Long Fortune teller Poems
Long Fortune teller Poems. Below are the most popular long Fortune teller by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fortune teller poems by poem length and keyword.
The aged fortune-teller sits behind a large round table which is decorated with old lace-trimmed scarves, sequined tassels, and shiny gold-colored coin trim. She tells me to cross her palm with silver, meaning she waits to be paid for her services. After I place my money in her wrinkled palm, she adjusts herself in her heavy wooden chair. She begins to gaze attentively into the depths of her glass crystal ball which rests atop a wooden ornate stand. Her weathered fingers caress the glass gently. I sit, quietly and patiently, while my heart pounds in my chest. I tremble in anticipation. The fortune-teller's eyes begin to squint. She fixates on one area of the crystal ball. What does she suddenly see? I become anxious. What will my fortune reveal? My heart begins to beat harder and faster. She raises her head slowly and she stares at me. I am motionless.
Once upon a time, in a town not far from here,
on a day that was not bright, on a day that was not clear,
a boy was born, and the newspaper would say,
"It was a partly cloudy day."
Everybody said, "What an odd little feller".
So, one day, his mother took him to the fortune teller,
but she only said as she drew up her shawl,
"Suddenly, I have a partly cloudy ball."
He met her in the morning, early in the Spring,
and by and by, offered her a diamond ring,
but true love once more eluded -
the gem he gave was cloudy and occluded.
His heart was not broken. It just had a little crack.
He sighed and went home early. Then he hit the sack.
He didn't shed a tear or even cry -
he just blinked upon each partly cloudy eye.
In his head, he puzzled as he lay awake,
but life to him seemed hopelessly opaque,
and his confusion would enshroud
a mind partially covered by a cloud.
The years, one by one, eventually passed
by the bloke known for nothing but being overcast.
I'm sad to report that he died just yesterday.
The paper said, "It was a partly cloudy day".
She grabbed my hand and turned it palm up
Stated the obvious and read leaves from a cup
A sigh came from her heavy breast
I thought I’d offer her a test.
I was married, I began, to a woman, not a man
An eyebrow raised as she formed a quick plan
You’ll marry again, written in your palm
I wasn’t excited, but remained, strangely calm
Revelation after revelation; this woman’s good
At stating the obvious, just as she should
I looked intently, asked will I have a child?
Definitely more than one, her eyes were wild
You’ll live in a mansion with a wonderful lass
You’ll meet your soul mate, I’m not being crass
Children will fill every spare room
Laughter will echo, love will bloom
The soothsayer, finished on a positive note
I crossed her palm and put on my coat
David Cox 01/03/23
I was at a carnival when I saw a fortune teller
Dressed in a very colorful ankle length skirt
With a matching peasant blouse and bandana
Who was saying come gaze in to my crystal
Ball.
It will show you what you want answers to
Most of all.
Would it be marriage? Nah. You wouldn't
Settle for average.
How about finances which are all the rage?
Could it be the one and only love of your heart?
Who will be with you til death do you part?
Maybe you like to travel as a famous personage.
Awe! It's business. I can show you an inside
Leverage.
None of the above. Your a cynic?
I will prove this is all authentic.
Nope not in this age.
My pocketbook is not big enough to find out
Whether you are or are not a fortune teller
Or sage.
18 Oct 2014 7:48 AM
I want to help you smile
To relieve your troubles for a while
I am not a clown or comedian
And certainly not a fortune teller or median
The spirit that guides me to do good
Is the spirit of God, the only one who would
My heart breaks for those in misery
I want to hug them and help them be free
I listen and I love
I advise through the voice from above
To help and befriend anyone where I am
So I'll see them again in the coming promised land
A true love nature is what I want to achieve
Its what God wants us to do and what I believe
Not out of fear of what may come
But because we are like His Son
Living a life of love, mercy and caring
A life of selflessness and understanding
Year 1488
Daring to hide it in verses and score,
Ursula 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.
Ursula 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 Ursula Shipton, forevermore!
I was in a bar called Saint Archer . . .
it was a wild place . . . . full of drunk people
I was feeling a bit tipsy
so, went looking for the washroom
found it
and Zoltar was waiting . . .
