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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.
I surrender to all…
I surrender to all of your subterfuge, all of your deceit, all of your mendacity, all that has become bleak.
You’ve caused me to question humanity, and my soul, oh my soul had a quandary filled with doubt.
The stars slowly begin to fade in luminescence, the darkness begins to speak.
She whispers to me softly of my imminent demise.
She fills me with a newfound sorrow that disheartens my very soul.
The liminal creature that lies at the end of this realm, He lies in the womb of nothingness, he floats above the ground.
He resides in an orb of lightness, fetal position.
-Awaiting the beckoning of a new dawn-
Glorious rays of the sun immerse this sphere, the placenta of iridescence in a positivity surge.
I’m separated from my doppelganger.
I’m searching in the darkness, awaiting the departure of an ebony backdrop lingering everywhere I turn.
-Never-
I hear voices inside of my head screaming of their revulsion and contempt for my being, for my existence.
They’re uttering to me of my folly, reminding me of my shortcomings and iniquities.
I fall to my knees.
I ponder my existence trying to determine where I went wrong.
No, pianos are playing amongst the obscurity of this apparition of the real world.
Minor chords prognosticate the deluge of sadness and doom that awaits me at the core of this abysmal place.
I’m searching for Him; I’m searching for the love of my life, the one that I shall metamorphose into…
-He is I.-
Seeing all of this pain surround me, it becomes hard to continue on my voyage for truth, for chaste efflorescence.
“I long to reach the zenith of my potential, to expand in caliber”
“I long to expand in breadth, width and height into an even more colossal creature.”
“I shall tower above the Earth, touching the sky.”
Emerging from my cocoon, a goliath wing shall glide off into the sunset in search of a brighter tomorrow.
When will I find myself?
A swirling column of light emerges from the ground beneath me, and lush foliage gently embraces my waning vitality.
It rejuvenates me with the breath of life.
-I’ve been given a second chance at life-
I glimmer with an iridescent light emanating from my heart and soul; and I illuminate the darkness.
The chaos surrounding me is warded off and I can hear the cries of The Malevolent signifying His pain.
He has succeeded for but a moment at encumbering my soul but now, now?
I see a new entity over the horizon.
Supplication has led to efflorescence in my spirit.
I’m nearing the edge of the world, or this world, the world I once knew and that once was in order to embrace a higher plane of existence.
I shall fuse with my other half.
I shall bloom like the most delicate and dainty orchid budding in the vernal atmosphere.
This is what you’ve done to me…
You’ve made a fighter out of a pacifist.
“I’ve evolved due to your vitriolic ways and I sincerely express my gratitude.”
-He is waiting-
-He is waiting-

By, Iridescently Effloresent
Highly symbolic free verse that is somewhat similar to a short story in poetic format. It pertains to my struggles in life but it is expressed through philosophy and metaphors. Hope you enjoy and please if you have any constructive feedback, do not hesitate to comment!
Sebastian Perez Apr 2012
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.
Julie Grenness Mar 2016
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?????????
Feedback welcome.
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
Drifton A Way Dec 2014
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
We all are under the influence.... But which ones are winning?
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
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.
Derek Yohn Nov 2013
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.
Vardaan Singhal Oct 2014
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.
SYNOPSIS
This poem is nothing but the pain of a failure... Even if the protagonist knows the prophecy... his abilities and consequences of the step he is made to take.... He is pushed into that task for assured failure
Drifton A Way Apr 22
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.
Whenever works for you, just let me know so we can reschedule.
Ably cane resign eternal damnation (mine)
courtesy devil specially engraved telegram
prestidigitation found me vanishing shazam,
without a trace I disappeared in thin air voila
Earthly travails atop horns of dilemma ram
into me buttucks pitching yours truly ma'am

hoisted by my own petard sheepishly wool
ewe (red dully) bull heave human bug eyed
recalcitrant specimen (me) nonetheless lamb
basted skewered (think shish kabob) log jam
succinctly described helplessness to preserve
ultimately repurposed into green eggs and ham
harmless recluse no more valuable than flotsam.

Grant simple wish to withdraw into hermitage
coronavirus (COVID-19) just desserts we wage
us **** sapiens on trial across web world stage
severely misappropriating Earthly resources rage
understandable Gaia she pointedly reminds adage
inescapable comeuppance whereby our civilization

written off as atrocious, hellacious, malicious, page
poisonous primates essentially, dismally, yes clearly
bollixed, failed, leveraged, & tortured planet I gauge
hell in a handbasket ironic tragicomic fate wise sage
of yesteryear did prognosticate now we scurry hither
and yon, to and fro Smashing Pumpkins immortalize

metaphor likened each one of us as rat locked in cage
bajillion eons ago once upon a time our noble savage
ancestors levels playing field now new bacteriophage
relentlessly pits twenty first century civilization doles
microscopic organism (battling unseen enemy) voyage
around sun fraught tooth and nail powder milk biscuits

a Prairie Home Companion ruse buzzfeeding courage
for shy people (yours truly) communicating message,
albeit urgent to revamp paradigm to live social - nsync
with eco friendly coda allowing, enabling, & providing
liberty and justice for all living (colorful) things hostage
at mercy of self proclaimed superior beasts above average
with intelligence, yet rendering oblate spheroid garbage.

No major inconvenience incapacitates rather humdrum
bard (rarely bored), I wanna pitch headlong into scrum
no need to scream and shout, cuz I speak softly to mum
(Mother Earth) reassuring, she inevitably bests hoodlum
standing arrogant, boastful, deceitful comfortably numb
oblivious when day of reckoning delivers offal maelstrom.

— The End —