Best Prediction Poems
Forget about mortgage or rent.
These days with our paychecks fast spent,
In the future I see
The hot question will be. . .
How much for one BIG sturdy tent?
For Carolyn Devonshire's Contest: Economic Woes Limerick
Your heart an iceberg
My passion, boiling lava
Deluge predicted!*
© Demetrios Trifiatis
29 OCTOBER 2014
*Because of a malefaction three of my poems were deleted
along with the comments! I repost only PREDICTION just to
be over the 500 mark. I am sorry and I thank you!
No More Rain (Tim Flannerys Prediction)
by Robert (Bob) Moore
Tim woke up this morning, banged his head against the wall
I once told the people, “no more rain would fall”
so they built a desalination plant, to purify sea water
hope they don’t send me the bill, but I guess they really oughta
It has rained quite a bit since then, it’s raining here today
the ice caps are still melting, and some small islands washed away
but we will get a drought again, of that there is no doubt
and others like our Tim, will be chanting doomsday all about
I am not saying Man, has not stuffed up this Planet bad
but it’s been done so we could have, the life that we have had
but turning our lights on and off, will not fix the damage done
we need to make some solid plans, not windfarms and some sun
We need scientists to come together, make our energy all clean
not argue, and point the finger, about what’s already been
a workable solution, with conservation, starting first
and maybe build another dam, before the ones we have all burst
I love using predictive text on my phallic,
It saves me so much hassle and time.
Just a couple of lettuce then the rest just flows,
Flows in a sweet little rhyme.
I don’t need to learn how to spelt with structure,
Use syntax or even use grandma.
I can type real fascist, whatever I want,
My fingers’ like a little jack hammer.
And the sentences appear perfect, I must have great speech,
I know how to wrist using diction
Shakespeare would be envious of how goon I can talk,
Talk with my phone’s text prediction.
Close on the leatherneck well booted, high healed stormy, clip clop,
sans well fashioned faux shod Harvey didst stomp with heavy drop
ping like a furious ogre, and before classes even started
this early September 2017 nature maid maelstrom bid adieu
akin to movements indicative of fiendish flip flop
“he” (as if one could identify gender of said huffing puffing Hurricane,
gave the coast an unforgettable pan hand dilly sock hop
wrought desolation visa vis master card –
carrying uprooted trees like footballs, where whoosh of fury didst lop
many complex edifices plus stately trunked vaunted trees
felled like overworked mop
add where tongue shaped swath comprising Texas got cow licked –
or rather a major pop as if punched from boxing competitor
(already down for the doll finned count)
Hurricane Harvey continued to pounce without letup, and refused to stop
spilling profuse water until the steep pulled tippy top
of many tall buildings barely visible accompanying soundtrack mix
included the Furies of Agamemnon concomitant with ruthless
banshees, daemons, fable come to life monsters
performing corrupt version of do wop.
SPHINX
you silent riddle
of the lion stars
ancient in mystery
staring at omega
in a terrible patience
stone eyes are fixed
at civilization fractures
ground down by hubris
all human history's here
in these stinging sands
stone maned lion
symbol of king solitude
patient as a Bedouin
tending his camel
such appetite for code
unbroken in timeless
stare hinting fury is near
awaiting a new born
generator of myths
even in techno-chaos
you are in our midst
patient as a caravan
tented under stars
Stone Sahara Lion
image cut from ages
his appetite is time
his labor enigma
outlasts the flesh
as grinding sands
hums some meaning
in a stone head dream
of secret revelations
harboring a shadow
cast over our future
by Charles Eastland
from: The Car Has Ears - Selected Poems
by Charles Eastland - Amazon Kindle eBook
Here I am
Grounded on earth
And, my fate
Hangs in the stars
My future
Is predicted by people
Who are unsure
Of their own fate
For them,
It is profitable business—
They have absolutely
Nothing at stake
All they have to do
Is to play with my anxiety
And, I am sure
To shell out nickels
The astrologers
Tell you,
“What the stars foretell”
Or, so they say!
Someday far from now I hope
One must trod alone
While the other gently rests in peace
Beneath an engraved stone
Fifty foot waves cradled the old wooden boat
A doomed speck held on ocean gale breath
About to become splinters at any moment
Hurricane forces understand fragility
A chance for destruction is an option
Two bearded men tumble about on deck
Exchange stories about death
While going over board
Fishing expeditions are unpredictable
Meteorologists called for a fifty percent chance of rain
The lollipop quintet is coming after dinner my six-year-old predicted.
I was slow to believe, I am not all- knowing like him, so feeling conflicted.
This quintet was at the door singing their lungs out at a quarter to seven.
I stared at my son, wonder what other talents he had gotten from heaven.
FEATHER PREDICTION
~
~ light ~
sails
a plume
plucked in air
bride traces its fate
whimsical wind commands a waltz
halts in mid-step, releases her waist, lets her down slow
smitten, the pretty lady catches the feather on her white glove, a wedding day kiss
~ 1/26/2017 ~
Oh! You’ll be caught
up in despair,
Tiring impurity,
appalling aloneness.
The mechanical
world’s
Swarming cities,
smelling towns,
urban’d country.
The world of haste
and hurry,
Sootheless sit
and restless recline.
Then nights won’t
contrast days.
Yes, people will
wake long nights,
nevertheless
Not in love!
And or attend
the starry skies or
Full moon.
And, albeit sun
will new day newer
rise
Yet, always set
unseen.
So, on a summer’s
sunny day
Hunt pro that distant
dale
Still be hid from
man’s mean eye,
Where howbeit
the grasses be
green, thick and
bathed of dew,
The roving birds
nest,
The shepherds dwell.
By the bank of the
thunderous
stream
Stroll around, and
later loll
Against the old
mossy giant rock.
Cross-legged light
a flowery-cigar,
and gaze
The fir-forests,
the snow summits,
the cloudy horizons.
Listen, the sparrows
tweeting on the
wild willows,
Dogs barking,
rooster neighing—
somewhere down
the vale.
How sweet be it
beside a small fire
And with a bowl
of warm tea!
Or oh sweeter be!
If ‘companied by
sweetie.
In war, you can't guess
Alliances last longer,
Or when help will cease.
In the year 2319, we can only imagine how and what life will be,
Will there still be families, or just a pooled incensed, breeding sea,
Of writhing, intoxicated humans, clocking in for their lunch hour,
Trying to reproduce and gaining ten more points towards power!
Will mealtimes be as we know them today, or just merely queuing?
For a measly tablet which you must have daily, chewing thus renewing,
Your stamina to surf the planets at a graceful, fiercely unimaginable
Pace, you must be in Planet Venus by 8 docks, o’clock, fashionable!
As you arrive darkness greets you, your spirit, your being generates light,
Only on those you want to see or places that you long to be in spite,
Of the fact that if you stay too long, you sky home will be auctioned,
And your brain scrambled, and laid to rest, without been cautioned!
No rules, no policies, no systems, no charge, no one to give any rating,
Just chaos, and the thought of inhuman elimination, your clone is waiting,
And inherits your looks, your character, your wired and messed up brain,
And this clone will be cycled and recycled for the same to begin all over again!
Prob not a winning vision
tail-end baby boom ain't same
cushiness likely to crash
before there's 'nuff cash
us born 'tween six and seven
are social security
burdens on generations
beyond and unlearned
n'er the less we plant veggies
remembering those wedgies
of innocence unsung youth
hope springs eternal.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nancy Jones