Analyst Poems | Examples

a newspaper the guardian

A Newspaper


Once upon a time, the Guardian was a famous newspaper 
it was democratic, to a certain extent, and readers are 
invited to give their view, but with moderation and niceness
 If not, they would politely ban the regressor
When the paper was famous, it was a bit left-wing, but always ready to see the other point of view
It was pro-Israel, defending Palestinian artists' rights 
while overlooking as long as possible, the utter brutality 
of Israeli politics against, say, Palestinians 
The fact that the Guardian has been able to change is its
 ability to alter its stands, yet holding to their journalistic 
who are not left-wing, except for some of them who 
 Thanks to nature and time, they have wings.
Today, the Guardian is no longer a newspaper; it is more 
like a color magazine dedicated to true sex stories shies 
not away from lesbianism and what we now call gayness
It caters to a younger middle class, employed in, I think
show business, or the media, with titles like TV analyst
Or a researcher of AI, who will one day make all of them
out of work
When I get up in the morning, I drink a cup of coffee and 
For entertainment, read the Guardian

Ludicrous Logic

His logic was not the kind
that sprang from a sound mind.
To wit, he defined a catalyst
as a feline specialist;
and, by his logic (and now yours),
concluded that an analyst 
must likewise be a specialist –
if you’re slow, don’t analyze this!

The Unseen Analyst

I don’t ask for much.
Just peace.
Just proof.
I’ve wandered too far past curfew
God forgot to pick me up
 
 
Five days into April.
and I am still standing.
Not because I’m strong
but because I’ve forgotten how to fall,
any further without disappearing
 
You are giving me the proof
and asking if it means enough to bring up.
Or should we let the lie be.
Maybe start building fences.
 
The voice of the unseen analyst.
It’s not pride;
it’s the processor of paradox.
It doesn’t demand attention;
it filters it
And it’s divine in its curiosity.
 
I think I became addicted to the narrator.
Because it gave me a language,
for things that my heart can’t process

My Prophesy

One day, one may go
In places we don't want to know
Just assure that your name is written
Embossed in gold shining in heaven.

Yes, I'm preaching
To the soul that's needing repair
I'm talking to all who hears His teaching
To warn a deluge will come so each life may spare.

The world is delicate right now
Rumors of Armageddon is creeping
I do hope Moscow show love somehow
So we can live a life we want for keeping.

Somehow Nostradamus has more to say
Than the Political Analyst wants to debrief
Believers of God and Peace Makers always pray
That all is well that ends well finds a relief.

I have high hope that World Leaders do good
So United Nation not bedeviled and not be unguided
That life may continue to thrive and not be booed
By Devils who want this world to be divided.

The Second Coming is here then
If you just know it in your heart
He is now intervening the affairs of men
We just have to chose our role and take our part.

Analysis Is Paralysis

fulcrum of the scent
bewilders the analyst ~
koel sings love songs

01-September-2022

Herman Cain

Herman Cain

Purdue University gaud work full-time as a ballistics analyst and
 the U.S. Department of the Navy as a civilian
completed master's degree Purdue

started working for Coca-Cola as computer systems analyst
 later join Pillsbury, becoming director of business analysis
 in its restaurant and foods group 

 assigned to analyze and manage 400 Burger King stores   
Cain's success at Burger King prompted Pillsbury to appoint him president and CEO of another subsidiary, Godfather's Pizza.   DO IT!!



4/26/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2022

Innocence Takes A Toll

A lover sparks a desolate heart
To stir and flourish and glow
A lover breaks a heart for sport
Leaving a desert where no love can grow
An analyst eases an anguished mind
A priest comforts a trusting soul
A doctor heals an ailing body
Each a lauded goal
An analyst twists an anguished mind
A priest mars a trusting soul
A doctor molests an ailing body
Innocence takes a toll

The Front Line

an unseen menace
a state of perplexity,
hard pressed analyst
from behind binding masks
all that they do, is for you.

© Harry J Horsman 2021

Cowboy Psychiatry

He’s a man of few words when he wants to be
And his silence can rival the Sphinx,
But be spins a good yarn during therapy
With his analyst pouring the drinks.
His obsession with fishing’s a mania,
Always dying to dangle the bait.
His aversion to marriage, a phobia,
His fiancée will just have to wait.

It’s all cowboy psychiatry, mirrors and smoke
In some Freudian home on the range.
Though this good ol’ boy’s often laid out on the couch,
I don’t think he’s likely to change.

He’s obsessive compulsive habitually
In matters to which he is drawn,
And he’s down at the topless bar ritually,
Unless there’s a football game on.
He’s conflicted about schizophrenia,
Thinks anxiety’s nothing to dread.
He exhibits selective amnesia,
And he’s passive aggressive in bed.

