"prophetically" poems
With the start of the first inning
as the wind whistled through the tree's
Our short stop had his shoulder broke
and the fates blew in on the breeze
This team was a thorn in the side
of the Harding Presidents Club
It was on this night my son Tate
was scheduled to play as a sub
The kid pitching for North Union
hurled a cooking heater down field
You could hear that freight train coming
as it's hide was 'bout to be peeled
Their coach then rallied his talent
pressing their shoulders to the wheel
like natives dancing 'round a fire
driving devils who'd struck a deal
A death defying mid-air, catch
the bounding, ball tossed on the run
The Devil was in town this night
riding in on the setting sun
They dove and slid then nearly flew
as if the angels rode their backs
While running bases half possessed
plowing the field with cleated tracks
No one remembered the last time
that our team had beaten this bunch
That night they took the field in style
serving them all up for their lunch
,
The dice kept coming up seven
and oh prophetically so
When the sun had finally set
the score was seven to zero
Come ye father's follow your child
through the tough times every one
For the oft chance will someday come
when they will have finally won
Tate
© 2012 Tate Morgan
Written
April 12, 2014
Americans love the underdogs.
original
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1342622/
Original video poem of the same
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1354978/
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Good morning body
I called you in for a meeting
because
you can’t sleep again
and I just wanted to tell you
you don’t already seem to know
and no one can read your writing
you already know what you’re wearing tomorrow and you’ll pay the gallery in the morning
and it's all fine
and you’re very much allowed to yawn sigh or take a
deep breath
I know January keeps trying to go on
and on and on and on
like you’re not already over it
a few weeks ahead of yourself
like we’re not all stuck in Deja-vu
despite the fact that it’s fun to type out
soothing repetition
like a hot tea lavender oil or the last smile on the page
like a consoling yoga chant
it’s time you heard this
where are the words you’re hiding?
when you sit down and say you can’t do this again
I will tell you I think this might be growing
it was you under the pile of clothes the whole time
holding the remote
murmuring prophetically in the corner
it was you you see
you already said
you’re everything you know
you’re everything you need
Good morning body
I called you in to talk to me
for us to meet each other
letters to yourself are the new shopping list
or at least
they’re calming to write when you can’t sleep.
Jan 6, 2024
Jan 6, 2024 at 12:17 PM UTC
The First Apostle
Did you know your calling?
When He first met you
Demonized-Prostitute
Transformed by His healing hand
Your love-turned passion
Inseparably bound to his being
Scorned for your lavish yearning
Prophetically anointing perfume-blood
Head to hands to dusty broken feet
Your walk with Him closer to death
The rugged weight of dry wood
Heavy heart anointed in knowing tears
You stood by his side-abandoned
By pharisaical disciples cowards call
His love grafted into bone and sinew
The empty mocking tomb
Like your barren heart
Devoid-all you lived for
Rudely taken away
Then He touches you again
With glorious anointing
Head to heart to weary feet
With apostolic "Go-Tell" command
Demonized-Prostitute
Apostle-Evangelist
Stanley Arumugam
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
i.
Thitherward to Corinth,
Thus wherein mine
Grandfather's dad
Was from. To seeith
The bards of old,
Legends of agora
Soul, mingling
With the
Aegean
Sea. O' the natural spring's
Of healing properties, a place
Of new testament biblical fact
And history. How I wouldst hath
Adored to seeith the apostle Paul,
First known as Saul of tarsus; eye's
Once sealed, then opened; By the son
Of God. Fain were the Grecians, in
Yesteryear's thought. The turquoise foam
Betwixt their homes, the beauty was told
And taught. Hither the Mediterranean center
I want to be, scribbling-scrawling, prophetically.
Breathing in the aura, mine ancestors once did.
Spirit-floating the isle's, of pious hymn's for mankind's sin.
Rendering the prognostication's, told in God's own word's,
Rouse a sleeping nation, that once resounded the laureates shores.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Prophetic poetry
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
I drive all night
The only way I know how to fight
I drive all night
To search for light
I noticed a possum
I thought it was playing dead
Until blood blossomed
Like a flower out of its head
My vision flooded by red
My heart filled with dread
My mortal anxiety only grew
When I realized I have blood too
I hear the deer
They're busy snickering and bickering
While my emergency lights are flickering
They scatter in different directions
After possible danger detections
They are timid and meek
They hide in remote foothills
People see them as weak
Because their kind doesn't ****
I followed a mad rabbit
That made a bad habit
Out of always running
And digging holes
It thought it was cunning
And made of gold
Until a predatory eagle
Made it feel less regal
I witnessed a raccoon eating and called it a thief
The next day I saw it lying dead in the street
Did my erroneous blame
Lead to its execution?
That's part of the game
In this institution
Every step
Could mean death
Just by making noises
You're making choices
There are jaguars and elephants in some places
There are humans in others
Predators have different faces
They could be your brother
On this darkened road
I reach a sedentary mode
When I approach a herd of stray cattle
In my mind there is a reciprocal battle
I could strap on a saddle
I know where to prophetically lead them
But the path of least resistance is freedom
Is it really right to use disciplinary order
To keep them within a fenced border?
