"speculates" poems
Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti comes along Peoria Street
every morning at nine o'clock
With kindling wood piled on top of her head, her eyes
looking straight ahead to find the way for her old feet.
Her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti, whose
husband was killed in a tunnel explosion through
the negligence of a fellow-servant,
Works ten hours a day, sometimes twelve, picking onions
for Jasper on the Bowmanville road.
She takes a street car at half-past five in the morning,
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti does,
And gets back from Jasper's with cash for her day's
work, between nine and ten o'clock at night.
Last week she got eight cents a box, Mrs. Pietro
Giovannitti, picking onions for Jasper,
But this week Jasper dropped the pay to six cents a
box because so many women and girls were answering
the ads in the Daily News.
Jasper belongs to an Episcopal church in Ravenswood
and on certain Sundays
He enjoys chanting the Nicene creed with his daughters
on each side of him joining their voices with his.
If the preacher repeats old sermons of a Sunday, Jasper's
mind wanders to his 700-acre farm and how he
can make it produce more efficiently
And sometimes he speculates on whether he could word
an ad in the Daily News so it would bring more
women and girls out to his farm and reduce operating
costs.
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti is far from desperate about life;
her joy is in a child she knows will arrive to her in
three months.
And now while these are the pictures for today there are
other pictures of the Giovannitti people I could give
you for to-morrow,
And how some of them go to the county agent on winter
mornings with their baskets for beans and cornmeal
and molasses.
I listen to fellows saying here's good stuff for a novel or
it might be worked up into a good play.
I say there's no dramatist living can put old Mrs.
Gabrielle Giovannitti into a play with that kindling
wood piled on top of her head coming along Peoria
Street nine o'clock in the morning.
2.9k
When floating on down avenues of deep subconscious
remember to stare upwards for at least 10 minutes a day
and contemplate the life of a cloud;
To that transitory vapour,
project with your iris the world you wish to manifest
in passing minutes
towards that passing station-
internal vision dominates
the human mind speculates
and accommodates,
what it wants to see -
with each passing minute
with each wasted day
Life flashes before eyes
concrete and grass
lying down and getting lost
in a deep death that breeds
everything and nothing,
Dissipating contradictions in the sky.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
It's a travesty to tolerate
The ugly mores of men,
When everyone's allowance
Condones release for them.
Where everywhere provision
Is made for man to shove,
And woe betide the meek
Who don the feathers of a dove
The world applauds the forceful,
Rewards are rich for he
Who tramples over daisies
And holds aloft the key.
Who forces his attentions
And speculates the win,
Despite the devastation wrought
In winning it for him.
It's a travesty to tolerate
This bovine charge of man
When all can be achieved
With an accommodating plan,
When compromise and levity
See consideration's way
Where success can be attained
With out bloodletting on the day.
I hear the snort of your derision,
Feel the snigger in your smile,
See the curl of lip descending
With your slit eyes of defile.
For this portraiture is global
The fighting man is King
And he who deviates
Is left bereft and vanquishing.
Sadness is the matador
Who casts his scarlet cloth,
To be shredded and impaled
By a maddened bullock's wrath.
To be tossed aside, asunder
Like a lifeless ragged doll,
Like mankind's brute tomorrow
When the final drums do roll.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
29 November 2009
Nov 28, 2009
Nov 28, 2009 at 7:17 PM UTC
It’s nice to have some holiday downtime and not be all go-go-go. I’ve even gotten in some Animal Crossing play. After 40 minutes of picking up weeds, Bianca, one of my villagers, told me she’d heard I was dead.
Later, we’re in Lisa’s living room taking turns playing songs from Spotify.
Lisa just played “Woo”, by Rihanna. When the song ends, fading out, Leeza deadpan said, “That song is pure evil.”
“You guys, I forgot to mention it but that is my energy song, it makes me feel so HOT.” Lisa adds with a chuckle.
“It has an evil vibe,” I admit. “An evil vibe,” Leeza confirms.
“Don’t be judging,” Lisa reminds us.
“Your next,” Lisa said, nodding to Leeza, “What’ve you got for us,” she speculates, “some mental health rock?”
Leeza’s had this girl-punk-rock group called “Vancougar” playing on a loop in her room. At first, I wasn’t enthusiastic but now I think they slay. Her mom’s even gotten on board, dancing “the twist” to “Philadelphia” when it rolls around. Leeza has great taste in music although she leans a bit EMO (emotionally hard core) for me. She makes me feel old by introducing us to all these new bands like “Youngest and only,” “Calling all Captains” and “Beatrice Dear.”