It’s all cowboy psychiatry, cognitive bull,
And those inkblots are all kind of strange.
He’ll always deny its denial, no doubt. 
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
Regardless his problems,
He’d rather be thera-pissed off, than thera-pissed on.

Something About Men and Women

SOMETHING ABOUT MEN & WOMEN


The news analyst explained
the shooting:
It was a black and white one-child
marriage with empty days
and nights
He went to California seeking work
but returned with nothing to
a wife with a boyfriend who
had nerve, perhaps her love,
for sure a gun
The husband with nothing was angry
There was one shot
The eminent psychologist discussed
her recent book about men
They must learn to eschew violence
and to cry out like women
when sad she said
But the recent widow watching
alone among the remnants of her
life just looked at the screen
knowing that often when
women are sad they do not cry and
that, so often, when men do violence
what they do is crying

Sacrilegious Transgression Against Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

I generally mean mine mien mental state
moost occasions heavily marinated stupor
long established as external trait
psychologically time tested trooper
impossible mission to kickstart sanity
doppelgänger regularly revisits his soul asylum
hellbent antimatter he cannot vitiate
despite therapeutic laxative merely exhausts

well bred literate smoking doobie brother
eliminating aforementioned pablum
witnessed courtesy one floundering grouper
among plenty of fish schooled
hyphenated (high finned haggled)
burn hushed scaled poem
courtesy one unionised rebellious party pooper.

Spellbound with colossal mental grippe
(i.e. all-consuming figurative cerebral
obsessive compulsive forced membership)
magnetic resonance imagine indicated jagged blip
and/or nsync microscopy
showed telltale genetic authorship

regarding above stated mental health crisis,
whereby Sigmund Freud analyst did flip
lid freeing leeches imported courtesy Philip
Hansel and Gretel a mere slip
o' lass whose nose she always did turnip.

Rut

"
A maddening re-tune this flip-optimist.
Placid savant of scowl repeated.
Thickset, daunt in idle, overly pist.

Identical figuring head of lists.
Circuit loops to retreat.
A maddening re-tune, this flip-optimist.

Brave speculating his death-mix.
Offspring"s statements over slipped.
Thickset, daunt in Idle, overly pist.

Color of choosier brown the analyst.
Saturates sometime smile.
A maddening re-tune, this flip-optimist.

Lucidity reminds this Alchemist,
of dreams, ink wet for keeping.
Thickset, daunt in idle, overly pist.

Wit serpentine, spooling a cyrisalist.
The mystic, realizing the trick
A maddening re-tune, this flip-optimist
Thickset, daunt in idle, overly pist.

Prime Lens

If you’re a carpenter,
You can fix it with a hammer and nail
If you’re a captain,
You can get there with a crew and a sail
If you’re the warden,
You can lock it up inside of a jail

Everybody got a solution
Nobody possibly wrong
I’d love to jump to a conclusion
But the distance is too damn long

If you’re an analyst,
You can lay it down on your couch
If you’re an activist,
You need only march and shout
If you’re an anarchist, 
Go on and burn the city down

Everybody got a solution...

Biased perspectives --
Hidden objectives --
Static images in a prime lens
Our various stances
Across the same plane
Decide how each ray of light bends

If you’re a scientist,
You can theorize and postulate;
If a Creationist,
We been kicked outta the garden by fate
A sado-masochist?
Should be no problem keeping a date
I’m no romanticist --
I’m too old to stay up this late

Everybody see the solution
Nobody possibly wrong
I’d love to jump to a conclusion
But the distance is too damn long

Sorrow's Hold

"Just block out memory," the analyst tells me.
Yet images of my friend, emaciated, persist.

His last day - I scream at the nurse,
       "More morphine! He needs more morphine!"
 Suffering that contorts his body like the peel of
       screeching tires.

"You're not family," the nurse shouts,
       "that decision isn't yours!"

My friend slips off, de-masking pain.
His lost grip on everything he once controlled.

We worked together,
       built things together.
Years melted into our bond like the unheard voices
       of beggars welded to streets.

I gave the eulogy.
Tailored dignity.
Was it enough?

Our suffering is an open jar of preserves
       - preserved when we remember loss
       - preserved because memory (ever on the prowl)
         sits on our doorstep
         to pounce every time we walk out.

Warrior Poet

Warrior
Musical, analytical, religious, artistic.
Son of soldiers.
Lover of Nelly, ragtime pianos, and rhythm guitars.
Who reels angst, inspiration, and regrets.
Who fears retirement, isolation, and mediocrity.
Who would like to see Scandinavia, wealth, and grandchildren.
Resident of the Monterey Peninsula.
Poet

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