This road is a loop
That passes by farms of no fruit
Or vegetables for that matter
Yet we somehow get fatter
Society bloats while it starves
Because we refused to see the signs that were carved
So mothers start crying
And vultures start flying
Because everyone is dying
We're always making new recruits
To drive along this predatory loop
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 2:58 AM UTC
In the morning when the moon hides,
That's where I'll be.
The same place,
The same face.
Lost in thought, lost in space, floating around you, just in case;
look up you might see
I'll be amongst the atmosphere biding my time,
Waiting in time to shine off your reflection.
I'll be there at the reception of the clouds,
Waiting for the storm to pass.
You'll be proud now when you see who I am crescenly.
Presently I'm a lunatic, the tides not been on my side recently.
I frequently find myself hiding amongst the abyss, prophetically deep in thought,
waiting for the storm to pass and reveal myself like a lunar eclipse.
Those loose lips cause a nuisance.
Sink ships.
But why do you care about those haters with so many holes and so many craters.
That's not like you, that's not the moon I know.
I'll see you later this evening,
like most nights,
or I might of the storm passes in time.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
she's dying slowly,
and we just sit and stare.
she's dying slowly,
and we just don't care.
she's cried for help all by herself,
we procrastinate prophetically, hoping.
she's alone, scared and lost in herself,
we'll just blank it callously, hoping.
you just gawk uselessly as she cascades into entropy,
she's tried, cried and locked it all inside.
a fire burning hotter than the sun,
a fire to burn us all, one by one.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC
Tulsa, OK named and claimed it
then prophetically proclaimed it:
Ken and Gloria invested
slick, convincing, uncontested
Pretty-boy preachers wowed the flock
making Christ the laughing stock
their best lives yielding heresies
out-phariseeing Pharisees
as if their western cowboy drawls
could bless impulsive bank withdrawals.
Unique to the US of A
where truth is prophesied away
and churches spring like tares and breed
while tele-preachers intercede
for breakthroughs, blessings, Mammon’s gold
their folly long ago foretold
in frenzied tones, the healing tongue
counts dollars where Paul counted dung.
I’m sure they all believe it’s true…
they know it justifies fleecing you.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC
Watch me rise beyond death.
Right past your eyes and hypocritical breath.
With which you prophetically announce,
and so pathetically denounce.
Me in every way possible.
You're a flea, demeaning common day people.
Words completely self-centered and feeble.
May your dreams fester and rot.
Your soul diminish to a dot
Spiritless demon be sickened.
With a liar's oath you'll be stricken.
Sight clouded with the lives of those shot.
Beyond my hate
Or a wish of your hellish fate.
Knowledge that you too, should be saved.
Show an ellipse of a faithful rave.
An open ear, to my following words to be paved.
Maybe a chance will be presented.
A chance to deny hell, lamented.
Make an honest word or fall.
Slip a tear or become a thrall.
An eclipse of the evils to be repented.
Through all of the sin.
And superfluous din.
Of the life we in.
You'll find a truth beholden.
And the chance unbroken.
It's never too late to turn round on your heel
and feel a feeling too real to be left under ground.
Below the surface of your expression.
Answers to an ageless question.
Should I love my above brethren?
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
I once held onto the wonderful tapestries of stories long gone
That no longer even apply to the reality of existence
The stories that never existed anywhere but the romantic images of young poets
And artists prophetically penned in the language, which seemed so perfect
Until everyone and everything realized that we cannot simply rely on the stories we tell ourselves
And in an instant everything was destroyed and everything else was born
As it all rained for days, sleet and glass sideways, ripping the world to shreds
For god had finally shown himself
And his name was systematically comprehended by generations of scientist
Objectively reverse wiring the brain into a complete knowledge of everything that can never be understood fully
And proof of fact was there on the page for all to see but none listened
The word was too great to be understood
And so god left man again
To toil in the teleological
Like a blind shepherd who had forgotten that he was once Jesus
And that he held the key to everything that is and what should never be
A wise man once said "of that one cannot speak one must be silent"
But i think its worth the shot
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
Hypothetically speaking,
If I were to narrate my dreams prophetically,
It seems: I do not belong, I am wrong, and wanted gone.
But with my proper knowledge,
And feeling of my subconscious slipping unconscious;
I say to myself; you belong, your dreams are wrong,
But are they?
Realistically speaking,
I see I lack potentially having potential that would or could ever be more then potential.
So maybe I don't belong,
Maybe my subconscious wishes nothing more
But to awake me into the realization of this false reality my cage dwells in, fears in.
I thank god for this to be only my temporary shell.
