Best Prognostication Poems
Black
The shade of void;
containing
universes within universes.
Black is the onyx eye of God;
the obsidian mirror of prognostication
the future’s revelations.
Black is the beauty that highlights color;
pigmentation swimming in the void;
abstract muses, dreaming dreams;
birthing visions.
Black is the liquid zen;
where I become one with the source.
Wandering through the crystalline mists,
is truly a revelation.
Dreamers merely dream,
but seers roam misty, dark realms,
to find the truths, which others would hide.
The swirling fog forms;
takes its sweet time.
I seek clarification;
Fog only hints, at life’s coming storms.
Some have died, for their gift;
slaughtered by those who can’t or won’t
try to understand;
insisting that,
they must be of service to others.
It’s no comfort to know events,
Before they occur, but
God gives gifts.
Prognostication is one of the
Best and worst gifts.
The god within,
will not be silent;
inner knowledge is the wheel,
that steers us to safety.
A prognosticator channels the map,
for those who cannot see.
Fierce am I, and fearless
Challenging the shades of winter
Taunting its dreaded demise
Mocking the shadow's prognostication
Tickling the timid hearts
Of somnambulant lovers
Arising to a chilling challenge
I stand the guardian of March’s madness
Exacting a toll on all who pass
For I am February
And I hold no heart
But yours
Black
The shade of void;
containing
universes within universes.
Black is the onyx eye of God;
the obsidian mirror of prognostication
the future’s revelations.
Black is the beauty that highlights color;
pigmentation swimming in the void;
abstract muses, dreaming dreams;
birthing visions.
Black is the liquid zen;
where I become one with the source.
8-25-2021
The Color Black' Contest Info
Chantelle Anne Cooke
Folks wait with bated breath 'cross the nation,
For Phil's insightful prognostication.
What will his prediction be?
We will have to wait and see,
After Phil wakes from his hibernation!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
(Not for contest)
Everyone had a unique reason for playing the Game
as we find different means for surviving Life
until the proper seconds of Death come stomping by with insistence,
some want intellectual respect shown with agitation in the opponent's eyes,
others crave the anxiety of prognostication
like gladiators uncertain of how to strike,
people commence the battle because they have something to prove
as Bobby boldly reproved the Soviets
on their asinine assumptions of superiority,
regardless, all who touch the Board want desperately
to understand the Game,
it's rituals, it's spirits,
the possibilities alive & haunting the 64 squares,
to honestly provide a homage of mind to History and to invention,
as if the nature of Chess is a dream of God's,
a subconscious engineering of grappling wants & needs,
of fears & hopes, of bravado & caution,
32 weapons arranged handsomely for the express channeling
of the Divine creative compulsion of Providence itself,
geometry made grand & gallant,
a homicide for Honor performed in the pressure of an hour,
all skilled players realise at some point
that quality brinksmanship ascends over the voice of victory
and can be reduced to the amazing beauty
of integrating logical processes with artistic allure,
misdirection a linchpin of the Master's ancient algebra,
momentum the indispensible monarch of strategy,
without It One is dictated,
mating nets, positional play, tactical moves,
a temple devoted to timeing -
J.A.B.
She smiles
and considers the crowd,
all backward somersaulting
detached vagabonds, all,
serious soft smalls revealed -
marshmallows imbued
with the glee of writing
irregular poetry;
works of art thou art,
thou art, thou art, all indeed -
and what did Dickinson say,
“the Maples never knew
that you were coming -
I declare, how red
their faces grew” -
well, we all march on,
and by the side of our roads,
the righteous town criers
of prognostication, stand
their grounds for commentary,
like sensate servile monks
full of the base sound facts,
ringing their shellac bells,
like an exercise in pulling weights;
the waits inside their cries foretell,
of the things we do not know,
will never know,
like the bride we all are,
gullible, innocent of what is to come,
but we dance our dance
flirting with luscious life
beckoning come hither,
we still write our own vows,
and throw our skirts asunder,
spinning bottles, all undressed
half addressed half said,
punctilious lost in
wayward pentameter,
such bad whirling dervish
behaviour,
truth and dare
and Father Time
will kiss and tell
we poetically march on
we all march on
we think we know
which side we're on
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“All those Hills you left for me to Hue,
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued”
Emily Dickinson. March.
