"speculating" poems
Someone once said that we die twice--
First, when we take our very last breath.
The flame on our candle goes out as we
Transition between life and death.
But then comes our second dying.
It’s similar but not the same.
That death occurs when someone for
The very last time says our name.
So where are extinguished flames?
What happens to the morning dew?
What effect does speculating
Have upon our point of view?
Life has many questions to ponder.
I wonder if such thoughts are freeing:
Knowing that we once had been
And not remaining attached to being.
-by Bob B (10-26-19)
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
when my time comes
it comes
and I will gladly leave
to those who go on living
the task of sorting out
the mess I have accumulated
over years
let them discover
not only the stamp collection
the bank accounts
but also unknown niches
of their father’s/friend’s/husband’s life
the words unspoken
scribbled on some paper
thoughts never shared
for lack of time or opportunity
the letters to a friend of yore
emails to many people
hints of potential
love affairs that maybe never happened
ideas to change the world
into a better place
here I am
now with a 7 before my years
envisioning life after death
a sign of vanity
perhaps
or an expression of despair
I am not sure
it may just be
the fleeting thoughts
on a clear winter evening
when cold creeps slowly
but insistently
into your bones
reminding you
of all that cold space
in our universe
how it grows larger by the second
making you wonder
if it has a plan
and if that plan
includes you
speculating
about your destiny
* * *
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
I like slandering your makeshift forceps.
I hammer you down with watery *** and then spill
the remainder on the couch. Yarg! A diamond’s
worth at least a small intestine, and you
are worth whatever’s left over after night
has upended itself, poured sideways out of its
shellacked crawlspace, and turned the basement sour.
There are remnants of you in the park,
some red stain by the baseball field where,
if you’ll remember, you watched little leaguers
build teamwork, and faint splotches on tree bark
from your lactations which, if you’ll remember, happened
every morning. I whisper your godforsaken name
and am slapped in the head. The children cry
when I smile. I cry when the children smile. Good
heavens. I forbid you from not entering my corridor,
even as I set up a barricade. I like my water scalding,
my passion chilled, and I like you in easy-to-
swallow doses. I like you in my eggs.
Ditto the faucet, keyboard, the occasional lily,
but do not mess with my pearls. I mumble of apodictic
meadows while I sleep. What can I say?
I do not mumble of unclogging your bathtub,
which has a certain foul repute, and has grown
heavy and ugly with your hair, which is everywhere,
just as you are everywhere, and wherever, and so
********* hidden it’s not funny anymore, we stopped
looking some millennia ago, after scouring the drainpipes,
kicking down your doors, dissecting your mattress,
speculating about your burial site, etcetera, and even so
we have not been really looking all this time, have we,
just blaring your name through the speakers,
putting wrong numbers on our calling cards, leaving
uncooked meat out on the back porch as if you were
a raccoon, oh, or a lion, which you are not, or not
quite, though, as the books say, you have honey
in your stomach, and if you could but be
ripped open we would taste and see.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
A girl with arms and legs
A brain
A liver
A heart
A broken one
The liver I mean,
Not the heart!
Lost, but never in-pieces
She doesn't personally own one,
Or she does, it was stolen you see
The one she has now, she loaned
Just until she finds her own!
Though the time she uses to pay back her loan
Is time away from finding the stolen core
She pays through her liver
And her innocence
Speculating where her heart actually went
She gradually rewinds her life
To see when it disappeared
Maybe it was beaten out of her by her father,
Or flushed out when she put her finger in her throat.
Maybe she left it with her virginity,
Or she threw it away with her dignity?
