Modern world with modern modems,
AI, Wi-Fi, modern day totems,
keyboard nostalgia, a typewriter App,
mind that modern knowledge gap,
discord, discourse, modern day omens.
I guess it's no longer 'the people's house.'
The 'people' rot in a DC jails with no trial nor bail.
I have never been to the Capital, won't go now,
like I never visited the Tower of London
with its crown jewels and dungeons.
They say that if the jet black ravens
ever leave that place
the kingdom will crumble.
Here in the 'Land of the Free'
I keep a watch over the Lincoln Memorial,
imagining the pidgins turning jet black
and leaving forever.
spreading fear
of pending apocalypse
end times will appear
with the blood moon eclipse
the stillness of night
could not quite hide
the cost of original sin
too much pure delight
bound up within pride
we took it on the chin
as if our birthright
has become too tightly tied
to the color of our skin
the dead did not rise
nor were the quick judged
despite the alibis
reputations were smudged
on the verge of crisis
in the middle of May
new blood moon rises
but doubts get in the way
the selling of shadowy omens
requires better helmsmen
to pull off an errant escapade
were belief shall be betrayed
bound up in false pride
egos begin to collide
the stillness of night
exposes this tale’s plight
a foretelling of doom
or more about who’s whom?
in either case it's too soon
for another rising of the blood moon
Somewhere between your hollow sight,
I danced in the sparks. And only
in your peripheral sight, will
I become an apparition
of our solemn song and it's rite.
By now my feet are too scathed.
I fall to my knees, going
and enduring. My singing,
has now dissolved to humming.
Before you sensed we would part,
I created and placed swords
in my heart. From omens I
birthed out of my very soul.
I sealed our own fate, by mistake.
Within the genesis of my
psyche, slumbers an essence of
creation. Who lingers at heart.
Random thots
Two hornbills
On a grevillea tree
I look at them eat seed
They soar noisily onwards
Towards the next seedy tree
Send pigeons I had asked Of
Hornbills problems am reminded
There is no washing your hands off
No pigeon just a couple of noisy hornbills
Resting on one neglected grevillea branch
#bubbles_in time
Luis 04,2020
Heavenly Embers
Delightfully Twinkling Forth
Omens Before All
March 18 2020
A Star's Heartbeat Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
You’re agonizing over your decision,
you waver, and you can’t make up your mind,
and after back and forth and much revision
you’re this close to deciding when you find
two eagles flying in the same direction
in which you’re driving – surely that’s a sign!
Two eagles are an omen in perfection.
It must mean: go for it, the fates align.
And this is how you screw up royally.
Do not believe in omens. Even swarms
of eagles that appear won’t loyally
foretell the future. They’re not magic charms.
You better play it safe and heed the voice
that whispers “doubts mean it’s a stupid choice”.
January 22, 2019
OMENS
O’er wintry land bare trees now sway
On wing above, black birds traverse
Occluded skies of baleful grey
Outspreading wings imparting curse
Yet outcomes told by prescient sense
With omens of dark consequence
May be belied restoring sight
Of hope; see yon horizon bright
[Poem in 8x8 form]
Submitted to:-
Contest: Unrest of Spirit
Sponsor: Julia Ward
22 November 2018
Its twilight the two love birds call out..
call out to each other.. its early evening
the lovers hold hands.. and the suns sets
the shy bride comes out.... Shinning star
and the seer goes back home for soon..
Rain will cover the land
lewis k nyaga
code 254 1835 hrs
Distant Omens
Augeries
of forgotten doubts
long erased by hourglass sands
shadows passing through an empty space
voided by loveless passion
hiding in search of
an omen.
John G. Lawless
Give Me A Sign – Poetry Contest
5/14/2015
Birds fled from the sky
Cinder of clouds dry for rain --
The lightning forks night
The landscape is bare
The water recedes to deep -
Tsunami rises
The earth belches smoke
Thundering hooves char the leaves -
Volcano erupts.
Omens
- - - - -
The sweet aroma of rice; yonder bare fields;
on the stone the dark patches of water pitchers
and her looking at the sky where buzzards fly,
are completing the composition of waiting.
She has been waiting too long; too long she has made her man
hold his patience all these while; believed peace will come.
Now these flying buzzards are looking ominous
like secret language which mystic nomads speak.
She trembles with the prospect of unknown evils.
A long wait for her son, returning from town,
from the all consuming town where he has gone
long, long, long time ago. But she has hoped for return.
She again watched for God’s language. Let him come.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
Rain is coming
I can smell it
Fires are blazing
I foretell it
Darkness looms
I can’t repel it
Where is your heart
I can’t compel it