Long Foreshadowing Poems
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I'm remembering our tender moments; how sweet was love
that filled pages of poetry you will never read, where I wrote of
my affection and things I no longer have the chance to say.
Words of passion, anger, and dreams that were swept away.
Melodies of memories I hold, still flow within my broken heart.
I try to console myself with writing you since we've drifted apart,
by recalling your voice as it gently whispered close to my ear.
Utterances that I'll not ever forget because I hold them dear.
Had I only imagined or fantasized that you loved me, too?
No, I knew your heart loved mine before we both vowed, "I do."
I remember the day you took my hand and knelt upon one knee.
"Yes!" I cried, and I saw the desire in your eyes for want of me.
I cannot chase those reveries away. Ones of your lilting laughter,
thinking we'd share that tethered treasure of love forever after.
Love; the greatest of all glorious gifts to each other we could offer,
more priceless than precious gems or coins that would fill a coffer.
You once asked me to write a pensive poem about a fallen star ~
A foreshadowing as I think back now, pondering where you are.
I wonder if you still think of me with the same thoughts I remember
or have you forgotten me as if there's not a spark left in that ember?
Once it burned brightly. I don't want to believe that could be true
for my heart still beats with longing and the yearning want of you.
I will close this letter in these wistful words, "With love, always."
Perhaps not the sentiment that I should fondly offer you these days.
Forgive the stains that have blotched the ink. They're from my tears.
I haven't managed to staunch their flow, even after all these years.
I addressed the envelope to our home, but it matters not one whit
that neither of us still live there. I know it's time that I get over it
but this letter will join the others I keep hidden inside a desk drawer.
Bound with crimson ribbon, written for a love I can no longer implore.
All of the roads this bold rambler took
were narrow and dark; a half-moon hung very low
displaying its melancholic mood never turning mellow...
it had a perplexed glance as if it wondered how he mistook
its somberness as an anticipation to foretell sorrow,
which showed often when it appeared as a merrow...
wallowing in gleaming waves with brooding tones
that injected more fear into his strong bones!
How lost he seemed without any star, flickering from the Void,
to guide his footsteps; he often tripped and prevented
a fall with a tactic learned trekking through mountains:
when agility and strength were essential to his survival skills!
How he looked above to interact with someone he dearly loved,
who had gone beyond without a chance to say " Farewell, "
leaving many words on his tongue never spoken to dispel
how untrue her affection was whenever he sought truthfulness,
or proof that she had kept her vow as pure as her loveliness!
All of the roads that this bold rambler took
were the foreshadowing of events to come to shape his fate,
and as adverse as they would have been, he felt no immediate need to alter it
by accepting challenges and fighting off his rivals filled with implacable hate;
which antagonist force controlled his will? Did he overlook
his sensibility...was he mocked for being too honest?
Copyright ( c ) 2018 by Andrew Crisci
I'm thinking of nero..' as i read on (vision zero?) The rhetoric
Seems all burnt-out' like patriotisam.? Must be so many seeds
Of doubt? There's (ground zero) and zero carbon? Maybe a
Link.?? Do we need, a think-athon.? I'm putting it to you.!!
Maybe you'll notice ? Enough to take a look.? See whats
Going on.? Behind the seedy crooks.' Behind (the hope not
Hate) the positive slogans..That outline your fate?? Will you
Comply.? Shall many bend the knee?? Think.? i urge you all.!
On insinuation, on destination, on foreshadowing' upon the
Macarb indications to absorb.' Un-seeng such dark signalling
And virtue-less typology!
In Verona, his hand’s steady and grand.
Grateful eyes - he sees the gold in her.
With pomp regret, dear Mary’s knees, like sand.
The dynamite of God blows sin asunder.
The women carried her into life’s wake.
Her worldly goods, misunderstood, dismissed.
This Magdalene blushes fully awake.
She’s recognized - by Jesus’ heart she’s kissed.
The foreshadowing drop of jewelry -
the sudden shift of Mary’s soul - it’s light.
Her beauty breaks away from foolery.
The proud that scamped was blind - Jesus made right.
The colors on the artist’s palette toil,
release the scene of royal scent - rose oil.
2/1/2022
https://www.parkwestgallery.com/peter-nixon-favorite-painting/
Chambermaiden, a damsel in distress,
Cinderella, Prince's Valet high on Stella's finesse.
A fury by a butchered phreak,
screaming at him, no mercy to speak.
Living in underworlds with the creeps,
foreshadowing defeat.
Inebriated ex-socialite seeks Bhang,
meets manservant, hopping with the gang,
dodging a renegade from Hades,
in her ’98 Mercedes, green as despair,
his fate—servitude, escape just a prayer.
"Come hither, quiver, express card in the dresser,
stressor, benefactor, donor,
red eye for an eye—see it from my side,
in the black, red ink, brink.
Debutante saunters higher,
landing on her supplier’s bones."
Manservant spending nights with Pythia,
maxing the visa, obscuring the vista,
canopy open, hair blowing,
severing ties with the Phreak,
berated as he summits an intellectual, sexual peak.
"We reincarnate in the ether,
post-war fever,
two Gemini after Hiroshima,
ending the edema."
