Best Prescient Poems
I take my hat off for the flag
I stand up straight; let others sag
I get all weepy for Old Glory
thinking of my family's story
They came from Russia with naught but hope
with just their wits to help them cope
No language skills or education either
Money or living quarters, they had neither
But they scraped and scrimped, and just kept going
Gramps peddled junk, grams did the sewing
And with the help of God, it all worked out
Hard work and faith -- their kids did sprout
My father an attorney, my uncle a physician
All due to gram and gramps' prescient intuition
To emigrate alone, part of no community
to an unknown land of opportunity
OMENS
O’er wintry land bare trees now sway
On wing above, black birds traverse
Occluded skies of baleful grey
Outspreading wings imparting curse
Yet outcomes told by prescient sense
With omens of dark consequence
May be belied restoring sight
Of hope; see yon horizon bright
[Poem in 8x8 form]
Submitted to:-
Contest: Unrest of Spirit
Sponsor: Julia Ward
22 November 2018
The Pilgrim’s Ghost of a Thousand Heavenly Dreams
Looking through a magical dewdrop we now see an enchanted
Chandelier, liquid-sparkling pure, where a mystical quicksilver
Mirrors a living-moonlight reflection of a thousand radiant stars.
These stars are heavenly focus points that reflect the celestial
Magnificence of Almighty God’s prescient intention, whereby all
Cosmic music forms a clockwork of ticks-tocks of a certain vision.
This vision streams and sounds throughout the cosmos entire on
Star beams with the dimension, power, and force of Almighty God,
Whilst casting a glorious panoply of light that illuminates the darkness.
The reach of God’s eternal light into this deep-dark void of the cosmos
Is known as “The Pilgrim’s Ghost of a Thousand Heavenly Dreams” that
Has an undeniable metaphorical place in mankind’s collective psyche.
This ethereal, eternal ghost by God’s own direction on our mortal Earth,
Allows for mankind’s curious interest in exploring the deepest-darkest
Crevasses of the oceans and the silent sacred secrets of the cosmos itself.
This ethereal, eternal ghost as resident in mankind’s consciousness fuels
Man’s desire, as divinely inspired, to see ourselves as a mirror-image of God
Himself, fulfilling God’s desire that our souls shall ascend one day to Heaven.
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – October 10, 2018 (Tercet)
...Apologies to Heraclitus and W. H. Auden...
We, defeated by the merest things,
in defeat, endure...for now.
No abiding truth in faith:
origins and destinations
we cannot differentiate,
all random, unguided
by any prescient power;
but, not illogical
(there is no illogic.)
We impose all universal order,
influence what subsequently occurs,
to learn, or not, through endless repetition,
endless failure...and we are
but a current iteration,
here for now -- in constant flux,
defeated by the merest things.
Courage and nobility derived
from continued confrontation,
continued endless struggle,
let us show an affirming flame.
Rhythms of Glass
These shards of you
Broken from the whole crystal you
Glittering razors
Of soft defenseless
Leave me begging their wounds
To pierce me more
Each slithers delicate reflection
Holds you
With prescient
To my soul and heart
Longs
With darts and bards of blood
The fragile formed
Such succulent tortures
Dreams of you
Palpable
Fragments slide between
Such pulsing wants
Holographic dust
Of you
In fluid font signatures
Trammel through me
On tiny claws
Of bliss
And their ache
This needle points petal
In these shavings of you
Wafts electric spirit
In me through to you
Suffers desiderium willingly
My collected motes of a star
Burning kisses in my palms
A stinging draft of love
Slake my thirst
In quenching rhymes
Of you
Palpable
Fragments slide between
Such pulsing wantings
OMEN
O’er wintry land bare trees now sway
On wing above, black birds traverse
Occluded skies of baleful grey
Outspreading wings impart a curse
Omen of darkest consequence
Outcomes perceived by prescient sense
Oppress the spirit, damn the day
Behind the reaper, glistening beneath
the fading rays of light,
crude elements of happenstance
lie in its wake, passed over
and awaiting those who glean
the afterbirth.