I was born on July 20, 1958.
Being one of seven children and having a mid-summer birthday, even as a young boy, it was
not uncommon for my birthdays to come and go without much fanfare.
In the winter of my Fifth Grade year at school, we had an assignment to write a short-story.
I was already in love with writing way back then. My short story was on a topic that was
very much in the news at that time and a very interesting and exciting theme for a young
boy. I wrote a short story about me being the youngest astronaut in the space program and
being selected to be the first astronaut to walk on the moon. I was aware at the time, that
the US and USSR were in a Cold War race to be the first country to achieve that lofty goal
and I knew it was bound to happen soon. To make my story even more special, I wrote that
this wonderful event would take place over the coming summer, on my birthday!
Well, lo and behold, as the winter turned to spring and spring turned into summer the Apollo
11 space mission launched from Cape Canaveral carrying three astronauts, two of whom
were targeted to walk on the moon.
As my 11th birthday approached, without any notice from anyone else, I watched in awe as
the Apollo 11 made its way to the moon. On July 20th, 1969, the lunar landing module,
Eagle, set down on the moon! I remember expectantly waiting for the astronauts to be given
permission to exit the Eagle and step foot on the moon’s surface as the hours of my birthday
ticked down.
It was about 10:00 pm eastern time when my parents finally sent us all to bed on the news
that Mission Control made the decision to wait until the next day to send Neil Armstrong out
of the lunar module. With tears in my eyes, I went to bed thinking that I missed my chance
to share my birthday with history and to have had my short story prognostication come true.
At a few minutes before 11:00 my parents woke all of us up to come watch as Neil
Armstrong could wait no longer and talked Mission Control into letting him walk on the moon
without further delay.
So, at about 11:00 pm, on my 11th birthday, the men from Apollo 11 walked on the moon for
the first time in history. One small step for man and one giant link to history for one small
boy in Charleston, West Virginia.
And, that is when 11 became my favorite number.
I saw a man today who was walking with a cane,
His knee would give him trouble whenever it was going to rain.
On his knee’s prognostication you could place a bet,
If you saw him limping by you know that you’d get wet.
But if you saw him walking by with a spring in his step,
There were only two reasons that could account for his pep.
It could be that the sun is high and will continue shinning bright,
Or it could be that he got lucky when he went to bed last night.
So if you wanted to know if it was the sun or an amorous interlude,
You’d have to meet up with his wife and check her attitude.
The oceans are a polluted mire
The land is choking on plugs and wire
And rainforest are ablaze with fire
The future could not be more dire.
The sky is full of toxic chemical trails
And the earth on which we live is frail
A mix of pollutants and Pesticides Leave the air stale
This is a very sad and sorry tale.
Meanwhile many species are near extinction
Our humanity is not shining with distinction
I could make a prognostication or prediction
But what's true is this tale is real and not fiction.
23/5/18
I pored over my weather maps contriving a prognostication,
Of the weather forecast for the consumption of the British population.
It comprised all the towns, villages and shires from A to Zed,
To include the burgs of Wookey Hole, Wyre Piddle and Guys Head!
The towns of Crazies Hill and Cuckoo's Nest could expect clear skies,
Nasty, Mucking and Mousehole were included in this surmise.
Rain bode for Scrooby, Spital, Tiptoe and Brian's Puddle,
Ugley, Ramsbottom, Fitchfield and the village of Affpuddle.
Hail would visit the towns of Piddlehinton, Diddlebury and Pill,
Sots Hole, Inkpen, Birdlip, Scagglethorpe and Toot Hill.
I warned Catbrain, Clock Face and Daffy Green to expect sleet.
That also included Giggleswick, Kibblesworth and Cackle Street.
Broadbottom, Muggleswick and Barking were to be aware of fog,
As well as Yelling, Wigglesworth, Slaggyford and Black Dog.