Trajectory lost in audio-tronic streams,
specters vocalize on the chorus machine,
sonic dream, quiet screams in a Fiesta,
sunset serene,
ready, keen,
torn apart at the seams.
Godless oracle with a Pluto-shaped crater,
underneath the beret,
Immortal spun out on prognosis,
rage hitting me deep.
Pythia, flushed, bitter red,
breath heaving, chest heaving.
Words stumble in gasoline,
purple and green.
Bumbling, fumbling, hostile,
peeling paint from blank walls—
committee, selective few.
Pity for Pythia,
teetering off the ledge,
obscene, smoking green.
Words paid for by the prophet of industry,
servant of power,
planting his own crop,
finding the hot spots.
Houses for dots on success’s map,
cheques signed to a woman on edge,
running from wrecked family homes,
parking lot regret.
Catching an ounce from a mobile house,
rolling down the street,
rent-a-wrecked, reeking of cheese.
Row upon row, he patrols,
marking targets with IOUs,
fast sales, cold criminal moves,
overcharging intoxicated fools.
Out of luck but not the stooge,
trading stash for a getaway dash
with his honey from the shadowed street,
whistling off-kilter,
mouth full of vapor, exposed brain-meat.
She fell from Olympus’s feet,
thrown out for misdeeds,
new queen on the block,
urgency speaks
To wander in drab gloomy streets.
Sleepy eyes, red cold nose,
darkened cheekbones,
a rumbling stomach.
A nightmare condensed,
no way out.
How many tears must he shed?
High on a building a large bird sat,
black as dusk, eyes searching for prey.
Was it a hawk or a crow?
His eyes could barely see,
but he could smell
the coffee being prepared,
the toast being burned.
All in vain, the bird was better than him.
He swallowed his pride
and slowly trudged
towards a day shelter.
At least there he could eat.
Then back again
in the dark streets
where he could hide
from the foreshadowing of death.
There was a whistling in the windy stops
a rustling of branches and leaves to find
slipping in and out the scattering of raindrops
a cardinal and a bluejay landing in the pine
a screech and click shout on the breeze of time
a foreshadowing of the storm clouded cries.
There were butterflies bees and flies
hovering within the flowers final demise
one more day of summer warm and bright
stretching out in August delight.
The end of seasons approach
as autumn chills slowly encroach
a day escape from the blistering and humid heat
when nothing moves and creatures sleep
the ever-changing world in revolution
bends to the sun and earthly delusions.
what to
do with
this word
what to
use it
for
for for
is the
word
stoke fire
blow bellows
heat til hotter
take with tongs
for it's almost
molten for to
be hammer plied
forty times speak
the anvil chimes
shaping perhaps
flattening exactly
not now known
at this time for
for can become
foreshadowing
but at this
beginning
it is being
forged for
what it's
worth but
dip it in
the water
bucket as it
steams to
become
solid
and become
the word
forage
all but the
Ulfberht
remains
so they can
wait while we
hunt and gather
once again
Form:
Picture on the Parlor Wall 9-27-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sampler on the Parlor Wall
Shadows born from dawdling light
Stretch across a firelit room set with porcelain cups,
From tea parties long ago and faraway,
With an invitation to sample sweets and savories
Like the sampler on the parlor wall.
Beneath neat rows of alphabets stories gather,
Verses stitched with silk and dreams
And numbers that taught a woman’s craft –
A child’s wishes fly with birds and lady bugs –
Wishes to convince a suitor at the door of her wifely worth
In tidy stitches foreshadowing an orderly life.
A young lady-girl in pantaloons and blue sashes
Weaves circles of symphonic dots in French wheels
While lazy daisy chains meander on her linen fields -
Magic flares in her zigzag lines, her wishes on wooly stars.
No signature remains from her little hand -
Her hearth, her home, her heart –
Only a legacy of butterflies and roses sampled on a parlor wall
And a tiny scarlet dot of imperfection like a signature remains
Embroidered into a sampler embracing each dawn and dusk.
Is it possible to envision a world without warfare?
"Nothing to kill or die for."* No dangers to ensnare.
Imagine living in harmony, where no one does wrong.
There'd no longer be the need to sing Lennon's song.
Imagine a peaceful planet, whirling about in space.
Can you see yourself as part of a new human race?
Sharing everything without need for avarice or greed.
No countries or rulers, for mankind shares one creed.
Can you imagine no hunger, nor plagues bringing death?
Living among each other on Earth and taking a breath
without toxins polluting the air, and no need to pop a pill.
"I wonder if you can,"* see a world sans weapons that kill.
It's 'a brotherhood of man'* coalesced in complete unity,
Earth, an allied planet, lands filled with golden opportunity.
All totally cognizant that coexistence is worth striving for.
'Imagine,' known as a foreshadowing of what was in store.
Perhaps that Utopian way of life exists only in a dream,
But what if Lennon's lyrics did not seem to be extreme?
Would his visions of tomorrow still be called 'hyperbole?'
Til then, mortality of all earthborn remains a sad reality.
May 31, 2022
Unity Consciousness Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
*Lyrics from 'Imagine' by John Lennon