A temporary Cell.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 2:07 PM UTC
the yearly act of dying and then resurrecting at dawn is no longer as holy
as it could have been the first time it happened
i, no longer have bones within this vessel of ache
and yet i am only tired when they ask if i am okay.
i am never tired even when i am exhausted there is a lub-dub within,
pounding the doors i have
built, to see if i was
capable of safety within these hazardous conditions.
prophetically,
i vision that as i step off the gallows stage
into a trust fall choreographed by a world
that promises to me he is better than this,
there will come
a slither of venom into the halls of this highschool and
the crowd will unhinge their chests and
let the cyanide bubble their veins and
cry out lyrics about how
who we are is who we are is who we are—
but i am only tired, i say.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
Pacific, pacifist pampered papa
parading par excellent paragon
parent (parenthetically parochial
particularly partisan) parvenu
passive, passionately paternalistically patient,
paunchy, peaceably pepped, perfectionist,
perceptive, perennially perky, permissively
persevering, persistently personable, perspicuous,
pertinent, phenomenally philanthropic, philharmonic
picturesquely pious, pioneering, piquantly pithy,
playfully pleasant, pleasurably plucky, plummy,
poetically poignant, politely pontificating, popular,
positively potent, powerfully practiced pragmatist,
praiseworthy, prayerfully precious, precise
predominant, preeminently preferable, preparedly
preponderant, presently president, prestigiously
prevailing, priceless, princely, principally pristine,
privately privileged, prized, proactively procreative,
prodigiously productive, proficiently profitable,
progressively prominant, promisingly prompt,
prophetically propitious, prospectively protective,
proudly proven provocative, prudent psyched, puissant,
punctilious, punctually purposeful.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
Riding
The color
Wheel
From
Liftoff
To splashdown
Onyx
Eyelids
Heavy with rheum
Waking to
Laminated
Stick-ons
A vinyl ocean
Of unco adhesion
And snap vacuum
Jettisoned
Trinkets
Of youth
Soaring
Prophetically
Overhead
Acquiescing
As scenes
Of upended worlds
The simple playgrounds
Both remembered
And loved
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 10:56 AM UTC
#Reflections on Psalm 97
Good Shepherd? He's more a flame-thrower...
this reaper who doubles as sower.
While His psalms hold our gaze
Holy fires will blaze...
He remains an unknown to the knower.
Though the psalmist prophetically blazed,
some residual doubts are still raised:
the good shepherd and sower
now armed with flame-thrower
both scorches—and leaves one amazed.
Our Lord is a reaper and sower
Spreading light via holy flame-thrower.
While His readership gazed
expectations were razed:
there were less burning standards to lower.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
Decades later
I think
I finally
get it.
Your broader experience
had offered you
numerous opportunities
for feeling disappointed.
You understood
better than me
that there are lots of options
if you are open to them.
You had forewarned
more prophetically
than
I had imagined
"People change,
situations change,
and things will never be
quite like they were before."
I had only
a single, deep experience
about which, amid ups and downs,
I was naively optimistic.
Then you offered me
an opportunity
to feel
deeply disappointed.
The situation changed.
I changed,
I opened up to options
and broadened my experience
discovering pleasures
I would not
have otherwise
known
learning and teaching
new lessons
about the benefits and costs
of relaxed constraints.
Now, years later,
after rereading words
that you and I
wrote then
I can better
appreciate
how different
our paths were,
release more
of the long shadow,
celebrate the
convergence of our paths,
and adopt
a more mature optimism
about the deepening
of our shared experience.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 8:10 PM UTC
clear as the empty sky
and deeper than the soul of mankind
all
the.
way..
down...
fathoming further than soundwaves
reach their molecular-minuscule hands
into the bluest abyss
below
so far below
but nothing grows
not in holy-bleached waters
baptized in plasma extracted
from our darkest hearts
invisible ink
leaving writing in the sand
walls between
underwater things and we
kings of the continent
shattered like
so much broken glass
ground and tumbled into
beads for our children to
choke on
drowning in empty seas
reaching, never believing
it could happen to us
burning acid dreams
diluted to seem
clear as can be
but we still can't see
the water we drink stinks...
_rotten fish/rotten flesh
polluted streams/polluted seas
waste/wasted_
__death death death
drown drown
down__
going.
going...
g (d) o n e --
_undone by recycled demon-dreams
money for destroying everything
profit on the apocolypse
prophetically pathetic_
(we deserve to drink these sins 'til we drop into the nothing we created)
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
She emerges from the Sea prophetically--
Her bronzed skin, layered with droplets of water,
Glistening with glory in summer sun.
The way she moves is enough to paralyze a man--
Her movements are refined and effortless,
As though she were gliding over the land beneath.
Her eyes have a way of penetrating the darkness in your heart--
Innocently unaware of the light that she embodies,
Gently inoculating the lives of those around her with angelic grace.
She evokes a sensation of Love, long thought to be lost--
She makes your knees tremble, your stomach tighter,
And you find yourself overcome with insatiable desire.
One look is all it takes to become enamored by her being.
And at that moment, you know, with absolute certainty,
She is everything.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC