"prognosticate" poems
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy—
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
‘Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thy self to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.
1.7k
Setting his sights toward his future as each day goes by observing what's in front of him, as night fall the nostalgia of the twilight his reminiscing has become grim.
Desperately musing his heart ache elaborated thought running away, anxiety takes over heartbeat racing feeling rigid the poet mind aflutter knowing she doesn't play.
Lasting through the evening can't think straight confuse while pacing all night, his heart ache vanishes his cognitive behavior says it will be alright.
For her writting is this poets passion recollecting his once love his tears begins to form miniature lakes, attempting to penetrate her superbia her shielded heart won't break.
She's whom he gave his bleeding heart to is miserable and shrew, but the feelings aren't mutual only if she knew.
Needing her the most, the animosity flows through her veins, locating that perpetual love has gone in vain.
Purposing a toast, alcohol beverage she prognosticate his love, a constructive hoax.
Like pleasant day a cool breeze of the ocean wind, cold nor hot people going about hoping the day won't end. Struck with calamity a tsunami brings misery, not how, but when.
Chaotic, with frustration. Is it possible to lurer her back? Fishing for hours she ignores his bait, slapping it away. Even if you love someone set it free, it won't come back he was led astray.
Mistreated, highjacked of his kindness for weakness his fears are calm, no pain he simply removed it by wiping the tears with his palm.
Damage control dumping all they had in a black hole, a perplex situation a vexatious child the Hyde in her he hated her role.
A love crushed by her ferocious jealous and controlled demented mind, a poetic justice of her defined.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 4:14 AM UTC
Snow Sleep
the promise~warning of a fresh snow delivery
by milky white angels alters the soundscape
of the city; the early traffic is major muted; the
boisterous, ribald ribbing of teenage competition
is put away in the drawer, reserved for weekend
snow ball fights and Central Park mountain sledding
but what I come to tell you is of my beloved, who nearby,
advantaged by the silence deep sleeps in the ultra
quiet of the bedroom for I have tiptoed lightly away,
nary a squeak or a tweet to sting or wrest the cool
comfort of the concoction of dark+chocolate combo
of absolute silence, the political commentators must now wait their turn, while supping my endless Blue Mountain white mug
yes, even I, wide awake for hours, sense the ulterior
sensory deprivation, the only noise is the windage
of the air conditioning that refrigerates its humming
and the body’s humming response, a choral harmony
of shhhhh…
why matters this to you, I do not know, perhaps
a mutuality of recognition as your children exercise
their snow day privileges, letting you off the hook,
for there is always tomorrow when the dragging-
out-of-bed, the stomping of snow boots, and pleas
to help them find their hidden scarfs and gloves cannot
go ignored, or be silenced…today, this sound of snow~sleep,
a rarity for us city dwellers, who, the unfortunate few, will soon venture forth to meet obligations, completecontracts, open the shop,
write the reports and do the daily diurnal or place calls to counterparts overseas to jointly prognosticate the future of
the next twenty four, but with a snowy lethargy
I write, this, to you, to my children, to the world, but
mostly to my beloved, who, drugged by snow~sleep,
yet to stir, sleeps a soundless sleep of….
*wait-a-minute, 8:00am, and I hear a bellow of hello,
a lighthouse sound of warning, and kitchen noises,
the cicadas of circadian rhythms cannot be held back,
triumphantly awaken her, the habits of a lifetime
cannot be overcome…*
8:04am
nyc
2/13/24
Feb 13, 2024
Feb 13, 2024 at 8:15 AM UTC
Destiny for humanoids---
Shall we run by androids?
Or shall we be the androids?
Let's prognosticate,
Predict our fates----
Shall mankind claim the Universe?
Or is Anarchy to be the serve?
Teeming billions in a rat race,
What is destiny for our Earth place?
In our lifetime, we'll never know,
Unless Armageddon explodes,
Let's hope the young are star hopping,
Instead of retail therapy shopping,
Too young for the stars,
Too old for the seas afar,
Nothing left to explore,
Disaffection, please no more,
Shall we be the androids?
Destiny for the humanoids?????????
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
The Weather Channel, ubiquitous,
Who among us does not have this app,
On their phone, computer, mobile device
Ready for a quick scan..