Yes, there is that querulous
persistence of the poor,
that stubborn cadre of the prescient,
who will peer into our souls
and find us bankrupt,
mind and consciousness already unaware.
It is a curious, stolid procession
passing by--these ghosts
on their ironic quest into tomorrow.
No one may cheer them on; no one
may find a voice to hold them back.
There is no choice, for
we must be content to find ourselves
among the gleaners, though it is we
who sang our welcome to the reapers--
we, who watched the harvest come,
and hungered after it.
And it was we who faced the disillusionment
of barren fields with gleaming bits
of paper bibelot
to laugh and mock us
as we ploughed them underneath.
But fullness too, lurked there
in silent modesty behind the plough.
Patient gleaners know
that down the long, slow hall of history
there is a single echo:
Truth is unchanging...paradox!
There was triumph in the air,
and no man was a slave to it.
I deeply sighed and took a breath
and opened up my eyes.
And it was good.
~
Grease Monkey Rainbows
by Odin Roark
How colorfully the reflective smears ignited the senses.
How sinuous the undulating slick remained forever permanent,
its unintentional abstracts made prescient.
Dank syrup of engines idle,
spilled upon aged concrete
where the mechanic beneath rusted warriors
drained yesterday's tensile stress,
fresh loading tomorrow's fluid to live.
How focused his oily footprints remain,
now aloft riding the escort of Valhalla,
gliding upon colors of other-world palettes,
yet remaining forever heroic,
forever indelible,
in a little boy’s perpetual memory.
Yesteryear’s ever present ether continues embracing,
bestowing a blinding courage for the senses to endure,
even as the buried vestige remains dark.
The smell revered.
The smooth touch esteemed.
The unbridled colors forever a reminder of love.
Diesel rainbows,
still rippling in this man-child’s quiet ebb.
"My college try at 'You're in a Horror film "
something has taken over his spirit
I do think I'll be his next ...
The land line rings , I answer Hello ? a response with crackling voice.
" Do you remember me , I am an old friend ? "
Who is this ? I respond noticing the rain falling hard ..
a sketchy voice response..
I am here , can't you see me?
"is this a sick Joke ? as I grab a knife for protection"
I'm calling the police ! This is Harassment !
" The police are here ' ....'in a psychotic response
The lights go out , the lightning from the storm has
hit a tree, I am scarred now, looking for all candles to light my way
A loud Knock ! Again a knock , I slam the phone down , fearfully
lock the door fast, yet trembling. It's as if someone is breathing
a cold breath with a long finger nail running down my back ..
Knock Knock again , I look out the peep hole, it is the police !
Opening the door , The Policeman says " We are checking to see
if you are Ok ? You need to let me in and stand behind me "
The policeman calls for backup to Elm Street .
" Someone said they saw a tall man with a mask and knife enter
your basement , The storm has blown out the electricity, lines are down "
Grabbing the cordless, I respond " someone just called , scarring me! "
That is not possible , these lines have been down for hours , the person
driving by called prescient on a cell.
I try to get a line and the phone is dead ....
The policeman is searching the home with a flashlight .
As he goes into the Kitchen I see a large knife in his Back shirt ,
Now he is laughing ..the phone rings ..
'you're in a Horror movie contest '
Long Long Ago*
(revised)
“Tell me the tales
that to me were so dear
long, long ago,
long long ago.”
My fingers played
in simplified rendition,
prescient I suppose
of the life that lay ahead;
that flooding, someday,
would come my own memories,
my own long long ago’s
of youth bygone.
I was ten
and felt the music
through awkward fingering;
knew the import
of the music, the songs
grandma gave me, the lyrics.
“Dearie Do You Remember?”
“The Minstrel Boy”
Long long ago.
Long long ago.