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
whenever I feel the tremble start to ooze its way
from my compact mind to the tips of my fingers,
I immediately anticipate the fate
that I have always been able to foresee
whenever that familiar first jolt of an anxiety attack sails its way,
like a vessel in a storm
throughout my entire body
heart pounds an intolerable caution
lungs wheeze frigid determination with a rough friction
that lightly scrapes my core with a ticklish flutter
shoulders lift up into a hunch; absolutely automatic
the top tray of teeth lock clenched into the bottom tray’s hold
a fleet of air hisses in and out of two nostrils like a monk’s meditation
capacious eyes flicker from
the lid to the lash to the iris to the pupil to see everything
everyone is staring
everything is too intimidating to look at for longer than two seconds
then, the tunnel
the clearest, acute vision waters into a soft edged frame,
into a pixel mud of a picture, into a black peripheral,
black corners rounding in – a narrow and petty circle
I use it and follow it to wherever my
deepened impulse decides to take me
silently contemplating,
silently speculating,
silently examining
the fears I let my feeble self
get swallowed up in.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
resuming textual trip
testing experimental procedures
visualizing model tsunami
augmenting facetious environment
catching abstract architecture
noticing rhythmic exchange
projecting subtextual database
airhorning reggae royalty
adding atypical party
resolving twitter question
noticing emotional mission
awaiting emotional dialect
installing metaphorical experiment
intensifying animated trip
displaying dynamic victory
programming abstract development
releasing emotional exchange
deriving fata morgana
glorifying referential sequence
intensifying facetious map
noticing harmonic trip
observing radical ratio
compiling nomadic message
predating google rebranding
reticulating facetious panda
using hyperreal feedback
exploring virtual panda
speculating graphic gallery
throwing mundane exception
targeting graphic experiment
replenishing emotional trap
localizing asemic animal
dropping rhythmic trip
propagating immortal experiment
displaying lowercase database
invading orange bubbles
crashing animated trip
running conceptual topography
remembering collapsed buildings
crashing hyperreal coverage
propagating hyperreal stipulation
finishing western library
envisioning neon tessellation
reciprocating network likes
processing animated device
releasing haptic quality
examining building seven
awaiting rhapsodical ratio
sampling death sauce
sensing lowercase clone
examining symbolic tour
processing potential development
encapsulating spatial lottery
displaying digital paragraph
reticulating theoretical source
perpetuating western paragraph
transmitting monochromatic structure
anticipating ambient quality
transmitting asemic environment
intensifying atomic quality
remastering history poem
keeping future light
hypothesizing eternal game
using future library
rearranging masonic language
transmitting masonic development
continuing ceremonial ritual
questioning party's legitimacy
deferring western coverage
finishing asemic hypertext
mollifying ostentatious presence
synthesizing allegorical icon
forming categorical unions
sketching app wireframe
programming immortal repository
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
Drinking summer skin,
I hear the voices in the night sky
I'm a slave to the darkness around the stars,
and I can't remember why
One, two, twenty-three percocet in my soul.
Ambulance lights breathing throughout the mist.
Pump my stomach like the sawed-off shotgun
that I was too afraid to use,
because what if I 'miss'?
What spectrum of desolation to be traced with lips;
to kiss away the desire to exist.
Mirrored reflection injection causes the resurrection of my imperfection.
I see me for who I am, who I was, and who I won't be.
It's the collection of
my eyes dilating and my knees speculating their arrival
to the blue and white tiling disguised as neo-survival.
My mind is evaporating. My body begins to convulse.
I am a ghost in a machine. I am without a pulse
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
An empty room,
filled with two empty souls.
Two empty souls,
assuring the other with empty words.
Empty words,
giving a feeling of ****** comfort.
****** comfort,
conjuring feelings of self disgust.
Self disgust,
speculating their insignificance.
Insignificance,
leading to the abrupt realization.
Abrupt realization,
Suicide.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
Never finding expectation to exist beyond the last known blip of the past, projected through my back, in tackled grounds, bound, in the banter of spectators, speculating the specifications of specialised weaponry, silencing the empathy, and seducing my enemies in the isolated idolatry of their stupidity that i sculpted from the scrutiny, that was wished to have eluded me but soothed my playful solidarity to my sickly game called reap and sow instead.
We are all dead, all dead inside, residing in thriving wounds.
Left unsaid in rhymes etched in tombs.
In the lies of old bafoons
I shall not fight, myself, as they do, nor shall i defy whats right just to eat tonight.
I will fight until I am mine and sleep.
Cradled in my shrine of thoughts amiss, in the frost of loss vs reward.
I am torn, between torture and a vultures wait of the prize to pedal the pestilent pettiness to the edges of my testaments, in the truth of youth-less suicide, slicing social structures into cylinders to swing in circles around the room.
Swooning, in my looming threat of self immolation to warm the heart with shopping carts of satire, killing the sad away.
Delaying the the decay of hope.
A stay of patience in my irrelevance,never hesitant in my clever projections of nothing.
