"prophesies" poems
Prophesies of impending fall
creep stealthily over the Great Divide.
Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze
like leagues of fibrous wind chimes
serenading the mountain slopes
with aires of shimmering gold.
A few distant bugle calls echo
across the Big Thompson valley
as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.
Sudden early gusts of frigid wind
bring waves of sleet and snow -
in tune with the turning polar axis.
The greater chill is soon to come.
The animals know it as do we.
Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.
Elk and deer drift down from the heights
To show their young the ways
of the plains and river valleys.
We pull our sweaters on
and toss another log on the flames
and greet the harbingers of approaching fall
creeping stealthily over the Great Divide.
September, 2018
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
The eye can hardly pick them out
From the cold shade they shelter in,
Till wind distresses tail and main;
Then one crops grass, and moves about
- The other seeming to look on -
And stands anonymous again
Yet fifteen years ago, perhaps
Two dozen distances surficed
To fable them : faint afternoons
Of Cups and Stakes and Handicaps,
Whereby their names were artificed
To inlay faded, classic Junes -
Silks at the start : against the sky
Numbers and parasols : outside,
Squadrons of empty cars, and heat,
And littered grass : then the long cry
Hanging unhushed till it subside
To stop-press columns on the street.
Do memories plague their ears like flies?
They shake their heads. Dusk brims the shadows.
Summer by summer all stole away,
The starting-gates, the crowd and cries -
All but the unmolesting meadows.
Almanacked, their names live; they
Have slipped their names, and stand at ease,
Or gallop for what must be joy,
And not a fieldglass sees them home,
Or curious stop-watch prophesies :
Only the grooms, and the grooms boy,
With bridles in the evening come.
4k
In to the mystery of the night, i wander
the tangled tarantula garden
canopied with prophesies of light,
Lit windows are making
overtures to desires
night unleashes at these hours,
hear the buzz in the air
its time to make love,
darkness forgets hurt and embraces light.
i walk alone,
but an enchanting witch wait
for me somewhere in a garden bench,
to take me by my hand to her secret haunt
filled with thick smoke of ****
where she will remove the drapes
to let me see the truth.
On her quill and cactus bed,
she would make me understand,
how far is pleasure from pain
why darkness stalks light,
a jilted lover, walking a few steps behind,
I've heard her, once whisper
to wind in her husky voice
"A life written off by those
who measure out life with coffee spoons,
as spent in vein; this life of mine,
could have its secret treasures,
no charlatan could ever guess about
a serpent's diamonds
very few get to see,
its dangerous to pry, i forgive their ignorance"
Words induced by her dark power
has layers of meaning
but to many it was just meaningless jabbering,
just magic mushroom blabber
She nibbled and nicked my earlobes,
in between intoxicating purrs,
told me the meaning of caterwauls,
**"Its not pain, its not pain,
once you get in to the stream
you only want to drain,
in to the vast blue ocean"**
I recognize now, it's Walpurgis night,
as i walk in search of my witch,
i see dancers around bonfire,
revelers totally out of their minds,
carouse at the heart of the night.
And i see them all, witches in marine blue dresses,
enchantresses in blackly black,
coquettish red or groovy green,
I wait for her to appear,
the only one in resplendent white.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
Look at all the parrots--
Parroting the words
Of all the other parrots--
Of all the other birds--
Parroting profusely
All the same refrains--
Parroting the constant patter
In their parrot brains--
Parroting the preaching
From the pulpit to the pews--
Parroting their parents'
And their parents' parents' views--
Parroting their leaders
And their pompous platitudes--
Parroting their peers'
Pretentious attitudes--
Parroting the patriarchs'
Proselytizing that'll
Put your teeth on edge
With their pathetic prattle--
Parroting the poppycock
Of trite pontifications--
Parroting pernicious
And sly manipulations--
Parroting the pretty birds
Whose pageantry and glory
Appeal to their prurient tastes
In each pathetic story--
Parroting the songsters
With parasitic pleasure
And counting out the rhythm
Of every pitiful measure--
Parroting the powerful
Whose ploys are so profuse,
Leaving the powerless
Pummeled with abuse--
Parroting with passion
Presumptuous prophesies
With putative contrition,
"Humbly" on their knees--
Parroting themselves--
Together all in sync--
How they love to parrot
So they don't have to think!