Kathy Collins
Long Long Ago*
Thomas Haynes Bayly
popular song in the mid 1800’s
“Morning Star”
There, a Morning Star rose in the East
and reclined in the left side of my brain.
I called them Morning.
They called me Butterfly,
pinned me to the wall like I was an example
of what they thought love was like.
Prisoners are us, in this state of undress.
There is some pleasure in the pain
of a heart in full thrust, bursting open
like a dark, dark red rose.
The perfume piercing all senses,
intoxicating in full bloom, soft, full of dew,
inviting a kiss at close quarters
in their hard velvet time.
Face turned upwards
towards the wide smile of a burning sun,
arching Morning Stars and the immolation of fiery whispers
against the neck of a Van Gogh mind, the eyes fragile green stems, Monet irises swaying,
flecks of ultra-violet scryed within the treasure-pools of a twin flame reflected.
Gold stamens leave their trails like honeyed addictions, deliciously wicked;
Ochre-yellow ribbons tied around the tall stories of a whispering Oak forest,
the boundaries breaching the fire-shot hares and their blue-grey ghostgum sighs.
The ancient laws of desire -
distinguishing lust from love -
swallow us undigested, swept under the rugs of their Gideon pages.
Preying upon us, strange cardinals in their cloistered nests
in such complex states of red unrest, shake the boughs, to move leaves like fingers
that trace noughts and crosses over our naked hearts, sowing seeds in our breasts,
sliding their weathered veins all over our minds, shattering the blanched crystalised,
making the limbs of our stories flesh-borne, come alive.
We kiss under fresh, poisonous holly like it’s a new year.
The risks that we take for love,
the road to hell is paved with good intentions –
wearing fleece o’er wolf’s skin –
as below, so above;
The course of a full day never lets up.
The Sun rises in the east,
The Sun sets in the west.
We burn in between.
The embers of fire glow within the Moon’s luminescence,
ignis et aqua arriving like a tide hushing the prescient ocean
rocking the slick undertow - lux noctis aeterna sub silentio -
like a clam to be opened, a pearl to be plucked
from the fathomless depths of another dimension.
Over and over again, small victories are given up.
The shell discarded.
ex tenebris lux
Candide Diderot. ‘26
"This Naked Dance"
This naked dance
before the tenuous
judgement of sentences
the company of words
from all the silent voices
seated in the front rows
of this our dark audience
the jury of lost lovers
wanting their heroes
to hear songs stolen
delivered by angels
swallowed by demons
their notes played in
affidavits continuous
in the courts of denial
these habits contagious
lifted by suede fingertips
to Munch mouth
a cavernous silence
waiting for some
sound of contrition
from the you
without numbers
now free pool playing
piano keys
reversing the tune
of our journey
smyth sewing stitches
is your gaol
opening memories in
the industrial room
there are no windows
to see the blue sky
of you once were
some kind of happy
before the damage
I’ll walk through
all your mirrors
like a ghost
that haunts you forever
to find where
the heart of you split
and scattered
in the bleak corridors
of your prisons
forgiveness
comes and goes
in silent waves
back into the shores
and certainties of me
then is dragged out
tangled up to the mast with you
in the hangman’s rope
submerging
in the undertow
with the tide of our life
to where the things
with sharp teeth
wait for us
we are not fat enough
with life yet to be seen
as delicious
there is something missing
within us
we are standing still
we are asphyxiated
sucked to the sides of life we are
pilot fish in the corridors
of our phantom penitentiary
not prescient enough
to evolve fully our flavours
to become complete
so we continue to dance naked
in deeper waters
pushing envelopes
before the tenuous
judgement of sentences
the company of words
from all the silent voices
seated in the front rows
of this, our invisible
dark audience
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"Come as You Are" / Emilie Simone (Nirvana cover)
https://youtu.be/3So59E6NxSg
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
O Magog,
from the sterile land of Gog,
thou rejoicest over how thy biological idol father
hast devilishly embraced thee
Spiritual mathematics
offer free radical theorems
of probability analysis
Doth thy Gentile nuclear goggles
allow thee to see
the virtual microbe mushrooming variables
in a decaying half-life reality?