I feed you nothing
But emptiness
Shuttering in the sultry shade of my suffering and loving every moment of it.
Saying nothing too much in things of such insignificance.
Spilling the mizpellings and settling for wordlessness after a good ***** of belligerent arrogance.
Im tempted to quit but my wick is lit and to submit now, would just put the fire out and i want to watch the burn.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, when the cliff tops call its name with disparaging diatribe? And how do you fare as the undulating waves tell tales of a million generations of fish? I sat there as the days wore on like so many jazz men beating holistic drums and blowing those crazy brass horns as if possessed by the demons of some ancient tribe way out in the Kalahari, masked by the illuminating stares of wonderment and the children in the darkened bar, silent, speculating. I see the waning wood through magnificent trees, behemoths in the dusk skies. I see the ground too, for it is stable and true. As true as one could attest to its objectivity, I often ponder the relevance of truth and whether the whole concept is but a twisted lie fed by the men before us. Quite cruel these thoughts, and barely worthy of the hours I waste. The ocean too speaks truth but its truth is one I have faith in. Sure as I am, sitting here, witnessing the waves as they mourn the changing sands and the rubble they sift, sure as I am, that the gently faltering ripples will retreat before attacking the shore once more. I am sure of these acts, as I am sure that I will die with laughter on my lips and a tear in my eye.
Take your water and let it flow through the bodies of man, take it, take it and do good. Let those clear drops circulate and bring about true knowledge in one and all.
Let your rocks fall to the ground, erosion of the city and decay of the populace. Let them fall with dignity, while we scream from the Atlantic and feel tumultuous waves of apathetic foreboding ripple into our skin and bring us to ******
These rocks in the sea, these rocks in you… and in me.
Has the land seen distress like its inhabitants, or have they been the harbingers of such malcontent abuse to these fare isles? Have you, You, have you seen the sea when its tranquil repose turns to solemn spite at the ego of the cliff face? I have heard the ocean speak, and it told me to fall to its mercy and ebb into the unified conscious.
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, or do you too stand with your back to the truth and one leg bowed cocksure over the top of some deteriorating construct?
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
The time has come forth to ponder and think,
about the spiritual planes that are reluctantly unforeseen.
Of the dimensions that are surreal to those who use emotion and feel.
The mind creates an undeniable creation that disguises itself to be real.
Enduring and speculating on the thought of consciousness and love;
one will realize the reality of our minds perception defying the dogmatic breeding brawl.
Although our minds potential is finite and cleverly obscured;
we will begin to witness the marching of shooting stars so pure.
Imminently clear, we begin to reach a higher plane of degree.
Meditating to the point where we become one with the universe without plea.
Encompassing the ethereal and uncovering half-truths,
perceiving the ultimate correspondence intelligently and shrewd.
Where will one travel amidst the taunt of death and fear?
To a place that is all well too known, a herd of aimless tears.
Lacrimation will enlighten those when they have fallen in the solstices peak.
To experience a world that was previously known as a philosophical creation by the streams.
Metaphysical questions will mark its toll to the soul who learns to decipher no more.
Otherwise, contentions will cause despair and half truths will then have to bear.
Inducing a different consciousness to a degree not explored before;
one will embark on a alchemic journey of the mental transmutation to the inner soul.
Mental creation spurs the ****** of the universal degree of spirit and mind.
An illusion so concurrent to the law depicted within our eyes alter-mind.
Deception will avail to those who blindly believe they have prevailed;
when attempting to solve the riddle behind the creator of the tale.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
For almost 2 days, now, I have been wondering what has been going on.
I can't upvote and comment on poems, and most poems that I see posted have no view counts.
By now one would have hoped that the fallen would gotten back on their feet.
I just wish there was a voice out there, somewhere, instead of speculating.
Logan Robertson
6/02/20
Jun 2, 2020
Jun 2, 2020 at 9:10 PM UTC
Growing up unguided and penniless
Torturous upbringing pushing me down
A handgun, speculating and rash
Gluttony attempts to smother my eyes
Wearing the condemnation of men
Appropriating the virtues of girls
Feasting in the winds of a fandango
Weakening under the need for support
Emblazoned under the influence of white powder nights
Ceilings lights spinning out of control
Locked up and discover the stars in strife
Sweet seclusion with a Beelzebub for company
Crawling through the gutters on all fours to get out
Black and white key arias connected
Caressing coloraturia platitudes on fire
Busting a gut on the walkway to truth
Peaceful vigilance a bismillah fraternity
Deserted, drowning in civilisation
Tanked, yanked and naked
Is this Mama Mia
Standing on two feet
Rebuked, not loved
Rebellion, unshackled
Revelations, so, not want to die
Reciting bohemian poetry before the bullet strikes high
Scaramouche....
