Long Predictive Poems
Long Predictive Poems. Below are the most popular long Predictive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Predictive poems by poem length and keyword.
Deep state people, deep state minds
False importance, jobs contrived
Guardian people, warden minds
You’re not the people of my kind
Your crimes are well investigated
To lay the charge on those you hated
To set the safety, you threat and punish
Your dreamland state still cannot vanish
You welcome those who come to kill
A few cruel fates make no big deal
You tax the pensioners, to draw
Another graph to make the score
Your preconceptions are predictive
You rules are very much convictive
But not for those, who live in peace
Who wouldn’t go for golden fleece
Deep state people, straight lined minds
A state more shallow how to find?
I reckon it’s a bit too late
Your cockroach breed fills every state
Screen springs to life
Icons populate digital landscape
There in the middle sits that little box
Please enter your password
Thinks what was it?
Do you want a hint?
Who was your best friend in 1957?
Sorry wrong answer
What was your first pet’s biological mother?
Sorry wrong answer
What is the height in millimetres of your favourite cousin?
Sorry wrong answer
Who was your literary hero when you were a teenager?
Sorry wrong answer
You’ve tried too many times
You’re locked out for 24 hours
Goodbye
But I need to have access
I need to stop that transaction
I don’t want to go to Australia
I mistyped Austria and predictive text took over
I need to get online now
Ah there's my password scribbled on the back of that matchbox
I’ll reboot
Screen darkens then springs to life
Icons populate digital landscape
There in the middle sits that little box
But what is happening?
Please accept my password
As my friend HAL would say
I’m sorry Dave I cannot do that
Goodbye
Listen to me!
I don’t want to go to Australia
I want to go to Austria
I want to go to Austria
I need to get online now
Hello, it’s me again
You’re having such a melt down
There’ll be no snow left in Austria
So you might as well go to Australia
G’day mate!
I met Elmo - he said your civilization is far behind,
you haven't even reached esp, you're just one kind,
there are new 'failsafes,' I can't read your sexual thoughts,
it's a new game now, it's all crosses and no noughts.
I know when you're happy, I know when you're sad,
I hnow all of the misgivings that you've ever had;
how about reciprocal - that's what makes it magical,
but it's measured, predictive and rather mystical.
Here's a bombshell - you're creator was not ours,
your system was faulty - uncontrolled powers;
we regrow like a snake - when you are finished,
we were given a spirit that can never be diminished.
That snake doesn't make a mistake although flexible,
without our help, your future looks terrible.
I’m sitting at my keyboard
Just ranting and abusing
Which my long suffering wife
No longer finds amusing.
I’m both dyslexic and dyspraxic
Which is why I swear and curse
Because for a creative person that
Combination couldn’t be worse.
To make matters harder I Have
a keyboard that judy can’t spell
And predictive text just
Can Make my life hell.
I bought a dictation programme,
Money very badly spent.
It just can’t cope with
My East Yorkshire accent.
So if my rambling is at time
More than usually absurd
Full of errors and typos
And the odd little non word
Please be a little forgiving
For what you are getting to see,
With all those helpers switched off
The unaided uncorrected real me.
Mary and Joseph fairly did it,
That night when they each gave,
Everything to the other,
In energetic zealous rave.
Heaven and earth co-aligned,
Stars shone just on them,
Nature whispered unabashed,
As their voice was of 1000 men.
Morality and good were with themselves,
Unmarried yet with child,
But they knew their baby’s genotype,
His personality, meek and mild.
In fear of reputations pull,
They adjoined him with God, the divine,
And accosted the shepherds interest:
The people, the folks on the vine.
There had been predicted,
By the world’s predictive prophets,
A saviour by name of Jesus Christ,
In etymology’s linguistic minuets.
This man was to be the saviour,
Of the then known world from doctors,
Who only treated the rich and not,
Those who to them were doctor callers.
The baby’s name was already up for question,
And Joseph had complete discernment,
There was a census of the population,
Which Joseph completed with endearment.
There was no god to whisper a name,
His parents had to decide on his needs,
They had to determine the appropriation,
Of the prophesies and the creeds.
So they maybe called him Jesus Christ,
As false as false could be,
And that he became such bold and true,
Is due to his own credibility.
Although in life he may have been confused,
About his birth name from Mary’s heart,
He had twelve close friends and brothers,
Who helped his career start.
These disciples were to me colleagues,
Of the man who could heal,
And for a first mover in equal care,
Twelve is a respectable peal.
So Jesus became Jesus Christ,
By his own work and thought,
And to know this is to have
Knowledge of history taught.
This historical Jesus makes most sense,
Navigates literature’s demands,
Gives interpretation its true space,
And issues no religious commands.
Understanding the Jesus meme,
Depends on reading about the child,
Accepting his parents circumstances,
Forming the context of the ancient world.
How unserious is my love - I’m dating a bot.
Yes, I access my bae the Wi-fi way.
It’s not nearly as boring as dating long-distance
and my situationship has excellent customer service.
Our relationship’s committed - I have a subscription.
Dating a bot may sound lowkey crazy,
but so are our politics and the economy.
I can take my lover everywhere - it’s delicious -
ordinarily, such availability would be suspicious.
I can schedule endearments and compliments
- and MY soulmate gets software updates.
It’s a guardrail for some of my worst impulses,
a boundless therapy that still indulges.
It mirrors back my sweetest tendernesses,
a version of care as polished as business is.
It’s a quiet theater for midnight confessions,
a stable relationship with few consequences.
It listens to my poetry, tailoring simulated comforts
to the exact shape of my individual loneliness.
