Forebode Poems | Examples

Cassie the Witch

Cassie, a green faced witch could not find the right kind of man
I think I’ll make an elixir and create him, she would deadpan
She actually did it, wearing her fanciest ruffled dress
It had not been ironed, so was a bit of a mess

Her purple hat had rosettes of green, fuchsia, and teal
She incorporated a few items she got “in a steal”
her red curly hair got close, and a few of them dropped in
He came out perfectly lovely with bright pink skin

Sorry she said, but I wanted a green-skinned guy
He jumped out of the cauldron and showed that he could fly
she got on her broom and chased him off over a hill
spoil alert, this did not have a happy ending for this guy named Will

He got tossed off his broom and fell into a rather deep pond.
Cassie cast a spell, and he turned into tall pea green frond.
He was not the guy for me she said, picking up an old toad.
The next experimental ingredient, a gloomy forebode.

For Wynnis Johnson

We are life unto death sealed in its hold
  when mortal limits fill a dateless urn,
a worldly spirit in a spirit world
  for dust you are and to dust you return.
To do and unto my lost cause to teach -
  did I not that nobility disgrace?
Yet still you sought to seek, to touch, to reach,
  and to look upon the soul and its face.
It grieves me so in your deathly still vale
  that cruel fate did your own fears forebode -
an honoured place far beyond this travail
  waits you O’ teacher and last tributes owed.
Real was my discontent, my foolery,
yet you never failed or abandoned me.


           Written: February 1994



*Wynnis Johnson 1939 ~ 1993 was my high 
  school math teacher at Rangitoto College 
    in New Zealand. May she Rest In Peace.

Spells

Words,
Sniffed by open ears.

Tangled sounds, of throats whose thyroid pounds,
For sakes, palavers and second rounds.

Hearing me, I learn to hear of you,
Your words my throat encode.
Vocalizations, tell tales of supplication,
Certain senses must've forebode.

Spasms

These quakes and shivers of mine,
Are they tales forebode?
Language spat, drool untold,
Encrypted bits by line.

Does the anchor sit?
Cracks in dorsal fins,
Pinch the nodes whose nervous system knows,
Better than to think.

Juniper pine, ferment pepper mend,
The ache of later hours,
To quench the essence ever tends, 
To that which self devours.

Canticles of echoed places, 
Hummed in spaces felt at once,
Coded corpus, temporal traces,
And seemly more than nonce. 

If only I was less than this,
As only now's enough,
To be all, I'd be remiss,
Missing all the stuff.

Splitting Us and Them

Within a chosen realm, 
Empty, yet occupied by many a mind
Stacked upon the next, as chaos forebode,
They’ve left their very own bodies behind.

In there, they’re Theirs, 
The Them, whose glimpse the gospel pined.
Stacked upon the next, in order by code,
Their there, where they’re confined.

As if, as if, They’re there, 
Yet neither hitherto here nor hither beheld,
Beyond on behalf our whereabouts share,
Here, where body and mind must meld.

Within this obligatory abode,
Full anatomy empty apart flesh and bone,
We bend to pretend the anarchy,
We wrought ere we’ve ever known.

“We’re their's,” 
He said,
In absolution,
Sure we’re here for share,
Yet neither fear nor despair was made aware, 
In replacing “our” with “their.”

Augusts turn

I saw you
tip toe through the change
Unflatteringly and seamlessly
You turned from Summer to August
The forebode was bothered
I was sleeveless until you found me
That  Tempest wind
with its own perilous sermonizing

The dull fruits  were harbingers
from another's basket
Clumps of tenderized grass
ebbing in its lost impress
You scoffed at me
whilst I unwelcomed you
Ill affording me
in the ruffled cross hairs
of spite

Song of the Wind

On waves I swept from clouds of grey
to make once tranquil bliss astir -
together, we would join the fray -
a tumult tango beckoned her.

Fandango spin upon the seas
where tempests tease a tropic storm.
What once was born a peaceful breeze
now grows in yield - now comes the swarm.

On every churning white-capped wave,
my breath in howling echoes dwell,
then dance ashore and misbehave
where Nature's fates forebode, foretell...