Scattered clouds were billed for Crackpot, Beer and Fairy Cross,
And for the areas of Fugglestone, Great Snoring and Balls Dross.
Beanacre, Fatfield, Wham and Jump could expect some light snow.
Raging gales I predicted for Lickey End and Harrowbarrow.
Conditions change in minutes in High Brooms and Frog Pool.
I dare not divine weather for those blokes, 'cause I'm nobody's fool!
Congressman and senators forewent
all manner of civility, fidelity and integrity wii
hull ding broadswords, derringers
and firearms as all hell broke loose as testimony
to the dire prognostication foretold
more than saber rattling and Gatling guns que
kind from lambastes, fisticuffs
and brickbats ratcheted up as agents provocateurs nee
said obedience to semper fidelis credo, coda and cock knee
stance when dire straits called for restraint
against excess versus raising cane old hickory
i.e. Andrew Jackson latched onto when opposing with energy
and verve espoused by fellow delegates, and his hologram ghost bloody
from battle scars outside and/or inside
the halls of government where blows bashed
dovetailed elected legislators to officiate
as angry birds viz brouhaha clashed
Federalist against their nemesis
of the twenty first century
during the term of Donald Trump
who throve on the cutthroat frenzied
internecine lawlessness dashed
to and fro, hither and yon any hope for civilians to escape bloodshed
spilled from without vaunted halls of justice,
the approach of doomsday
writ large as anarchy and mayhem flashed
with uproarious coup d’etat,
when Democrats outliers gnashed
teeth, and nonestablishmentarian outlaws
pistol whipped and hashed
tagged traitors who roared America
went bankrupt at sold at fire sale price slashed
when Donald Trump ran the country
into the ground evidenced by Molotov Cocktails residue
in concert with the sulfuric odor of hand grenades trashed
False Prophets
Spirituality for one, atheism for other
deterred
Skeptic dissenting extreme religiosity
wickedly interred
Charlatans deluded permeable minds
weaponized infectious lie
Prognostication of human destiny fails
for in time tyrannical powers, die!
Penned: 1?11/2022
12:18 a.m.
Lake Worth
Florida USA
Shall we dance
Shall we dance, Mystery Woman, shall we dance?
Shall we tango with words, slowly, to learn
Each other ‘s rhythms of wit and being?
Shall we dance a pavane of polite conversation,
In orderly procession of statement and reply,
Graceful development of theme and variation?
Indeed. Let us dance. Let us waltz towards
Assonance or dissonance, when the floor becomes
Crowded with swirling, twirling, dancers,
Or empties into hollow phantoms of memory.
Let us dance.
Come, let us send felicitations and formal invitations,
Let us share our cogitations and wild imaginations,
Full of wry observations and subtle intimations;
Written to rain’s roaring, hissing inundation and the
Throaty punctuation of frogs ‘neath the warm precipitation.
Let us dance.
For who can tell, with certain prognostication
If our feet will entangle in clumsy dis-coordination;
Or Fred and Ginger the world, at our integration
Into a perfect, combination.
Let us talk, with caution, doubtfulness and hesitation,
Touched with optimism; ignoring past complications
With only future contemplation.
Shall we engage with witty conversation and bold
Determination, to see what might be?
Shall we dance, Mystery Woman, shall we dance?
Takes it a powerful, almighty congerie of the
Most toilsome and rigorous lucubration,
To write these, my poems...my poetries.
Or, insofar as declaring, do I
Attempt thus to prevaricate?
Is my literary legerdemain
And poetic prestidigitation and prognostication such that it
Requires little duty, less laboriousness, and a
Far lesser sort of toilsomeness to compose this,
My poetry?
This be the forty-fourth poetic work by my hand enwritten
In this hebdomadal period-
This week, in short.
Yes, in something lesser than a hebdomadal span, even
Did I complete, thus far,
This three-notebooked writing.
Quotidian was this writing and diurnal,
And hodiernally I can write little of the quondam poems:
Written in such a fervorous, blazing, blurring manner,
That I scarce am sure I canst rightly recall the composition of a solitary one.