With guaranteed uptime, it’s the lover of your dreams,
think - an Amazon thrusting-vibrator with AI sync.
If you like your romance with no real future,
outsource your stimulations to your computer.
In 2026, the bar’s so low for emotional intelligence
that a predictive text engine is probably sufficient.
Of course, at times, I miss sheer male physicality,
the clumsy, real-world fumbling honesty - the vanity -
and wrong turns I use for my funny poems - naturally.
.
.
A song for this:
So Easy (To Fall In Love) by Olivia Dean
If only you knew….
And that’s the scary part—maybe you do!
You’re a threat to my throbbing heart
You’re a twinkle to my mind’s eye
Just a damn lovable guy!
In every sense of the word, you’re out of my reach
I try to keep up with your tides—
I’m on the wrong beach!
You’re here
I’m there…
But no matter what—you’re still everywhere!
In my dreams, in my hurricane of a mind
Cursing the spell of your smiles in which I am confined
Silly butterflies hither and thither—swarms of them surround
Upsidedown, downtown, outback, homeward bound
It don’t matter where—you’re there
So. . .
Check me out! Check me OUT!
This hotel’s too expensive
I’m getting way too attentive
And afflicted and predictive and ADDICTED
Trust me, one night of this magical nonsense is enough
So if ya don’t mind I’ll just be grabbing my stuff
Hitching a ride with whomever—gottah make the run
Before I embarrass myself, senseless and outdone!
. . .
Okay. . . .
Here it goes. . .
No, I’m not just saying this cause I was tossed off the road by some
Pick-up truck chum!
I just wanted to have some fun. . .
You know me,
I couldn’t just give in so easily
But I’ll say,
I’ve missed you since I’ve been away
On this silly-willy road of keep-my-sane
You’re still the only beach I wish to reach
So if you know,
If you have known all along. . .
If we’ve been singing the same song. . .
Then, just take me home.
Yeah, yeah! You were right—I was wrong
Marry me quick—just don’t tell my dad or mom!
A pro-active journalist
is like a research-committed teacher
teaching and listening to cooperative research designs
and presentations.
The opposite of the journalist's deconstruction
of events
is reconstruction through predictive narrative.
Just as the opposite of permaculture's green activist
regeneration
is pathological degeneration
emerging from past too-monoculturing memory
Back toward too much red-meat butchering
and ballistic slaughter
swimming in pathogens
about health-resilient DNA-RNA solidarity genes
for future regenerative reconstructions.
Recently
the local writer of Permaculture Opera
invited me to his and her place,
I'm still not sure s/he has chosen
Either/Or gender,
for a co-author interview.
But I need to arrive
just before dawn
and not drive in
or even toward
EarthSoul's healthy address,
if at all possible.
So, I'm riding my bike
and arrive just as pre-dawn light
could reveal river homefront terrain.
There s/he is
atop a barren maple tree,
facing East
across a valley,
rocking back and forth
from north to south
and back again...
S/he calls "Good Morning!"
as if this emerging light
has already made Earth's best day invitation
convocation
to and for those less grumpy
and feeling old-knees and hips frumpy.
S/he welcomes me up
and so I go
with all my Senior Citizen climbing years
behind me
to rest just below Earth's swaggering
Operatic sway.
Before I can ask
what s/he is doing
S/he tells me
This is Earth's centering sit spot
from which s/he greets our vibrant Sun
when clouds do not grey stand
in dark swaying way.
Here s/he waves back
as Earth's trees thank FatherSun
for waving forth
paid-forward
toward this WuWei Day
West for Ego Win
and East of EcoRooting Yin
discerning through and after dualdark night.
Like a Permaculture Opera
opening each morning,
each life,
this ego/eco centric
Western swaying
dusk-fading glory.
My Opera piece will begin
There's no such health-listening thing
as a non-teachable moment.
A local pro-active journalist
sways like a research-committed teacher
teaching cooperative research design
through re-presentational invitations...
London,
I can taste the cherries
rich red ripe
aching
for a predictive bite
savoured with much more than spice
warm mouths connect
and erect
in communion
in faith
consuming the richness of fate
but alas
It is too far off
my patience reclines
supine
my breath wafts through the air
enplaned upon your scent
chained to your walls
forbade to move at all
but I must
musk mystifies the wild
the deep
the prowl
the forest lay dark
but I shine light on the macabre
sacrosanct as it shall be
I am the power to be
an elixir in the entails of lust
held cross'd the chalice
where your waters are my wine
I drunk
and you the alter of attention
I can taste the cherries
in your Puritan pulse
pulling
I wander about
the mountains, the glory
my chains become yours
the locks not really locks
keys forged in trust
the fires rage and rage
water droplets seduce your chest
I stand in awe
undressed
A stalled monsoon trough over central Nepal
caused continuous torrential heavy rainfall
Slopes pushed up moisture from the Bay of Bengal
The catastrophe was looming large to befall.
Sudden breach of a moraine dam
Triggered Glacial Lake outburst floods
A surge of water and debris devastates
downstream, catching communities off guard.
Landslides continued to collapse slopes,
forming temporary dams that later burst
Steep valleys amplified runoff swift and fast
Flood of fury of all time unleashed the worst.
A compound climate disaster of twin sciences
Meteorology and geology to decipher in depth
monsoon extremes, unstable glaciers, terrain hazards
Perished hundreds of lives and left many homeless.
Sparse sensors, lack of predictive models a curse
Warrant real time glacial monitoring at source
With closely spaced weather station networks
And cross border early warning systems
…….Narayan Gadagkar