~ have you ever heard of Zoltar the Fortune Teller
insert some coins, and his eyes light up, his arms hover
over his lit crystal ball, his mouth moves and Zoltar speaks
words of wisdom, and gives out a printed fortune card ~
the problem was that this Zoltar was speaking to me
as though I had put money in the slot (but I had not)
his eyes glowed, his mouth smiled, he had a deep voice
I moved closer to hear him . . .
~ good, good, closer my dear
the next thing I recall was spinning in a whirlwind
when the wind stopped I was not in the bar anymore ~
I had no idea where I was
but it was not unpleasant . . . it was a cozy room
welcome to my home, said Zoltar
I have made us some tea
sit, sit and lets talk about life
you don't seem the type for . . . that bar I think
well, I said . . . I'm not
~ we talked and laughed for hours
until I was getting sleepy, so sleepy
when I woke . . . I was in my bed at home
Zoltar was gone and I felt such sadness ~
later that day I went back to the bar
to the place where Zoltar had been
but nothing was there . . .
I asked the bartender about Zoltar
you must have been drunk . . . Miss
we have never had such a thing _
the child’s fate line split her palm
Deep and deliberate, it favored mystic crosses
the soothsayer had never seen such a palm
she had heard of the possibility, though
she looked into the child’s eyes
they were innocent, light blue, trusting
you will make a difference in the world, she told the child
what will I do? the child asked
You will follow your heart she told her.
She patted her hand, because she could not resist.
This was a peace keeper, it was rare to find one.
Your heart has the answers, the fortune teller said.
Will she be rich? This question was from the child’s mother.
Rich in experiences, rich in friends, rich in adventures.
The child left smiling.
You are too vulnerable the gypsy fortune teller told me, narrowing her eyes.
I smiled at her. I know my irises were dancing. “I know!” I quickly agreed.
She tried to warn me. I needed to build walls to protect myself.
I have never built them and I never will.
Wall building is not something I do.
I am an empath, and I love people.
Yes, my vulnerability hurts me sometimes.
I am tossed inside tornadoes, and thrown into rain barrels unexpectedly.
But I am a survivor.
Sure, I expect others to love me the way I love them.
Sometimes they do, often they do not.
Sob. Sob. Whine. Whine.
I laugh.
Because my crying is private.
I save it for my alone time.
Not wanting to burden others.
Wanting only to uplift them, nourish them and make them my tribe.
If they kick me, shun me, and beat me.
It’s on them.
Like my daughter says “It is really hard to hit Mary Poppins.”
Walls? No. Never. It’s not my style.
And I am practically perfect in every way.
You wanna know sumpin sumpin?!
In the garden of life's relentless seasons,
bloom and wither,
don't ask me, for WHATEVER REASON,
faceted petals fall like molted feather,
turn to moltened Carbonite
if you get the right bearer.
YOU GET ME, miss been self miss-treatin?!
Each moment is a fragile puzzled masterpiece, for reason,
to pick you up in it's pieces and
put you into the big picture.
(Just like your man should be doin!), mm"
"You see, in the Carnival of souls,
"the ocean of wandering orphans",
(each an ingredient, expedient to it's own-
notions- honed- expose ').
Liquid, potions alchemized in the chemistry
of personalitay,
conceived in sonar avatars place-holding for the
"genuine article" for sanctioned interactivity
(in demarcation zones), I must say.
Looks like yours has been crossed on the way!"
In our cult of masks that influence the
wearer to be convinced of true identity as proof in the mirror.
Things cannot be made to be unclearer.
You gotta be yourself baby, shine on, be it what it may!
You know that, a Phantom of the Opera has taken sanctuary in the midst of the scene,
plays on your emotions like aphrodisiac
given a Mati Hari, please!"
That's why she ain't been talking to me!
A trailblazer, that one,
igniting the bloom of your seasons,
igniting strength in the depths of vulnerability,
pregnancy out of the dark tunnel
of winter reclusivity.
Her fertility ritual sparking a coming of age,
and the pairing as a wage.
I may be a muse, but she, she is not only acting in motherhood, baby, she is the stage!
You don't want to miss that show,
I am telling you right now.
Not that anyone does.
She is open for business.
You know what I mean!?
But you see there is a cost.
Feelings are the price of the ticket,
it's dealings skulldug-in-triplicate.
In the abyss of despair, hope lingers,
like a monster, there.
Momma Moon, winks, anytime honey, anytime.