- by Bob B
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
You were born better than me for now
More prepared, your skin smoother, even,
Your black boots that look like
They’ve been licked by junkies
Your oil-eyes are able to divide the images
T.V. orange and a tangerine
One is not the other
When I will seep inside the hole in you head
I’ll pick and pull to get you
Really get you
Before your full mouth moves
I’ll nod and tell you
Quiet quiet, I know I know
I am an idiot, I run scared
I hide in cars, I cry at celebrity gossip
The red carpet is the ****** scene
Your tongue rolls the same way
Unrolls, let’s the stars fall out
Then rolls, let’s me disappear inside
I hate myself
I reach for better thing than the sky
I grab your hand in mine and I reach for
Toy monsters
For romances written by wine and fuck-buddies
For meaningless problems
For music carved in plastic
I let you unguide me, undo the zipper, unbreak my glasses, the ones that are tiny mirrors
But then you speak
And it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen
So
I make surgeries on myself like a night-doctor
I build a tree house in a pear tree that you can’t see
Yes, that’s me buried up to my head in your yard
Yes, that’s me telling strangers I am dying of sadness and lack of substance
Yes, that’s me trying to fit in your head
Yes, this is me setting myself on fire wearing nothing but your black boots
I win.
Keep ignoring me
I write better poetry (and we all know I hate poetry)
La. La. La. La.
The cursed and fated prince had prophesies, I’ve got soap operas
I’ve got night and nights of blank, blank, ****
I’ve got a freezer-burnt heart
And pictures of you drinking neon drinks
I’ve got the dichotomy and pungent mixture of art and **** of God found in the gutter
You’re drinking anti-freeze aren’t you?
That would mean so much if you were
Keep ignoring me
I’ll send you my hands when you’re done with them
They won’t work
But you can touch yourself with them
They will be gray
Paint them red
A red that can’t wash off.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 9:55 AM UTC
*It is the Sabbath, and I am pleased to fulfill this high mitzvah and lead you to Paradise. It is the Sabbath and Shekinah Queen floating over you waiting to take you. It is the Sabbath and your beautiful ******* distil in my mouth honey of your secrets.
Tent of all Mysteries is your magnificent body. Your skin is my scroll and your follicles as the letters that God wrote on your magnificente skin and your belly adorned with my kisses. Hieroglyphs are your tattoos, sphinxes puzzles, the codices of the angelic scribe, the Angel of the Face, keeper of all secrets.
Destil out the liquor of your illuminated Vergel and feeds my world, like dew dripping morning. It is the Shabbat and your river flows now from your Eden to water my spirit. I hijacks thoughts your perfume. It incense aroma of your garden.
It's the Shabbat and already prophesies thy mouth the voices of Celestial Academy, whispering in my ear your high pleasures at the apex of your ****** revealing your messiah, your hidden light, creator of all my miracles.
It is the Sabbath and your Tantra connects the earth and the heavens, as a mystic linhame fabric with your esoteric moans. It's the Shabbat and you are the my highest mitzvah, the most sacred precept.*
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
What guile is this, that the Inventor of Change is cruel,
He invests not his ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless;
Like a tyrant, he feeds sweet tears to ants for a gruel,
Is he not guilty of false hope of Change to the hopeless?
How is it that he's different from his own self
In that he considers not the interest of the termites,
And being voted in by ants, is now a Mighty elf;
Is he not deceptive in his honest dealings with termites?
We must change the CHANGE, for cunning is his agenda,
Henceforth, must we not be enslaved in his guileful net
In that he entrapped the poor ants to enrich his blender,
Out of his duplicity, must we by all means be fret.
Folly it was, that he promised us as Change
To covet beacons of wealth, from the hopeless ants,
Is he not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of Change?
We must Change the CHANGE for the safety of the helpless ants.
He pledged Change, but chained the CHANGE, and left us hopeless,
Is he not guilty of duplicity, and sabotage of the nation's economy?