“I’ve got one song to play,” Leeza says, “Paparazzi, by Lady Gaga.”
“I’ve been listening to that song all WEEK!” I gasp, “I love that song, it may be her best - that’s so random,” I finish saying as the song starts.
As Paparazzi ends Lisa says, “That song has major Gwen Stefani vibes.”
“It DOES,” I agree, “It could be “Cool” or “Sweet Escape.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Leeza agreed, “shoutout to No Doubt.”
Leeza says, “I have a conversation topic: What’s something we all acknowledge is cheugy but we still do anyway?”
“Being blonde,” I say, which gets stitches of laughter because it’s true and Lisa and I are.
“That’s true, that’s fair,” redheaded Leeza laughs. “Anyone blonde is dead to me,” which gets her a pillow in the face.
“Ok, I’m going to come for a lot of people,” Lisa says, “but yogurt, yogurt is cheugy.”
Leeza gasps, “You think yogurt.. It’s not cheugy!” she practically yells, “It gives MOM.”
Dec 28, 2022
Dec 28, 2022 at 3:33 PM UTC
The blue eagle and the demon of the steppes
in the last cab in Berlin
Legitimate defence
of lost souls
the red mill at the beggars' school
awaits the poor student
With the housemaid Know huntsmen how to hunt on pay-day
Know huntsmen how to hunt
as papa speculates
with the smile
By the dagger the dagger the dagger
the tiger of the seas dreams of happiness
Avenged
The vestal ****** of the Ganges cries out Vanity
when the flesh succumbs
Stop look and listen
the famous turkey spends a day of pleasure
turning round in an enchanted circle
with the pluck of a lion
M'sieur the major
My Paris
my uncle from America
my heart and my legs
slaves of beauty
admire the conquests of Nora
while someone asks for a typewriter
for the black pirate
It is not possible
that a woman dressed as the Merry Widow
could become the wind's prey
because the millionairess Madame Sans-Gene
leads a wild existence
in another's skin
Her son was right
Patrol-leader 129 who wears an Italian straw-hat
and is the ace of jockeys
is abandoning a little adventuress
for a woman
It is the April-Moon which chases the buffalo
to Notre-Dame of Paris
Oh what a bore the indomitable man
with clear eyes
wishes to judge him by the law of the desert
but the lovers with children's souls have gone away
Ah what a lovely voyage
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/The-Staircase-With-A-Hundred-Steps#sthash.Ty7mN87W.dpuf
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
His brown eyes open,
absorbing every experience
that has been his to know.
A looking back, sorting
mangled bolts of history.
His story. His remembering.
With dying hands he strokes
the threads that have
unraveled around him.
He blinks, and he lets
a single teardrop glisten
on his lived in face.
There are miracles and
there are no miracles.
Either way, the prognosis
is what it is. He knows
everything he knows
and yet he
knows almost nothing.
Tall buildings and concrete streets.
City traffic on major roads.
People. So many people
occupying the urban sprawl.
In the midst of all this he
speculates on any number
of significant resolutions.
How cold his heart feels!
How resigned and dark
are his thought patterns!
With gratitude, perhaps,
he reminds himself that
one thing often leads
to another. There is
neither rhyme nor reason
to what is to come.
And when the droning
that inhabits his thinking
becomes too loud to hear,
he can shut his eyes.
Close them tight.
Let his eyelids be
his entire world
and
sit
like
a
rubber
hammer
banging
nails
into
his
heart.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
It's not easy speak
or a Speak Easy
when conversing with him,
dark'ling gremlin toothless grin
but he's your friend so I carry on
with Yoda in the corner of my mind
"judgmental you must be not"
and Comicon's collective excitement fading
as the light will do in the west...
We speak easy with the circling
of the communal pipe
crystal peace in mists of glass orbs
oil burner fog horns
piercingly in & between my ears
but its not so easy to ignore
the scent of death in his halitosis
We spoke of Superheroes
their idiosyncratic identities
His secret celebrity crushes
envying Green Lantern’s ring finger
he speculates on Cyclop's orientation,
"Y don’t you make me an X man, professor?"