Odd topic for an essay,
Strange, that your poetic silence
Should be broken this way,
Then again, you didn't inquire,
Or even notice it had gone missing.
Yet the channel/app of which I write,
Is mobile, and certainly, applies to each of us
But cannot be found on any device but in our hearts..
When we awaken,
The temperature is taken,
A glance upon your visage
Reveals rested or irritable,
Blue clouds or storm warnings,
Better dress appropriately...
But even this is not the forecast
Of which my heart and words speak,,
The whether I need, the thermometer reading,
The barometric pressure that needs knowing,
Measures whether you love me still,
Love me more, love me better,
Than the last poem/day we just wrote/recorded,
Yesterday...
The waters we will yet navigate,
The sky we shall observe,
Cloud shapes to design and designate,
A fortune to prognosticate,
Is the sum of the fortunes/forecasts we create daily.
Our weather is our good fortune,
And strangely the forecast is the same daily,
Whether fair or hurricane,
Whether gladdened or pained,
Our forecast, ours,
Our forecast, unique,
Our forecast, let us record it into reality,
When we awaken entangled,
Looking out the window and envision,
Predicting our life-scape.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
If we should happen to part, the eternal sun would cease to shine
The sound of a ripping heart, leaving me deaf, dumb and blind
The Heartache came so fast, yet is here to stay for many moons
Friends tell you it won't last, yet so many tear fueled monsoons
Dried eye stains from the past, memories windswept over dunes
Ashes in a wasteland so vast, recycled with relationship typhoons
Let and set yourself free
Do all that you can do
No reason to ever worry
You"ll always be with you
Please Leave your pride at the door
Where we"ll go
you won't be needing that anymore
Goodbye ego..
Stripped naked and bare to the core
Pretend to know
Prognosticate from human folklore
So high and low
Never meant to know what's in store
Life"s ebb and flow
Awaken from your sleep
Dust the tools off the shelf
So many promises to keep
How nice to meet yourself
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
Teach the children? Well...
There is very little of substance
to be gleaned from individuals.
A process, a recitation, a
custom is customary. Let
the young divine the marrow
from the bare bones of
their coloring books.
We, the protectors of
our future lot, laid
down the workings of
the cosmos in stark
bitonal outlines. The
black, the white, the
small details of the
bigger picture.
Color me a spectrum of
what it means to be
alive, children.
Prognosticate between the
lines a rhyme for the
ages, transcend the
myriad of gray crayons
and begin to understand
that each shade belongs
to us all.
Draw me into your pages
of unity and division.
Color us all, children, and
learn what it is to be
alive.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC
The note that read,
"It isn't my cup of tea
and it's too hard to shoot
when made too blind to see.
I couldn't make it.
It fills them with hate
and they never lend me ears
when I prognosticate.
They ripped my pockets
for the things I never had.
I was killed everyday
and now killed to death.
Thus death never killed me
but welcomed me abode"
It chiseled through my doggone heart
when I read your death note.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
Can’t sleep as usual, mind full of racing thoughts
Scattered and unusable, but I must connect dots
Dreams are delusional, paralyzed stomach knots
Life is quite amusable, eternal electric Alan Watts
Searching for meaning in this forever fleeting
Deceiving the future and constantly competing
Passed last stop for gas running late for meeting
Presently stuck in a moment and it’s so defeating
So what do you do?
Well… I change my tone to match the question and try and avoid the slightest detection of my macro case of dereliction by trying to fit into this new unnatural selection. How about you?
Oh me…. I’m an administrative associate’s assistant advisor to the senor executive director of advanced growth and analytics but….
In my free time I also dabble as a life coach consultant and a freelance enthusiast, who doubles as a self loathing soothsayer who’s also exultant towards psychic’s and any genie’s wish and I pose as a ****** analyst just to credibly prognosticate the general gist of horror scopes…I know it all sounds pretty… prophetic, but I always act humble and keep it 100 % copacetic
So if you’re making a list, wondering where all your time went, or just one of my many haters
Go ahead and get ****** later, because I’m also the president of the meetup group for ……Procrastinators.
Apr 22, 2024
Apr 22, 2024 at 3:55 AM UTC