None of his agenda was in the interest of the poor and helpless;
We must Change the CHANGE, for CHANGE threatens the economy.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
Picasso at McDonald’s
super size my eyes--let the glare
of Pablo’s dead desires
burn my retinas, and
indelibly engrave the golden arches
behind my drooping lids
they will be my rainbows,
with pots of dreams
to order at each end
and fast food prophesies
slickly sliding down yelling yellow loops
through the endless blue sky
inside your hallowed halls
the chopped souls of Guernica
are invisible to our eyes
their stillborn screams don’t reach our ears
but their torment will be assuaged
by a Big Mac and large fries
they will no longer hear
the shrill whistle
of the German’s falling shells
the laughter of the children at play
or the other sinking sounds
that get us through the day
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
(I)
People used to light candles to ward off
prophesies such as this. Stopping, each
motherly representative, for 75 seconds
or less,
to tip match-spark to wax-thread
and hope for the best.
What ceremonial significance now
do we seek for to slow the approach
of what we know is waiting?
Oncoming march of death-knolls and unhappiness
bound up in silence
where
once we laughed uncensored at and for
the characters who spun throughout
this town, that school, the city, our lives.
All being, understandably, becomes
efficiently replaced with obvious simplicity.
From effortless performances
of what made our lives important
back in childhood years when living
was stable and guaranteed,
now to this mongrel era of constant migration
beckoning....
The familiar is no longer our youth’s
careless summer holidays.
The Familiar is now a land where
people don’t bother with any ideas
of an ideal existence beyond
what lottery tickets may bring.
Those who inhabit here are
more alerted to the purpose of lighting
coals in winter to shelter the children
and to keep the windows from cracking.
In summer find these same awaiting with
patient ears to heed any advice
which keeps them from going completely insane.
(II)
Go now, away
,begin
your quest, foolish schoolboy.
An entire adolescence’s
comeuppance is due.
Time now to seek recompense
for the years you waited
for anything significant to happen.
Time to seek girls with inviting eyes
and lilting vowels to offer favors to.
Abled with a catalogue of charmed
intoxicants. All softened by
a plentitude of weekdays waking
at three in the afternoon.
(Does “afternoon” exist in layman’s terms? Does
he simply made do with morning, day and night?)
Then on your flight make haste
to ensure your visit merely brief.
Like only one dimension of
your day-persona be a hawk
that delivers messages
back to the ivory towers of
new central HQ, while remaining
all cloak and whisper.
Messages from where people live
but no longer speak,
as result of an assigned sense
of failure,or complimentary
wrongdoings sought, what sorrow achieves.
Shattered lives, Ending dreams.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
Dusk is a promise of Dawn
As long as Life is LORD
And night can be long
As it was once years ago
A day in many thousands
An utterly unworldly terror
Or briefly: Old to New Moon
Or Three Days and Nights
Evil prophesies and rejoices
At Dusk, Night without End
Indeed it shall be, a Shadow
Of Day, A Day without End
Jul 17, 2024
Jul 17, 2024 at 7:40 AM UTC
Oh, how I’ve missed you,
Shining jewel of the Caribbean,
Petite isle of the eccentric.
I still remember your streets,
The way they curve up the mountains,
Mountains that you can see from the coast
Where the water rages war against
The corals and the sea wall.
I’ve seen you at your lowest,
Broken down by the winds
Of prophesies,
Your people cried blood
And sweated through your
Unrelenting days.
Oh, but the way the cosmos dressed
The night sky, clashing with your beauty.
It was almost worth all the pain and suffering.
Aug 28, 2023
Aug 28, 2023 at 3:04 PM UTC
Look through the peep hole, and you shall see me..
Once in a while,
I'm a fun place to be!!
The harbinger of celebration,
The herald of intoxication.
I'm the company of the stars.
I'm at the counter of run down bars.
We meet at the winner's table,
We meet at the loser's table
To some I am a fable.
To some, the sharpest saber.
By me, prophesies have begotten
By me, empires have been toppled.
I am,
The Bottom of The Bottle.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
Fluttering at shutter speed.
Is it my heart inside my chest,
or my lungs palpitating.
It is my veins.
Rushing with blood, or collapsing for lack of.
It is my stomach. Eating away its own lining;
Acidic paint splattered across its walls. Whitewashing them
With every sporadic convulsion I feel.
A fortnight,
No sleep.