O bastard son
of a thousand fathers
Raised on sour milk doctrines,
from the hard paps —
Udders on an impudent heifer mother
of a thousand harlots,
has weaned thee
in the ways of greed and destruction
Canst thy cannibal siblings,
Tiras and Meshech,
help save thee
with their scientific, canine calculations?
O Magog,
from the mutated land of Gog,
will thy incestuous father’s
Tubal-cain covetous leprosy
overtake thee?
Thou loveth thy beauty spots
inordinately
Brimstone salt cities of wanton lasciviousness
pepper thy mutilated land
The merchants of concupiscence
travel ceaselessly upon thy algorithm waves
Slavishly trafficking tainted wares exponentially
in thy free marketplaces
As the integer worms of digital reproach
feed upon the Kittim kabuki faces
Probability analysis
predict with prescient accuracy:
The radioactive remnants
of a cancerous tumor civilization,
shall struggle mightily
to revive it’s flag half-mast past glory
O Magog,
the war dogs of death
howl oppressively for thee
Thy merchant ghost ships
of Tarshish
has become floating debris
Glowing green false profit wreckage
washes upon
thy polluted Gog shores continually
O Magog,
who shall account for thy losses?
Does not the tabulated numerical conclusion
reveal the astronomical costliness
of thy prolific, propagating cloned vanity?
Which of thy mariner children
shall read
the technological epitaph
on thy submerged Titanic tombstone?
Triple digit uncertainty doth statistically vex thee ...
because of the frightening probability analysis,
which thou vile reptilian mind didst not take heed
O Magog,
chief Gentile prince
from the barren hinterland of Gog —
There is no upraised hand
to retrieve thy dropped divining scepter
Dedicated to the Officers and crew of
USS Columbia (SSN 771)
Goodbye Sun
We are welcomed by men in
immaculate whites
Through a hatch
we descend a steep ladder
into "The Last Slider"
From a narrow corridor we enter
into the brain and nerves
of this vessel-
To my untrained eye the confusion
of cables overhead is bewildering
This black ship of stealth
tracks the world outside,
silently invisible itself
Rows of monitors, sonar devices
high powered periscopes
all with a myriad of buttons to push-
A marvel of technology -
yet men are the heart and soul
of this great ship
They are Submariners
They say goodbye to the sun
for months on end
Week after harrowing week they spend
day after day on grinding drills
where the only thrill is their daily meals
Systematic, methodical
They are human- in a ship of war
but a ship that exists for freedom
The Officers guide us through each section
The ship at rest has released them
from an endless commitment but
with a practiced eye
they are still attuned to every detail
Commanders almost prescient
so in step with every procedure
they can sense malfunction in their sleep
I notice the commitment to excellence
I note the pride behind the
preparations for our inspection
Blue curtains with the ships insignia
are drawn on bunk beds
Shiny copper engine parts, clean bright paint
reflects the values of those who
keep their vessel, ship-shape
Now I stand in the nose where the
weapons rest
The metal tubes look benign
for all the power they contain
Ironically in rows, directly above,
the crew's bunks are located-
in tiers of three -even sleep
is regimented
Photos of family are the only
human touch in
this dark, black, whale
of a vessel
The sense of duty for each individual
seems overwhelming
There is a spirit of complete trust
between them
This is a world for honorable men
"Victory is Silence"
I try to imagine daily living
the self-containment
the steely discipline
the choosing to go forward in the face of
uncertainty
Precision and man - morphing
The pact between Submariners is
absolute.
They move as one.
BRIAN'S CHOICE K,any form,any theme
Contest Judged: 5/19/2020 12:08:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
3rd Place