Best Psychic Poems
Hashish smoke trails her
along a dusky corridor
Aka the hall of fires
where mirage chimeras unleash
Encumbered with hands splayed
her crystal ball lumens
wires ghostly apparitions
mnemonic attachments
What mystery ensues
a phantasmagoria
of horror nudging
the demonic
Sitters drenched
in profuse sweat
fainting one by one
Alas unconscious
their fate met?
Coroners couldn’t ‘ve clarified
Described as an arctic chill
bolting across the sector
through each limp body
claiming mortality
As icy temps rise
Hypothermia responsible!
for the fatality, for their demise
Latter days professing onto
recordings of a gathering that took place
confessing that a séance
performed by a mysterious woman
in a trance—was the case.
The
Moon is waxing
First quarter crescent
The beckoning begins
Nodding, gurgling
Opening realms unseen
to the naked eye
Madame
Mystic, psychic,
a beguiling storyteller
and Medium
Down in a cellar, along with a Ouija
volumes of her writings discovered
delving into société espirita
The Goldilocks of the occults
Esoteric subjects,
a burgeoning interest
Astral travels,
unexplained laws of nature,
powers latent in man
Madame channeled
ascended masters
The Voice of the Silence
The Two Paths
The Seven Portals
"gifts" from the specters
This time Madame stands
to receive between intervals
and only he is seated
Warning him of dark spirits
a dimension outside
of our physical time-space reality
shadowing, making absence
of light a necessity
To invoke them
another nod
Continues unabated
Reveal the truth!
By sacred decree, by order
Behind the phenomenon
details of schemes came to light
Denounced as Black Magic
she was no longer to fright
Marked as a fraud
it all a façade
The moon is waning
Third quarter
Thousands of baby turtles
followed each other into the sea that day
Where a large turtle-eating dragon
hid three feet under the surface, waiting.
She gulped them down in droves,
enjoying their taste. For it was everything!
Sensitive Turtle had a bad feeling about following,
So she strayed north, refusing to go into the sea.
Her sister got snotty with her, demanding to know
“what was wrong with her”.
“I have a bad feeling,” she said.
Her sister snorted, and picked up her step.
But other psychic turtles who also felt something
was amiss suddenly began following Sensitive Turtle north.
There were a hundred and sixty-seven turtles who followed
Sensitive Turtle that day, they were the survivors, and found
A new sea, one without a large turtle-eating dragon.
“But what if they had found a cliff instead and had fallen off the edge?”
My grandchild asked me.
“Ah,” I told her, if you follow your heart,
If you heed the messages your soul gives you,
You would never fall off the edge,”
I told her. “You would sprout wings and fly.”
She beckoned me to enter her world of mystery
Incense, smoke and mirrors, and untold witchery
I started walking by her, but something pulled me in
And so I dropped my money in her ancient box of tin
She led me through a corridor, into a darkened room
I followed close behind her trail of sweet, but strange perfume
We sat down at a table and she cast her cards aside
Uncovering a crystal ball with dancing flames inside
Her eyes began to darken as she stared into the ball
She fell into a trance, and then the Gypsy told it all
She talked about my sorrows, my failures and my wins
She knew about my deepest fears and all about my sins
From childhood to the future, she spoke about my life.
The little girl, the soldier, the lover and the wife
She knew about my lovers, and all about my past
And strung them all together like a movie’s greatest cast
Then suddenly, the Gypsy woke, the fire left her eyes
As if awaking from a dream in genuine surprise
Seemingly unfazed by all the confidences told
Dreams filled with the secrets which the crystal ball did hold
She walked me back out to the door, and we said our goodbyes
Aware of how her visions would forever keep us tied
Now every time I want to know what will and will not be
I’ll ask the Fortune Teller, for her crystal ball can see
Spirit ascending beyond physicality
Stepping through the shadow of light
Bringing to the surface what fades with age
Step through the shadow
Open the third eye
Stare into the future
Stare at the mirror as you die
I bought a ticket for the lottery,
then went to see a psychic, and she said,
“The leaves remaining in your cup of tea
show the greatest future I’ve yet read!
Your ticket for the lottery I see
you need to share with somebody whose aura
is gold! I see she’s asked for bribery
in her contest, and her name’s Casarah!
Don’t hesitate to let her know that she
will share great wealth with you; she cannot lose.
It’s written in the stars. I guarantee
it, but your poem as winner she must choose!
The money from the lottery will be
used by both of you for something great.
You’ll publish books that sell successfully.
Believe in what I say. This is your fate.”
These are the words the psychic said to me.
Casarah, are you ready for your fame?
(But just in case I lose the lottery,
that psychic is the one to take the blame.)
I’m visiting a brand new clairvoyant
if she’s good I’ll be her best client
She’s been recommended to me
though she charges a very high fee
I arrived promptly at a quarter to four
and rapped loudly on her front door
She opened the door wearing a scowl
and spat out these words with a growl
“Who are you …
I wasn’t expecting anyone!”
I said you put your profession to shame
and Charlotte-Ann … is a VERY apt name!
06/23/21
Burrowed deep,
within a physical structure,
a soul exists,
obscure;
locked behind an emotional gate,
desperately seeking the key of fate
that will unlock, releasing this spirit
from the ruins
of despair
onto a journey elsewhere,
soaring free of mental bondage
to that extraordinary place
known
as her own.