When I do sleep, I do not sleep.
I am depressed. Unhappy. Not entertained.
Overly-dramatic.
Questioning every decision I’ve ever made about life,
I inflate with anger.
I think about opportunities passed.
I revolt with envy when I see artists prevail.
I am a miserable **** brimming with unseen talent.
I miss cigarettes.
I miss *******
Cheap whiskey and grinding my teeth
until 2 in the afternoon when my bloodshot eyes’ll tell you more
than you could ever learn reading my palms.
Fake prophesies of people who never really cared,
and rooms lit up with cheap disco lights and moist carpets.
Perfectly ripened with mildew and sweat and DNA.
The saved lives of unborn infants.
The lucky few.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC
a mildly disturbed mind
with a proper dose
of humor
draws her in
as the light of a fire
would to a trepidatious
moth
she can hear both sides
speak of the future
as if it were a
heaven
days in the mountains
days by the sea side
promised to her
as a medicinal solution
to her dead-set dark
& cynic prophesies
she sees no peace within it
'cause if all you got to
give is sanity
then she'll jump the
cliff
or she'll walk the
plank
just give a little
reality
& tell her there's
no hope
so let's drink and
sing all the good songs
until we
die
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
Thou Messiah preaching Change, art thou true to thy words?
Fighting bribery and corruption yet with cheap sentiments,
Judgeth thou not thy biased - honest actions to be corrupt?
Thou that prophesied an economy of sweet change,
How is it that thou considereth not the masses interest?
Inventor of Change, thy prophesied words art without works;
Even thy supporters yearn in regret for voting thee in.
Is this the change that thou for long prophesied?
I yawn tears for the future of Nigeria and her unborn child.
Thou art trusted to be the man after the peoples heart
And loved by all cause of thy prophesies of change,
But how be it that thou art different from thine own self?
Savior of the people, why art thou adamant to the peoples cry?
Thy poisonous deeds have caused much great pain and suffering,
Why not invest thy ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless?
Did ye deceive the ants and termites that voted thee in to save them?
Remember thou thy words and promises made before being elected.
Thou surrounds thyself with chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions,
Woe betide thee for thy conscience have refused to judge thee.
Art thou not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of change?
Thou that killeth the rosy wealth of the nation's pride,
Why doth thou not consider the sufferings of the poor ants?
I mourn for the bitter death of the nation's sweet economy.
Savior of the people, why art thou so heartless a Messiah?
Howbeit in thy regime, hunger and suffering is the income of ants?
The marketplace has become an ocean of expensive - cheap items,
Cost of petrol waxing hot and higher amidst the harsh economy;
Savior was thy coming to destroy or redeem the helpless ants?
Thou promised hope to educated ants and graduated termites,
Yet not an iota of thy prophesied promises or words art come to pass;
Chancellor of Change, judge it if thou art true to thine own self.
Thou that prophesied promises, howbeit thy words art not fulfilled?
Mind thee the poor ants and termites voted thee in to save them,
Messiah did ye deceive the ants with thy deceptive - genuine lies?
Savior thy heresies has become a poisonous venom to the poor,
Wilt thou not resign seeing thou be not true to thine own words?
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
Medicinally induced
Theory of sleep
Theory of sleep
Theory of sheep
and its undeniable
counting properties
counting properties
counting prophesies
of wise men in lab coats
Medicated lies
Medicated lies
Dedicated lies
mindful rejection of drugs
convincing promise
convincing promise
convincing solace
drug induced eye-lid droop
Yet still fighting
Yet still fighting
Yet still fighting
The drugs that force
sleep, doctor recommended
non-hospitalized coma
induced sleep, deprived
Yet still fighting
Yet still fighting
the convincing promise
of medicated lies
and their counting properties
Theory of Sleep
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 9:04 PM UTC
I take a step back, pivoting on my right foot
to remember behind me a clearing in the trees
by the old apartment complex
where dirt raked over by lifetimes of weary
American walkabouts
snakes down hawk-eyed, single-minded
toward the old muddy river.
One might brush aside broken branches
blocking the way like so many nails and thorns
but I know the way.
At the bank where acid rain and sewage
can lick the dying summer dandelions
I try to cash a check for one epiphany
before it starts to rain more violently.