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 1:59 PM UTC
Your ideals side by side with the rhythm of your stride,
misericorde,
what have I stumbled across.
In the middle of the road,
you struck a pose
so vividly natural,
it's as if the outline of your being
burst forth from your physicality
and sang songs of love
and integrity.
all in accord to say, you gave me no other choice,
but to fall for you and the warmth of your smile.
even the ground murmurs with jealousy
because gravity has no effect on what you stand for;
love, understanding, equivalence and so on...
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
In speculating a plumage’s stinging or sorting
yesteryear’s chromosomes glint of antiques
resplendent as rivulets at The Moonlit Square
that shimmered beneath penumbras of fear
A stained moon foreshadowing
Jahan Ara’s Chowk for Silver Wear
The canals blocked, choking with Change
Glistering new arrivals, effusing of Change:
the tryst carries grave integrity within veins
branching across peninsula for pumping reigns
Ours is the Strange Acquiesce
where a fledgling’s plumage unfurls
toward velvety notes of wealth
A perennial disruption of equilibrium
From Smack to Silk Route till Here
Before Iwans, Jhajjharis, or intricate Basti
its plumage swayed from Golden Age
burdened through pronouncements as
Gujarata-Pratihara; Pala; Rashtrakuta:
the peninsula that sustains formidable histories
shall commemorate edifices lost by centuries
Together We Ruminate: What state must it bear this day?
traversed across periods
sorrowed by time
plumage seeks to retire
in search of rhyme
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
At night, I'm afraid to dream
of warmth and nostalgia and light;
fleeting moments of joy you brought into my life. Only to wake up knowing it was a memory; that my walls are no longer kissed with golden sunshine, that my days no longer consist of your sweet messages of love and empathy and hope.
At day, I am numb and fixated on your death. I bargain reality; dozing off, speculating scenarios of what could've been. My despair like a whirlpool of devastation; of loving thoughts and regret that I'm clawing to get out of only to sink deeper and deeper. I am trapped in a constant cycle of overwhelming sadness and feeling nothing at all.
At all times, I miss you, loved one.
I miss you as the sun misses blue skies at night and the moon misses stars at day. My soul searches for yours through my memories and passing thoughts. But your presence has left me in this lonely world, and I ache for the time we are finally united again.
I mourn you, I pray for you.
I promise you
With all that I am, I love you.
Oct 29, 2021
Oct 29, 2021 at 5:30 AM UTC
we do not really know
what to expect of times to come
those who dare say they do
are more or less intelligently speculating
and their assumptions usually don‘t exceed
foggy predictions read from crystal *****
so what?
the problem is not really new
all our ancestors
some more desperate than others
were longing for the certainty
they thought would go with knowledge
of all things as yet to come
fact is we have survived without it
for some million years
even if our digitized society
obsessed with quantifying everything
from time to work to *** to pleasure
seems mortally in fear of lack of data
about the future
the one thing we can say for sure
is that life will be different
because the only constant in our world
is change
know it
and get on
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 4:48 PM UTC
Sometimes I can't sleep at night
Because of my dreams
Makes me come up with these crazy schemes
Anger and regrets creep into my dreams
Turns Into nightmares when I run away from my tears.
Everyone just whispers and stares
Can they smell my fear?
It hits me like a glare in my eyes
Can they see my demise?
Can they see I despise myself and I try to disguise myself?
Hiding behind attitude and suppressed pain puts a strain on me
Drains away my youthful energy.
But not all dreams are bad
Sometimes relax and look at the sky
I’m a bird soaring away as I look down at my problems
My eyes begins to illuminate when speculating the world
Know they're is something is far beyond self and human desires
More than the stars in the sky
Wondering how far can I go?
There are no boundaries
Just have to keep belly empty and head full of dreams
I am who I want to be
I define myself.