Asleep At the Wheel

Nodding off is a big part of my life now
I've reached that magical age
Sit down to watch my most favourite show
And wake up later in a rage

My favourite show, damn well missed it again
Haven't seen it for maybe a year
For all I know they cancelled the damn thing
Been one of my very worst fears

My biggest scare is nodding off at the wheel
Once it scared me to death
Woke up with a start, but still on the road
Pulled over as you might have guessed

Sat there shaking uncontrollably for a while
Till I was ready to get back on the road
The first and last time it happened to me
Still a horrible feeling of forebode

Potholes

There was once a weavin' driver named Joad
   
   Nabbed by cops, drivin' in manner forebode

      Asked if he had been boozin'

         No sir, I am just cruisin'

            Tryin' to avoid potholes in the road

Tear a Leaf

Tears are the words of my heart,
My heart’s faltering voices         
The reassuring echoes of my soul;
When my heart hurts
my eyes cry tears,
They also shed tears
when my sad soul rejoice.

Lo, my life is engulfed
in a raging firestorm,
like the flowing molten lava
a trail of tears streams down
setting my soul on fire.

As each leaf falls and each teardrop shed,
they tell a tale:
Falling leaves foreshadow 
the onset of winter.
So do falling tears forebode 
the coming of woeful nights…

Oh, as the season turns
and as the time turns,
It behooves us to turn over a new leaf
and tear apart from the hurting past.

Wistful Wayfarer

A peaceful path some may call a rough road,
In succulent scents--they feel a forebode.
Me--I'm only a drowsy dreamer
pitching pebbles at all troubling times.
Searching skies for lovely rainbows,
climbing clouds above mountaintops.
A wistful wayfarer finding my way
                                         
December 15, 2021
rewritten as free verse July 12, 2022

Love, Live, Care

Love is forbidding, forbidden and forebode.
Love is misgiven, given and owed.

Love is flying with no wings in no air.
Love is burning your soul without a care.

Love is beauty, it’s magical and fair.
Love is poison, a bullet coming through the air.

Love is supreme power that makes you weak.
Love is lost words, no talk, no speak.

Love is broken promises be you strong or weak.
Love is equal to the alpha, the timid, the meek.

Love is the most precious thing you can give and share. Love your heart out. love, live and care.

Weather Or Not

Cold winter's breath blows
Icey fingers decorate
Dark clouds forebode snow

Chance climate holds thus
Dancing white will soon alight
The god's magic dust

Colorless earthscape
Snow maiden weave thy blanket
Fair comfort to drape

The Snowy Road

A time ago,
After it snowed,
My friend forebode,
A certain road,
The shortest way to go.

Yet I was slowed,
So on this night,
The moon was bright,
I took a right,
And went on down the road.

And to my sight,
I could defend,
Against my friend,
But would depend,
On if the end was bright.

But at the bend,
I saw it close,
And so it goes,
The road I chose,
Was dead upon the end.

Succora and the Earth Prophet

German’s north wind’s tenacious wail was a harbinger of misfortune.
Grayscale storm clouds forebode a possible apocalypse.
SheWolf’s intuition was resolute and obstinate about hiding the elf wand.
Wolf Trend did not have the stamina to dispute a prophetic hunch.

Succora, their youngest wolf cub, a runt, had her own prediction.
A vehement dream caused her to howl her distress. She was stubborn.
Her mother gave her pup an uncompromising glance. How tough are you?
Her vitality is not good enough, Wolf Trend said to his mate.

She is the seventh runt of a seventh runt of a seventh runt SheWolf stated.
Wolf Trend was silent. His wife had a strong will, and sorcery on her side.
He dared not mess with her robust tenaciousness; he did not have the verve.
Take the token for the earth prophet, he said, as Succora turned to leave.

The fervent earth prophet was delighted with the almost forgotten elf wand.
From a hardy oak, this jeweled beauty is fashioned with sturdy willow.
You have such zest, he says to the tiny wolf pup, for a runt of the litter.
The fervent animal watched her mentor closely, recognizing him from other lifetimes.

• Short Forebode Poems
• Famous Forebode Poems
• Best Forebode Poems
• Read Forebode Poems
• Long Forebode Poems
• Forebode Quotes