Informatively encyclopedic volubility,
Mike speaks queerly and toofless
yet well versed on oral
said he rims pacific beach boys
(And I can smell the white lies
wafting from his mouth)
as I color at his studly fairy tales
and his idolatry of prepubescent innocence
the hyper kind of **********
as he verbally recalls the taste of how sweet
the sweet untouched were...
*"The most gorgeous boys I’ve ever seen
in **** or anyplace on the face of the planet
comes from and are probably ******* now
in Europe... Mmm, European boys...
I want to use my life’s savings to go there
enter the war zone and come back wounded..."*
I can't even imagine
Shrapnel jacked backside, points and protrusions
grandiloquent mouths and holes full of
enunciations...
"Fourteen is the age of consent there..." he is smiling
a caricature of a wolf *** fang less
Such a pseudo wanna-be
possibly already
********* friend from the broken rainbow factory,
how I chuckle uncomfortably
shake my head disbelievingly
oh the humorous horror of it...
(I'm grinding my teeth, until I notice myself
doing so and get an image of him
with a gummy grin,
I preoccupy my thinking
nodding as I half-heartedly half listen)
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Torrents of wind, strewn upon man and beast
an irradiant moment terses through the veins
howls bewilderment speculates,
attempting to overthrow the instant,
home is a short shrift distance
her only resonance is a leitmotif
that hail the late seasons repentance.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Translation of
Red faced misfortune
A tune for the muse
Who rests *** less yet
Smiling with satisfaction
A sad old feeling
Of realizations & regrets
Halloween wrinkles Her nose
And the grass turns brown as
The sun slowly starts to burn out
Locket of love
Golden hanging replica
Of truth & of lies
A tie painted by a ring
A kiss where behind
Lays the knife
Burn the pages
Memorize the words
Turn of the century
These wounds are turning green
Trademarked & sworn
Leaflets of one's
Own devices
A pressure cooker
Of a lover
Tonight eyes glance
Left to right
Nigh up & down
"So your the one
They keep talking about..."
Each minute presses on from
The palms of her hands
As the wax brown & purple wooden
Floor caked with bad dreams
Speculates no longer sober
While animals dressed in winged cobra suits
Rest inside the house made of faceless poker cards
Resting willow
Eyes in half slant
Blankets pulled up to the ears
She speaks of animals lost
A tarot card terror
Death & memories
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
he woke up at the rise of the sun
heard calls a KKK member feared to be apart of
he inspected his surroundings
made sure no terrorist came along to attack him
performed his morning ablution
simple movements allowing the water to purify his truth
looked up to the sky and heard boom, BOOM
Laila where's Laila , he ran back home searching for the innocent life he opens to
smokey roads smelling like phosphorous and American hate
he speculates
says his prayer searches through blood baths
never looking back
the man who throw they attack throws his daughter in his face
says is this the terrorist you've been raising to be everyday
speculates
eyes filled with fire hating devil connecting lies
terrorist
that's what they called him
after loosing the only love he had
his hate became symbolic
terrorist
they lied to him and deceived him
made him believe this was all for his freedom
they treated him like an agent
although he deserved to be a victim
terrorist
he was just a man who believed in nothing but his faith
he had a family he was once ok
now he walks down the streets where once his family played
and celebrated religious holidays
he searches for what he believes is his enemy
grabs the hand of his worst friend and says
please lets stop the violence
lets pretend as if this wasn't a plan to serve the elite class
please i am only a man i am in grieve
please lets love each other lets not bleed
smacked in the face
exaggerated hate
die you terrorist there's no peace between you and me
-gz
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
The sun shines upon flesh,
bathes it in heat and cheerfulness,
lavishes upon it gifts of light and promise.
The sun shines upon a walking corpse,
skin but a display,
behaving as if alive for lack of alternative.
The wind moves among hair,
covers it in cooling whimsy,
carries it towards peace and frivolity.
The wind moves among exhalations,
each breath but a show,
in an out to pass the time.
The blade sits upon a shelf,
speculates on past and present,
mindless as a thing long dead.
The blade passes through the yielding skin,
each slice like a breath,
anything to feel alive.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
My eyes did strain through out our
days, I saw beauty as I looked at you
each day, the world was a little blurry
a little more each and everyday.
The day had come, for two hearts to
be one, I was to pick up my lenses,
But I thought marriage of the heart
comes first, you are my number one.
So the I do and you do came to pass,
a life as husband and wife, it was time
to see the world clear as day, I had tried
them on while you were away.
So I put them on, and turned around
to find a woman laughing at the choose
of speculates that I had chose.