A suitcase probably designed to hold a laptop
lies abandoned by a crushed beer can and
a newspaper clipping filled with prophesies
written to a dying world about a world soon to be dead.
I look inside but no glint of metal shines back
at unsuspecting hopeful children eyes.
Turned over with a fallen stick
lying in a field of blood nearby
a giant slug is stuck to the back of
the faded leather bag dropped for
God-knows-what-reason.
A snake slithers away back up the trail,
I hear a hawk screech into the gray sky,
and I swat a spider hanging from
the nearest tree almost alive in the sunset
bearing the weight of the world.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 7:03 PM UTC
America, you don’t need us anymore
so we’re going on vacation.
You’ve got religion to whisper in your ear
and sing you to sleep at night,
and culture of homogeneity to get you up
and going on cold Monday mornings, coffee in hand.
You’ve got plastic prophesies to keep you alive
and sick on medicines from unrhyming
peddlers of purpose.
You’ve got assumptions and science to teach the kids now
so long as the chemists abandon their really significant digits!
You’ve got calculus problems and practical things to scribble
on the back of the wornout canvasses of Monet and the recycled
papyrus of Parmenides—nothing’s changed.
You don’t need metaphorical ice cream.
You don’t need symbolism of green ideas.
You don’t need moonlight anymore.
You don’t need breezes on summer afternoons
unless they’re part of a lemonade ad.
You don’t need stars.
You don’t need hope or purpose or prosperity
that can come from the meaningless lines
of poems.
You don’t need us anymore, so we’re leaving.
That’s it.
We’re done.
Goodbye, America. It’s been
fun.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
Dressed in black shadows
You may sense him but not see him;
As death, he’s more commonly known.
With eyes once so deep
A fool will certain fall
For his false prophesies and pretentious thoughts
He fancied himself once as a writer,
And as a painter—an artist himself he dared call
A self-made, self-proclaimed man… well, before.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
I'm a neighbourhood ******
of truth, I'll inject everyone
of you,
The needle isn't contaminated
with untruths, the only thing
I inject within you is the truth..
Wannabe,
false fashion,
ripoff
that has only one place when
used up by those whispering
in ears like a messiah, of false
prophesies of riches that only
cloth the pockets of would be
rules of a patch that is never
theirs just a mirage of power..
I've been spat upon,
I have holes!
Of my consequences that others
have vented upon me from afar.
But I'm the neighbourhood
******
injecting truths, saving lives
that would be caskets
silently cried upon.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
and I woke from a dream
as fading clouds float downstream
and collect like leaves at the mouth
of the sea, children of the spring
monsoons, but today merely a wave
I see all this from my perch
high above the main, rolling to and fro
on Mother's breath, her every sigh
gives us motion, portends danger
leaning her shoulder on rocky cliffs
and I woke from a dream
to a screaming train car
gripping the tracks, gobbling human snacks
and spitting them back out on the streets
passing signs that press for cash
as goblin laughs mock and sneer
from the fleeting recesses, off limits
to civilian souls, just one more stop to go
and I woke from a dream
with bare feet on cool tile
water drops pooling in low spots of grout
and steam collecting in the corners
while dawn peeks through thawed out
windows, a dim promise of the heat of day
shaking the dew from my eyes I see
in the mirror haze, strange reflections,
unfamiliar through a glass roof sky
cursing screaming questions why
and I woke from a dream
and I finally woke free
in your arms, far from dark seas
and subway dreams and prophesies
clawing sleep like an attacker
wrestling sheets and memories
and welcoming the day to ponder
what these visions foretell, left to
wonder the vast expanse of mind
fumbling for a pen to try
and I woke from a dream
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
Where were they
when we needed them the most.
The fat smiling holy man
laughing at the long haired freak
spouting proverbs
and prophesies.
And you,
with your words about infidels,
killing in the name
of the Almighty,
glorious leader of the tribes.
You say walk on unwrinkled rice paper
and you will be enlightened.
Hog wash.
None of you stepped in
to stop a single firefight,
the spilling of human blood.
Do you really exist,
you irreverent blasphemers
with your own ****** hands,
liars of the true faith.
Repent.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC