Long Precognition Poems
Long Precognition Poems. Below are the most popular long Precognition by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Precognition poems by poem length and keyword.
Something trembled the world,
It seems like endless,
horrendous,
But also tremendous:
The Amazon rainforest has burnt into ashes.
Before,
The rainforest was so fascinating,
We all appreciated,
But the tragedy still happened:
The Amazon rainforest has burnt into ashes.
Before,
We foresighted,
We foretold,
But we didn’t have this misfortune in our prediction,
Because greedy humans changed our precognition.
Before,
Animals enjoying their lives in the forest,
Hiding in the darkness,
we are striping the forest and
Not leaving any sharpness to them.
Despite that,
The rainforest didn’t burn into a wreck,
Those greedy humans are
Insurmountable to the lure of
Green leaves.
They got a lot of green foliages,
But these green foliages are not immaculate,
These greedy humans are not imitating those real heroes.
These leaves are intimidating us and,
Delicating our Earth.
Now,
The obsolete rainforest,
Only obtains fragments of it,
Which is dangling our hearts,
Feels like danger is surrounding us.
‘The things that we did before are scraps, isn’t it?’
We don’t know.
The only thing we know is,
While the greeds are splurging and scrambling their wealth,
Our mother Earth is splintering and screaming.
What is the future’s contention about Earth:
‘What happened to the Amazon rainforest?’
‘It has burnt into ashes...’
‘But, Why?’
‘Because every greedy human’s heart has burnt into ashes...’
Wind blowing,
Ashes away,
Turned into a grey river flowing,
Having this beautiful rainforest years ago,
Seeing the rainforest undergo.
You know what - we can’t regret,
Because we created all of these misfortunes with them,
We’ve trusted them,
They promised us.
But they broke it, broke the world into pieces.
Whizzlebuggled by the determined initiating committee
I ran screaming toward the ends of the river
Seeking asylum from the flock of the Status Quo of the Sixth Order
A robin flying overhead gave me a giggleberry feeling.
I deliberated starting my own murder of crows, only we would
name it a murder of peacocks, and I would turn into a male
as they are the extravagant ones.
A school of dippenlily fish offered me their assistance.
I did not take them up on it for my precognition kicked in
and I realized they had the same agenda as an army of
White Supremists.
So here I am, debating how to go about starting my
family, team or murder of peacocks.
First I have to transmogrify into a male
for the females are so damned plain.
She saw the crimson walls;
felt the apprehension and fear;
heard the screams without physical ears.
They were not familiar to her so,
she could not have warned them.
She had no idea where the house was so,
she could not have sent the police to help them.
The bloody memory left ghosts hovering
in her psyche for weeks;
knowledge of the slaughter, fed hungry nightmares;
as she prayed that she was wrong.
Whom and where remained elusive;
if only she knew; lives could be saved.
Premonitions repeat in dreams;
torturing the dreaming mind with,
precognitive news is bad enough, as it is; without the waiting and anticipation of hearing what one already knows.
When the house appeared on the nightly news;
the anchor told about the blood-spattered walls
on both floors.
Green nausea overcame her.
She agonized for a year;
rarely seeing or reading the news;
realizing that she might’ve prevented it.
Oh God, if only she’d known whom, when and where.
Precognition never specifies the details;
only the horrors yet to come.
Magical muggle, one of my dreams, delight me with your fanciness.
Magical muggle, come closer, and give me a taste of your pranciness.
“What are you doing in there?” My father roars at me.
Nothing, I lie.
“It better be nothing!” my mother says.
They have nothing to do with Muggles, lumping them together as worthless
beings, who generalize witches and wizards, and pick on us,
tormenting us because we are magical and have precognition.
But my gift of foresight has shown that the love of my life
is going to be an enthusiastic, un-biased, faithful magical muggle, and I am
much more powerful than my parents anyway. Grandma taught me that.
Hiding it well, biding my time. My true wizard love should be here in six
years and three days. That is how exact my gift of precognition is.
I smile, roll over and go to sleep, imagining our three
gorgeous half-breed children who will call me Mommy.
Do not be sad
I was one of the few born lucky I guess
grace now
freely released begins to leave me.
Reaching out to grab some one
being now slow
they are moving like stars
beyond my reach.
There are more days now than back then
where I am more afraid.
Owning nothing none of my affairs
how ever small are in order.
Having given more than I ever received
such things
are remembered more by others.
Having never given enough
it is by such people rarely thought of.
The things that I dream
still mostly come true people dying
never things that are good
precognition doesn't work that way.
My parent's and theirs all had good shots
of living
living their lives chasing the American
dream if but by a little it out of reach.
And still I don't know when one good man
dies is he replaced by a girl
maybe a boy
or is one born to a mother that
has to be good
or like most of the other's their life a waste.
Having loved once
being crazy in love I once was
there are and still were so many sad people
that never knew love
before they got old and forgot by none other
to be remembered.
The spirit of the forest appeared once briefly to me
I saw a wisp of a glimmer of a glimpse which no one else saw.
Or if they did, they would not admit it.
We were attempting to build a fire at the time.
We don’t need a fire, I told them, feeling angry.
For some reason, the spirit of the forest did not want one.
I was in a bad mood because they ignored me.
I saw an astronomical forest fire that kept burning.
We do not need a fire! I screamed, stalking off.
I could not get the feeling out of my head.
It was a spring day. The forest was not dry.
I have no idea why I felt so strongly about this.
Six months later, there was a huge forest fire that burned up this site.
I guess my precognition had kicked in.
I cannot get the spirit of the forest out of my head.
He and I had an affinity I guess. I wonder if he travels on when this happens
To another forest or to a heavenly realm?
Final Prophecy
by Michael R. Burch
Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.
Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.
Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon's illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.
But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.
***
Published by Penny Dreadful, The HyperTexts, the Anthologise Committee and Nonsuch High School for Girls (Surrey, England)
Keywords/Tags: Listen, heed, prophet, cry, crying, wilderness, voice, vision, visionary, dream, prophecy, judgment, judgement, warning, apocalypse, belief, baptist, baptism, proclamation, teacher, black, white, gray, moon, wind, speak, speaking, speech, instruction, teaching, omen, illuminations, intimations, ears, hear, bell, toll, tolling, peal, pealing, tone, I, Am, god, messiah, religion, spirituality, oracle, seer, sage, precognition, foretelling
Note: The poet as a "madman, alone, crying in the wilderness" is likened to John the Baptist, foretelling a momentous "second coming": his own, with no other Messiah in sight.
That neighbour has just banged his door.
Again yet again and yet again.
I, a one of superior quality, wish to beat
his barking bonce against the wall of his rathole.
But there’d be no grey matter
to dribble down the concrete.
An ugly slimy mush would not be excreted
from that crumbly, crinkly, brainless brainpan.
No brainbox there to squirt the grey stuff!
Oh, what do I experience?
A swirly-whirly precognition of a pleasurable
banging of that brain that isn’t there?
Do I not wish to tear it into shreds?
Funny how feral thoughts burst into one’s mind.
Again yet again and yet again, this superior
wants to beat and bounce that barking bonce.
(17 Sep 2024)
There are the few, then there are the
Rest of them.
Chatter boxes, bipolar manic woman, that men
Try to escape from.
Those that are men over here are of course put,
Into jails or prisons.
The magic of silence,
For the blessed few are able to dream any dream
Night or day
And prearrange the out come of what they dream, while
Wide awake before going to bed.
Without the preconceived notion of very hard work, to
Obtain the solution,
To each master piece, each work of art, even the words
That to most can't conceive.
For those few that have come they have not the ability,
To put up with the rest that make useless noise.
Precognition, remote viewing, complex math the writing of music,
The ability to master in a brief period of time
Most cerebral disciplines that take the rest forever to learn,
If they are blessed with that special genetic material.
Because for most that can travel into solitude, it creates within
Them that unnatural fear,
The fear that most have of living and dying alone.
James McLain Friday, October 13, 2017