''WHAT YOU LAUGHING AT UGLY"
And her face did drop,
"I'M YOUR WIFE",
My mouth wide open my heart nearly stopped.
That was the day glasses showed me a world
in crystal blue, I love my wife, but I do wish I'd
gotten my glasses before I said "I DO" we made
up, I did grovel and beg, said I was mad for the
upset she caused I said.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
Things Worth, Or Not, Remembering:
T.S. Eliot, O.L. Poetry and the Passage of Time
<>
“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.”
T.S. Eliot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
<>
Only in a world of speculation, but what if,
There was no such world, one speculates,
Where safely looking in both directions as
We cross the alleys and boulevards of now is
NOT required; living in series of moments,
a steady spasming of venturing, and always,
something gained, something lost, but never,
additive, cumulative and more sensational
than experiential and we have no memory,
and thus no prejudice for or against!
Living with constant aspiration, not reckoning what are
Things Worth Remembering, is that not more than
no footfalls, only footsteps, to new love, renewed love,
possibilities of all doors opened, and we take each day
as it is given, banishing longing, jailing regret,
believing round every turn is a new fragrant, radiant rose garden,
or not…but perhaps means eternal, forever looking.
O. L. Poetry
May 28, 2023
May 28, 2023 at 1:51 PM UTC
His brown eyes open,
absorbing every experience
that has been his to know.
A looking back, sorting
mangled bolts of history.
His story. His remembering.
With dying hands he strokes
the threads that have
unraveled around him.
He blinks, and he lets
a single teardrop glisten
on his lived in face.
There are miracles and
there are no miracles.
Either way, the prognosis
is what it is. He knows
everything he knows
and yet he
knows almost nothing.
Tall buildings and concrete streets.
City traffic on major roads.
People. So many people
occupying the urban sprawl.
In the midst of all this he
speculates on any number
of significant resolutions.
How cold his heart feels!
How resigned and dark
are his thought patterns!
With gratitude, perhaps,
he reminds himself that
one thing often leads
to another. There is
neither rhyme nor reason
to what is to come.
And when the droning
that inhabits his thinking
becomes too loud to hear,
he can shut his eyes.
Close them tight.
Let his eyelids be
his entire world
and
sit
like
a
rubber
hammer
banging
nails
into
his
heart.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
What’s this that all around us we see…?
People strange but strangers cannot be!
The thief sows not, but consents to reap;
The watchman falls a victim to sleep.
The comforter, brings tears, not relief;
The youth, by glamour is oft deceived.
The gossip, loses in frank debate;
The punctual, cannot help being late.
The wise, in his proud conceit turns fool;
The taught, oft seems to be more unschool’d.
The tactful, by silence, oft does hurt;
The polite, being civil, sounds curt.
He loses who speculates to gain;
He thinks himself fit who is insane.
But then, who are we, others to judge,
When we, ourselves, may be among such?
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
On this day(February 14th), a man was ****** to death for the emotion that roams my heart at the thought of you. Legend speculates that the strength of his affection healed the blindness of his jailer’s daughter.
From this I was inspired. If I was to ever truly love, the magnitude of my love would have to have healing powers and perform miracles of some sort. My love would have to rid my lover of their fears and insecurities. It would have to wipe their tears and amplify their personalities. It would have to turn frowns into smiles and give them the courage to pick up their crown and place it on their majestic heads. When their tank is on empty, it’ll keep them going for miles. The affection would have to be incredible.
The love would have to give them eyesight and vision to help them see beyond their imperfections, help them see the true beauty of the being staring back in the mirror. My love would have to convince you that it is true and undying. When confessed, you’d have to shed tears. I swore to myself that all of the above would be minimum requirements for my affection to qualify and be worthy of the name love.
As for you, the one who my heart beats for, what I feel for you exceeds the requirements set above. So much so that I think a new word that explains a feeling greater than love should be invented.
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
***There must be happiness
in the depth of this day's seeking..
Momentary satisfaction and contentment
in midst of participation in this annual
running frenzy..running of the..
So..appropriately named..looking for
happiness
in the darkness this Friday..
Some may sit on a restful bench
in a crowded mall..or observing
a sea of people in downtown
Manhattan (I did this!)
and there seems to be at times
a glow in the black..
Let's call it a black hole
as science speculates.. and
others remind of that
springtime black Friday:
a new creation bursts forth...***
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC