Best Presage Poems
The Time of the Summer Solstice
Drums pulsing solemnly presage the break of dawn,
bonfires ablaze dot this auspicious June morn.
On the shores of Albion, Druid priests converge,
as Earth, Sea, and Sky do mystically merge.
A circle of white-robed diviners and bards all a-chant,
amidst sacred oak and holly, as their hazel wands enchant.
The Dawn Ceremony begins the Summer Solstice,
awaiting the Sun’s majestic rise from the eastern abyss.
Rapidly waning is the dark of Spirit Night,
as the Sun God waits to unleash his most brilliant light.
Proudly the Summer King wears his crown at Alban Hefin;
but at Alban Arthan, he relinquishes it to his Dark Twin.
The Wheel of the Year relentlessly turns,
as each season ever changes and thus returns.
An eternal cycle of life, death, and rebirth,
it manifests the wonder of nature and Mother Earth.
Drums pulsing solemnly presage the break of dawn,
bonfires ablaze dot this auspicious June morn.
On the shores of Albion, Druid priests converge,
as Earth, Sea, and Sky do mystically merge.
05-26-2016
Contest: Summer Solstice
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Placement: 3rd
Notes:
Alban Hefin – the time of the Summer Solstice, The Light of the shore, by June 21st or 22nd. Light is at its maximum, and this is the time of the longest day. Starting at midnight on the eve of the Solstice, a vigil is held through the short night around the Solstice fire.
The Dawn Ceremony - marks the time of the sun's rising on this his most powerful day.
Dark Twin - the Sun-king is called the Holly King or Dark Successor (Tanist) in the Druid Calendar who reigns during the waning light of the year, until winter solstice.
Alban Arthan – the time of the Winter Solstice, called in the Druid tradition Alban Arthan or the Light of Arthur. This is the time of death and rebirth.
The Wheel of the Year – an annual cycle of seasonal festivals observed by the Druids and many pagans. It consists of four or eight solstices and equinoxes.
Spirit Night - The Summer Solstice was one of the three Spirit Nights of the year, the other two being Beltane and Samhain.
I had a dozen of black bangles
Carried for tingles
Sign of a benign presage
Wore to envisage
Beauty; but not the ugly
Taking toll for a fight
Dad called me black
Mom gave a sympathetic glance
Unaware I was till then
Believed in the beauty of night till then
Adored the unpredictability of darkness till then
Believed in the good omen of my black bangles till then
Oblivious of the apartheid
Seow a seed of insecurity,
A hidden fear
Of rejection, of ban
Broken bangles and shattered dreams
Were all I saw in the greens
Till someone said, “Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder”
And it holds true
For you are my reflections
For the world contained in me
And I am in you
Now I have a dozen of black bangles
Carrying for tingles
Sign of a benign presage
Wearing to envisage
Beauty; but not the ugly
I see you beautiful
Beyond your skin and bones
Beyond your veins and cells
Where your soul lies!
-puvi-
(13/10/2015)
Mystery symbols in our dreams
Are night's telegrams with strange themes
To grasp the message
Of what these scenes presage
The ancients knew decoding schemes
Author's note: Our inability and lack of desire to interpret dreams in the "modern age" is partly the result of our reliance on reason and science. Our predecessors would be shocked at how illiterate we are when it comes to this skill. Eric Fromm's book with the same title as this poem makes this exact point. It is unfortunate that modern man can not properly decipher these gems of information from the subconscious.
Noah’s ark was real not a fiction
It had a door to escape God’s affliction
Noah delivered a warning message
But the folks mock their own presage
Men grew in sin and matured in transgression
And ignored Noah’s loving confession
The Door stood open a long time
Until time begin to climb
The Lord finally shut the Door
And the rain begin to pour
120 years of grace finally came to a halt
God administered judgment by default
The Door was a glorious type of Christ
He was the Lamb of God who was price
Jesus said “I am the Door of the sheep”
He is the only Door of that Great ship
Jesus is our Door of salvation
Wherein we enter and float as new creation
Behold He stands at your door this day and knock
Let Him in, you’ll find pasture as a partaker of His Holy flock
Then said Jesus unto them again, Verily, verily, I say unto you, I am the door of the sheep- John 10:7
October blows a symphony of sighs
with blustry gusts that presage winter's bleak
arrival as I shuffle through the park,
kaleidoscope of leaves a welcome prize.
Swings unswung on, roundabouts without
the rush of children stutter to a halt.
October blood suffuses to the hilt
my heavy heart, and calms a soul in doubt.
Images, bright images that have no
need of language, the pictures tell the tale,
a gang of schoolboys, picnic-packed, hale
and hearty, hoping for a hint of snow,
their teacher, raven-black, with no command.
Oaks stand guard, ramrod-straight like sentries,
rhododendrons, strong and sprawling bushes,
a place to smoke illicit contraband!
The dial at sunlight's pleasure points to time,
the weather vane makes plain the wind's direction,
no need of clock or any vain contraption
to guage the day, its reason or its rhyme.
The stillness of the morning and the day-glow,
and meadow grasses blessing me with softness,
the rippled waters thrilling me with sweetness,
what other measures do I need to know?
October blows a symphony of sighs,
of spells and incantations for the wise,
who, weather-worn and beaten, seek the skies
or haunt the woodlands for a siren's eyes;
for nature is the most compelling teacher,
companion to my father and my mother,
she cavils, then is kind, just like a brother,
and binds our earthly tapestry together.
As winter brings shortened light,
as famine delivers harvest blight
So does violence yield premature burial gain,
scarlet tears of Noah’s premonition rain
Crimson tidal force,
deluge of cursed, wolf bane rage
Crescent moon dreadfully presage
a permanent lunar retrograde
On the dark side of the bosom,
sunspot thoughts flow terminally so, err bottomless
Feral feelings blindly comes from
malevolent eruptions,
igneous fears reflect opaque tears of hardened glass
Eclipse hearts
cast an angry downpour —
What does the ill-temper tempest send?
Underbelly hourglass
receives not
another vex overturn at trickling’s end
Rejoice, rejoice
ye peaceful pilgrims
of quantum hope certainty
The celestial sands of tranquility
will soon pour infinitely
As the last Revolution spins
identical change,
the mammon thirst for power
remains the same
Punctuated by perforated voices,
whose hateful noise
stains the grain
1-30-21
...inspired by 'Especially When The October Wind' by Dylan Thomas
October blows a symphony of sighs
with blustry gusts that presage winter's bleak
arrival as I shuffle through the park,
kaleidoscope of leaves a welcome prize.
Swings unswung on, roundabouts without
the rush of children stutter to a halt.
October blood suffuses to the hilt
my heavy heart, and calms a soul in doubt.
Images, bright images that have no
need of language, the pictures tell the tale,
a gang of schoolboys, picnic-packed, hale
and hearty, hoping for a hint of snow,
their teacher, raven-black, with no command.
Oaks stand guard, ramrod-straight like sentries,
rhododendrons, strong and sprawling bushes,
a place to smoke illicit contraband!
The dial at sunlight's pleasure points to time,
the weather vane makes plain the wind's direction,
no need of clock or any vain contraption
to guage the day, its reason or its rhyme.
The stillness of the morning and the day-glow,
and meadow grasses blessing me with softness,
the rippled waters thrilling me with sweetness,
what other measures do I need to know?
October blows a symphony of sighs,
of spells and incantations for the wise,
who, weather-worn and beaten, seek the skies
or haunt the woodlands for a siren's eyes;
for nature is the most compelling teacher,
companion to my father and my mother,
she cavils, then is kind, just like a brother,
and binds our earthly tapestry together.
Green spray paint splattering is all I see on the wall
It’s not art that I see, it’s vandalism! they scream to all
They can’t or they won’t let themselves imagine what truly is presage
Beautiful and unique and of greater importance, graffiti with a message
Sprayed on the concrete walls, is the vibrant green verdant artwork
Campaigning for humanity and natures creatures,
unshrouding harsh realities covered in murk
Mural’s paint disheveled meanders along itselfs esteem
Yet reliant dearly on a lifeless tree standing dormant unseen
You see it looks sadly leafless, branches dry and its greenery gone
A passerby felt Banksy’s vision left an impression is clear, strong
"d e s t r o y i n g the f o r e s t s, d e s t r o y i n g the g r e e n e r y"
And I feel certain that her words bare truth, it’s in the scenery
THE SPIRIT OF THE SUN DIAL
I tell the sunny hours throughout the day
From dawn til dusk imparting my fair message
Evoking warmth and love throughout the day
No time for shadows hinting at dark presage
But when the shade of night engulfs my dial
A darkening of spirit, life force scorns
The moon now points the hours of denial
Its gleam bare luminating dismal forms
I see the blackness in the hearts of men
And feel despair that overcomes the soul
My spirit plumbs a dark and secret glen
Til lambent rays tint peaks; at last console
Then blessed dawn brings sun in its ascension
Restores my purpose vital, my redemption
October blows a symphony of sighs
with blustry gusts that presage winter's bleak
arrival as I shuffle through the park,
kaleidoscope of leaves a welcome prize.
Swings unswung on, roundabouts without
the rush of children stutter to a halt.
October blood suffuses to the hilt
my heavy heart, and calms a soul in doubt.
Images, bright images that have no
need of language, the pictures tell the tale,
a gang of schoolboys, picnic-packed, hale
and hearty, hoping for a hint of snow,
their teacher, raven-black, with no command.
Oaks stand guard, ramrod-straight like sentries,
rhododendrons, strong and sprawling bushes,
a place to smoke illicit contraband.
The dial at sunlight's pleasure points to time,
the weather vane makes plain the wind's direction,
no need of clock or any vain contraption
to gauge the day, its reason or its rhyme.
The stillness of the morning and the day-glow,
and meadow grasses blessing me with softness,
the rippled waters thrilling me with sweetness,
what other measures do I need to know?
October blows a symphony of sighs,
of spells and incantations for the wise,
who, weather-worn and beaten, seek the skies
or haunt the woodlands for a siren's eyes,
for nature is the most compelling teacher,
companion to my father and my mother,
she cavils, then is kind, just like a brother,
and binds our earthly tapestry together.
The crows know that grave symbol they attend
Their sardonic minds perceive ironic message
Stark cross of stone; their memory transcends
The centuries, to day of death but presage
When blood of one who came to make us free
Anointed timber of a scaffold tree
Image 2
29 September 2019
The dark canvas sits idly on the crooked easel,
malignant storm clouds threaten the rising sun,
hopeful rays bestow light upon the tortured weasel
that struggles to find reality within the framed run.
Despondent eyes that catalytically impale a presage
for all, that look beyond the innocents of the moment,
eyes that hint of yesterday, yet today speak a message.
A request, a languishing gesture, all without improvement
and transferred to this casual viewer with deadly movement.
© Harry J Horsman 2020
Admitting when submitting-
Most I freestyle no pre draft
So I completely understand
If you have a little laugh...
Mistakes that I make,
Mostly later on I edit but
I really do not care-
Providing that you get it.
Foreign languages and huge words-
I truely cannot boast,
So I put myself in your shoes-
Before I click the Post.
Simple is clear and
here there is no presage.
For I read between the lines-
To understand the message.
Value you just sharing and
Love to read you Poet.
Poetry PoeTREEEEEEEE....
For those of you whom know it.
So little known of Mary's man,
Only that he was righteous, just.
Betrothal gone afoul of plan,
He sought divorce, discrete, no fuss.
Did you have doubts of your betrothed,
A fleeting thought to cause some harm,
As you imagined her unclothed,
Tight in another man's strong arms?
And as the child in her womb grew,
As whispers, furtive glances came,
Were dreams by angels given you
Enough to overcome the shame?
When she was racked with labor pains,
With no rooms left, were you still able
To Mary joyfully proclaim
The Lord’s provision in a stable?
When came the pilgrims from the East,
Brought gold and frankincense and myrrh,
Did you see these for king and priest,
Or gifts to which you'd grow inured?
When called to Egypt in the night,
Just out of reach from Herod's clutch,
Did you in midst of desert flight,
Feel vulnerable or panic much?
Or were there times in playful fun,
Just you, your wife, your baby child,
See him as Christ, the Holy One
Through whom God's children reconciled?
With hammer, nails, at early age,
A carpenter, this child you taught.
Did it, in wildest dreams, presage
The means by which he ransom bought?
When you in haste to temple went,
And he told you in your distress,
"My Father's house,” where he'd be found,
Did his response provide redress?
And after, what became of you?
Some have suggested that you died
An early death, perhaps best too,
For who could watch son crucified?
Though Scripture does not much record,
The part you played was shortly done,
One can imagine your reward:
Eternity with God the Son.
A dark blue midnight awning has its portrait,
etched by a a starlit silver lustrous galaxy,
silhouette of black lace frilled clouds,
in somber quietude adrift beneath a vibrant pearl,
amber moon whose gleaming radiance bemused awhile,
at the stark underbelly of flickering candles,
that the urban nocturne spellbound revel in perchance,
sleep pattern held captive by ethereal bliss,
angelic dreams wrapped in opal tincture,
what optic relishes await at early first light,
a colourfast dawn unveils it’s bronze bespoke banner,
heaven bound yellow flare insouciant whim,
red orange burst sky a stirring presage,
for wingspan flight of stone gray plume creature,
natural world usher whose gold throat cadence,
rouses wonderment among the persimmon trees,
tapping into human yearning for awestruck omen,
Kashmir bright velvet hue azimuth a scant gem,
yet sapphire orb twinkles close or distant lure
might embolden dull minds with ardent spark