“I’ve finished what you started.”
“I’ve made exactly what you wanted.”
Now where are you?
You left me here,
On a black top stove,
Unattended with hot blue flames,
And the heat rising to place I can't take for much longer.
The longer you keep me here
The more I become solidified in my fears.
I will be abandoned.
I am unworthy of your attention.
The message is internalized
Until it becomes the only tape
I hear and play.
I search for the button,
but can't find ERASE.
Some days I feel like a kettle
Left on the stove.
At first I whisper a whistle,
Then wait a little.
When no one comes around,
I whistle just a little louder.
The volume continues to increase,
Until I’m taken off the heat.
All this time I was ready,
The way I was suppose to be
The first time you insisted I make tea.
Or coffee..
Or whatever you need…
I suddenly become handy,
In times you need me.
I am gentle until I reach
A point where I scream.
Then you call me crazy,
Say i’m making a scene.
Overreacting.
Turning a spill into a sea.
What kills me the most is your inconsistency.
The lack of predictably for your return.
Disregarding my time and my feelings.
How much water can a kettle hold, you think?
Your distorted idea
To the amount much patience I carry.
Measure it please:
A bounty?
A hole miles deep??
An infinite washing machine???
Capable of endless cycling????
You only run my energy.
If you didn’t know this already,
The water inside the kettle evaporates eventually.
Steams itself dry
Until nothing is remains
But an empty kettle,
A bottom burned ***
And a stove left on.
I only have a few ounces left.
I am about to drain out,
I have nothing left to replace myself.
After this happens,
There are no second chances.
You've had all you're tries,
and you've taken you're time.
It will only be a matter of time
Until the last thing you hear, is a faint cry.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
You pull so predictably,
at my armored heartstrings,
shattering their strength,
melting them slowly,
one touch, is all it takes,
and I am yours.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
I know what it is to be deceived.
I know what it is to say blindly and devotedly that which ought to be said.
I know what it is to deal with those who open their mouths and say all that is dishonest, disingenuous. Predictably so, leaving you wondering exactly why any of us bother with any of it at all. Leaving you wonder whether our persona is what are we are told to be, rather than who we are.
Surrounding me, enveloping me, suffocating me are the actors, trampling on this world they use, unashamedly, as their stage.
How lifeless they are. How robotically, disingenuous they are. Yet, how enthusiastic they are in the delivery of their well-learnt script! Those words that come pouring out, stolen from a script they've been given, those words light as air, float above us all, without weight. Meaningless
Yet, with such energy and enthusiasm they deliver these words.
They are either uncaring or unaware that they trample all that matters in the process. On all that makes life not a repetitious slog of playing a game. No. They do not understand the destructive activity they are partaking in with such fervor.
As, the ritual ends, and the curtains close, how hungrily they grovel for appraisal, every last drop of it. Lifeless, without a soul they are, yet artful in the game of deception, they have learnt to be. Able to appear filled with energy and glee, leaving it unbeknownst to anyone that when looked inside of mechanisms and cold metal is all that will be discovered.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
days of wanting
days of having
days of losing
days of wanting again
days of having but not the same
days of losing what never was
days of wanting what cannot be had
days of having what will always be lost
days of losing whatever remains
waiting praying begging
for the days
to come a little less
predictably
suddenly—
out of nowhere
days without want for anything i am not already
days unconcerned with having anything i am not already
days of laughter and dancing and friendship without end
and i
for all my foresight
never saw any of it coming
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 9:05 PM UTC
The soul without a home feels so lonely
She wanders around mazes that do not end
And people who never bend
Frozen in time and space
In an inevitable predictability
Again and again
The same phrases and words,
Habits and hopes,
Wishes and whims,
And the self left repressed
...predictably unexpressed
Same old, same old
Both young and then old
Old and reborn…
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
cannonball bodies
in stagnant ponds
tossed-out towels
under browning legs
fluttered words
and humid spit-kisses
mean that for now
our stray-mutt mouths are fed
discarded burnt butts
and whisper-splash bottles
angry coffee caked on tires
from nights of broken speedometers
and a.m. dinners
frustrated waitresses
and chuckling short-order chefs
shadow the backs of polaroids
august breaks in,
with cars on lawns and
weeks with relatives.
the sun sets early
and the moon predictably dims.
our blood hardens,
and we all stop simply flowing.
june is born
and our arteries melt again
watch hands are ripped off
pagers recycled
clouds make critters
and our coughs make clouds
lazy insects and
sweat sit on eyebrows above wayfarers,
reflecting summer’s praying,
under black glass, youth decaying
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:18 PM UTC
My tongue is on fire
And stuck am I, in a mire
Dangling like a carrot
And waiting to be devoured
Is some rather delicious food
Unfortunately, I am not in the mood
Because, every time I take a bite
My ******* tongue puts up a humungous fight
Locking me up in a torture chamber
And thus filling me with loads of anger
How dare you do this to me, O darned tongue?
Do you think I am a piece of dung?
My tongue is on fire
And it does not care
How hungry I am
Serious, it gives not a ****
Set before me, is a mouthwatering meal
However, becoming am I, rather dull
As I struggle and struggle
My tongue pulling me into deep trouble
Slowly, do I begin to think
That, desperately do I need a drink
Thus, do I consume an entire bottle of water
However, just as I begin to feel better
That infernal tongue throws tantrum after tantrum
Thus spelling my doom
Predictably, coming to my rescue is a sweet
Dear Diabetes, soon we may meet!
My tongue is on fire
However, beginning am I, to fight
Because, I give up not, so easily
And I DO take the doctor's advice seriously
However, my tongue ends up having the last laugh
Since all those medicines are apparently not enough
To prevent me from being forced
To make a few sacrifices
When it cometh to food
Which again spoils my mood
Moreover, just when the situation seems to be getting back to normal
Dinner turns out to be quite the ordeal
Not for the first time
And definitely not the last
I even wonder if I should fast!!
My tongue is on fire
However, as mentioned before
Never do I give up easily
Dear tongue, for now you may smile nastily
However, soon will the tables be turned
And then YOU are gonna be doomed
Enjoy your time while it lasts
And NO, I will NOT fast
No matter how many tricks you may have up your sleeve
Victory you are not gonna achieve
Never again!!
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 12:30 PM UTC