©Ana Espinola Collins
a tragedy strikes
biting my time,just waiting
they dont call me yet
Flutters a crocodile gecko his thick-edged tail,
And licks his sticky lips with his twisted tongue;
His eyes ablaze with fire, and in his abdomen,
Rotten corpses stand erect like haunting tombs.
And now - withering thuds of heavy strides
Drown the boulder, the child’s hideout,
And a wretch with a deep cut on his right jaw
Towers, beclouding him like a deformed ghost.
A tender home gecko breaks his own tiny tail
As a trick to escape from Crocodile’s grip,
Yet Crocodile lands on the tailor-less soul,
Seizes him by his neck, and they wrestle and fall.
Wresting - rustling stops, and sky stands higher;
Nature’s slow somber music laments in a choir.
14 lines
Jan. 12, 2021 (Originally posted on Aug. 11, 2020)
PODIUM PLACING PROMISE(7) Poetry Contest
Contest sponsor: Brian Strand
*A 2nd Place* in the following contest (judged on Aug. 18, 2020)
Aug. 11, 2020
INFLICTIONS Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Year 1488
Daring to hide it in verses and score,
Mother Shipton predicted her scrolls would not be understood until years after her body’s release.
Read aloud by an educated nephew, almost five decades after they were protected by a family of peace.
She may have been burned at the stake for her predictions of America’s Civil War, simply for being a she.
Her prophesies included horseless carriages, and men’s future unfathomable plans to conquer both the sky and the sea.
Understanding that a metallic monster, would change education, and the menfolk from farms would flee.
Pictures that feel alive – computers, U-tube, I-pads, video and their predecessor – TV?
Mother predicted all this and more. Daring to hide it in verses and score,
Nostradamus had protection of patrons, medical background, sublime.
Mother Shipton knew her predictions she had best write down in decipherable rhyme.
England’s most famous prophetess, born in Norfolk, England in 1488, she dared not share her fire. Prophesized that women would cut their hair short, and wear trousers, practically three hundred years prior.
When I think of her brilliance at hiding her mystical savvy, hiding psychic self in her moods,
Her declaration that “men will live as hogs” makes me smile, predicting processed foods?
London fire seeing before the fact, she knew of the Catholic Church’s fall, the rise of Elizabeth,
Me thinks a comet is coming that will circle the earth for six days, six nights, causing us instant death.
A homely woman, she may have been, but her ideas were sound, as they came right in.
Daring to hide it in verses and score, Prophetess Mother Shipton, forevermore!
Psychedelic music making me comfortably high
Lights flashing in the darkened, September sky
I’m feeling groovy as Visions of Johanna came on next
My IPod on loud as I tried so awkwardly to text
A message about an extraordinary, ancient tale
To my friend interested in every minuscule detail.
He knew this was not from some biblical verse
But revolved around a famous old religious curse
A Harbinger with a Psychic sending out cryptic news
About second comings and alternate devout views
Back two thousand years or maybe even much more
The prophecy had to do with a future, sustaining war.
A handsome man with thick hair will be in power
And killed from shots fired from a very high tower
His position then replaced by a series of unpopular lugs,
Whose pawns driven by a culture of violence and drugs
Will be forced into a war that can really never be won
Citizens will peacefully and violently protest until it’s done
And while Eve of Destruction played in the background
My mind travelled to Vietnam and the dead bodies found
My friend felt my story was just legend and not really true
But even so, it brought me to a time that I very well knew.
And the Psychic whose name to this day is a mystery
Held the secret of America’s future and turbulent history.
Between every sunset and sunrise
I offer my soul to the darkness inside.
My precious dreams the valuable prize
That the demons so scathingly deride.
In the darkness I search for a clue,
The key to this taunting maze.
Something borrowed, something blue
To lift this tired, worn out gaze.
I drown in every bitter sweet night
Calling your name over again.
Every soul has a blinding light,
I search for you in vain.
I dreamed that you would contact me
Once you passed the great divide.
But now that your spirit is soaring free,
In total darkness you seem to hide.
Let me feel your presence once more
Let me see your ghostly face.
I shuddering beseechingly implore
Let me again feel your warm embrace.
Between every sunrise and sunset
I try to forget this soulless night.
Good-day astral traveler, well met.
I was not born with second sight.
The man on the moon knew he could get ruined, if he couldn’t get back to his cocoon.
Was he maroon on the cocoon. Or just an illusion for a conclusion.
It could’ve been all a delusion without a conclusion. Said the Man on the Moon. Because, I just had a transfusion.
The man on the moon was late for his appointment with his pediatrician which was in prison with a dental technician.
Now you’re probably confused, with this, new news.
The man on the moon had news he was so confused. He felt like he was overused.
confidentially, Respectfully, I must tell you. What my pediatrician said.
I was a proud new father of a baby boy hemorrhoid. So proudly, he pulled out a Polaroid. And now he had a picture to share with his wife Sarah Lloyd
A “fat psychic” is a “four chin teller”
A yukker from my extensive comedy cellar
Where my funnies lie
With my barbiturate supply
Joshing in case some cops are Soup dwellers
There’s a sign on the street for a Psychic
With a special – 5 bucks for a read
Of your palm or by using the Tarot;
It sounds like a bargain, indeed.
But I do not believe; I’m a cynic
And I think that if I changed my mind,
I would not want a peek at the future
For I might not like what I would find.
Still, when I see that sign I imagine
What you see in a movie or show
As the seer turns a card and I wonder
If she knows what she’s claiming to know.