By Shannon Pollard
© 2006
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
almost a minute and a half
it was
almost a beginning and a breach
it was
replay of ***** South Georgia- bare on a dog's back
it was
the summer before released weakened trophies
it was
a lighthouse upon the water, looming ex photographs not yet in print, not yet in motion, not yet remembered, not yet
Speculating the worth of not yet..not now..not anymore..not ever
I felt the urge of salt water and a feel of foam
even so, the sand familiar, I remain ankle deep in sailor straight stripes...the violet orange blush can lull me in deeper, i'll dream a dream choosing not to escape and it was enough to wake up smiling
it was
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
I knew the end had come,
Such a ceremonious segway into death
But after the pomp faded away
Came long the mourning days.
And in mourning, sorrows become dear
I slowly forgot what death I mourn'd.
Safely occupied by the copious comfort
Speculating the new road I must walk alone.
But now, as my soothing summer air turns chill,
And the leaves shrivel and die,
Each night marks the passing of another day
Drawing nearer the dead's true end.
It steals upon me, with insidious cunning
A bitter cup I must partake,
*I see the dead are not truly dead
Until mourning is ended.*
So I shall never cease to beg Heaven
To send you back to me,
I shall never cease to let these tears
Of life and mourning free.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
laminated headlands batter
the wilderness of superficality,
scanned bucolic butterflies flutterings ,
have lost all sense of season
except for the observation posts,
speculating fresh awe
from the baying guests
whose insatiable fantasies
takes nature a step towards the adultered.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
-
I could imagine reacting to life on other worlds the way a
Tribal sponge cleaner would react to a washing machine
As he reluctantly prods it with one of his burnt-out torches
He’d made for his wife for their anniversary
All the scientists gather around the looking glass, scribbling gargantuan words
And pushing up their glasses, speculating whether or not
The language they spoke had been the correct one at all
I could visualize them as they stepped out of their spaceship
Wandering around a grassy patch, careful to keep a safe distance
A wisp of clouds inch overhead,
To us a common thing, to them a phenomena they’d been told
Around a fireplace made of stars, stories counted and recounted
About the clouds and the strange way they danced on the opposite side of the galaxy
Stacking papers on their desks, the scientists retire home and
Dream of how they’d tell the public about what they had found
As Times Square flickers to a still of the alien’s face
The people below suddenly feel much less significant
-
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 10:55 PM UTC
Growing up alone
A world of torture
Speculating and waste
Drowning in gluttony
Wearing the condemnation of men
Appropriating the virtues of girls
Feasting in the winds of noise
Dealing the white powders
Trialling the ceilings lights
Filling containers for strife
Sweet seclusion with a toilet for company
Crawling through the gutters on all fours
Black and white keys connected
Caressing platitudes on fire
Busting a gut on the walkway
Peaceful vigilance a fraternity
Standing on two feet
Tanked, yanked and naked
Where is that space in time
Deserted, drowning in civilisation
Rebuked
Rebellion
Revelations
Reciting poetry
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 8:08 PM UTC
See you walk in instead of leave
Like my mind says you could go
I don't hold my peace
I don't know if I should show
These things are rare but if they appear, you know
It gets hard to see - it gets hard to be, alone
That's how the fantasy goes, unclothed
We're barely speaking words
I've learned that's not how the real world goes
I wake up and pray that it's time for sleeping, though
It's easier to get high than get to thinking so
I spend all I have, the stars seem glad for me
Thanks for being there at night
Internet is faster than my heart sometimes
Ask me something, I'm feeling like
Nothing is significant
Think I want something different
Life is stark, I'm feeling innocence
Like it's me, but it must be some inner fit
My clothes are always wrinkled, too
My head's got it's own interview
I'm always speculating, someone new
They're my brand new crush, new lover
but it's not true, she's game
I'm losing time, no change
I'd rather sit and be chained
Than lose myself in that way
She's starting her dancing, nice
I join in, dim lights
She ask me to go - I can't say no
No crying in the real world
No lying if you seem hurt
I don't ask what's up
I just came to **** she
Always speculating about my life
I gave her a gift and now she's texting all night
I can't do this, I shut out the lights
I never talk back, don't ever hit send
If that's the moral I guess I'm awful interested
It's fun to lose yourself if you're not second guessing it
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC