Phosphorescent planetary
paths petrify prematurely,
Profoundly powerful
photospheres perish
pathetically,
Prominences polarize,
Propagating parabolic
phantom - shadows,
Preterite plasma - bursts
petrify periodically,
Precipitating permanent,
pitch - black primordial -
gloom,
Prototypical pulsars
paradoxically portend post-
stellar doom,
Profound planetary
patriarchs perish perpetually.
Everywhere I go, I want to cry.
I see a black cat's green and evil eye.
Whether I'm away or at home,
I weep and hear his awful moan.
I look at a constellation in the sky -
it's that cat, and don't ask me why,
but I see his cat eyes in the stars
just before that pound of flesh and scars.
He must be following me around,
on every highway, and in every town.
He's crossed each and every path.
His menacing moan is filled with wrath.
Every time I roll a pair of dice,
he strikes me down like so many mice.
When the hair on his back stands on end,
what does his sinister presence portend?
First, he sent me to my first wife.
Now, I think he wants to take my life.
"Kill me or set me free", I plead.
He says, "A ball of yarn is all I need".
Tunnels cut through a mountain chain,
an unending chain,
a chain that binds;
that twists and turns on itself again,
delivering pain
and darkness that blinds.
At the end of each there is a hope,
a ray of light to which you grope.
When you reach it at tunnel’s end
the next begins as if to portend
the coming of others, unending nights.
The mouth of one the other bites.
As you slip into this endless void
you turn right back trying to avoid
the pitch of blackness and faster than fast,
your wheels turn and pistons thrust,
until the image of the turning wheel
first slows down and then stands still.
It starts again, but spinning back
taking you deeper into the black.
Your whole life becomes this blur,
past, present, future become a slur
and the yearn for eternal rest
becomes a fantasy, a dream at best.
Tunnels cut through a mountain chain,
an unending chain,
a chain that binds,
that twists and turns through another plain
through the living brain
of unsound minds.
Empty Road Signs
Time takes on
a dimension
only time can understand
It’s a long long way
from being lost
to anywhere
The present stays
uncharted
like the fulcrum of a dream
Tomorrow
an empty road sign
— its message to portend
***
Turning The Latch
Is anything more prescient
than a window
open wide
Awaiting sun
or moonlight
and the wind that blows outside
Its latch when turned
inviting
unlocked it puts in play
The ingress
and the egress
— of every passing day
***
We All Share
There’s a comfort
in dying
that death can’t provide
Assured
of an ending
where conflict subsides
We all share
in common
the end of the road
Where time
has no meaning
— pain left to implode
(Dreamsleep: May, 2026)
In That Moment
On ten billion hard drives
encircling the world
Those with computers
can read and unfurl
Sitting here waiting
for them to log on
Alive in that moment
— in verse and in song
**
All Is Not Lost
Once beyond 70
each day becomes ten
An hour a minute
as seconds portend
With time running out
last horizon ahead
The sun’s final setting
and future to bed
But all is not lost
as you loosen your grip
A flapping is heard
through the darkened abyss
With one last look back
to tomorrow goodbye
Two wings reattach
— reborn in the sky
**
Last Chance
Looking up
to the reasons
Looking down
on the why’s
Looking out
through each season
Looking back
in disguise
With tired excuses
the joy of no pain
Shunning the Muses
crying out in refrain
“It’s time to jump off
your 9th life from the queue
Don’t question the cost
— your last chance to be you”
**
Reconciling
life’s ledger
hoping
it’s in black
Every deed
and every need
accountable
in fact
Debits
fighting credits
to balance
in the end
The jist of life
through joy and strife
where numbers
— will portend
(Dreamsleep: July, 2025)
The staff of my Father enjoining the past
futurity’s herding a bleating morass
The bloodline of orphans forever is linked
tattooing the flock with invisible ink
The first time the last time when nearing the end
tomorrow’s ungifted excuses portend
And times better nature is better untimed
beginning and ending forever conjoined
Eternity’s fenceposts hem in with disdain
all future inclemency fire and rain
But just as that last final sheep stays unsold
— my Father returns to re-shepherd the fold
(Dreamsleep: June, 2025)
it's usually early
as day starts turning
over
when the air around is as heavy as
seas
in your chest
feelings are intermixed
between despair
and hope
like the sea
when your odds are in a bottle,
scribbled futilities tossed to the waves,
exit on the backside
of tides
until they resurface
with old whale stench
one out of water
tanning
under a hard sun
doves cry
in the shade
of mahogany trees
between noon and three
when my mother's mother's
roundabout
nonsense
lyrics
"Moses speak_God's word
Isaac too"
come fresh
to me
the doleful
doves
portend cardinality
begging adulterers
to repentance
"Feathery Prophets!"
grandmothers had spoken
that death will walk
into this village,
some house, any hour,
more sure than May rain,
taking stock
and mourners...
and choirs...
and pastors preach
and pray you well
while you sleep
later we'll all fall asleep
in my poems, sonada's
film depiction
your encouraged to lose
focus
tumble
race, give up and quit
especially quit
and the frame settles with you
about where it should be
in your life
did you buy into us
the hidden mystery
robbing you blind
in time, you may hear us
the tempos that won't shutter
we are open and the theater
wells and theater's portend to you
from before, we get to know eachother's painting in time
i ask for the silver screen and scratch, for the top
i deliver obviously for the style
for the style i died
trying to get back inside
#cinematography
Pride it is said goes before a fall
A fall may not be fatal
One good fall could be a blessing in disguise
For It could signal a new beginning
It could portend a second chance
It could also be a learning phase
When you skip and fall
As mortals sometimes do
Take stock of the pitfalls
Get right up on your feet
And be on the march again!
A strange man drives our country lane.
Can it be that he's insane?
Sick in temperament and brain?
I saw him before, and now again.
Is something about to go down?
He's driving, but what's driving him?
It's not something I can explain.
Could it be for personal gain?
And how long will he remain?
Should I be leaving town?
Does he portend a terror reign?
A horrifying campaign?
Devastatingly inhumane?
Causing misery and pain?
The weather man's predicting rain.
In the wind, there's an eerie sound.
Our way of life can we retain?
Is it circling the drain?
Will it ever come back again?
Will he leave a stain?
Trepidation, so profound.
Into the magic, bubbling cauldron, I jumped in,
my mind, a cacophony of din.
I had thrown my life away.
So, this is how it would end -
into a boiling hell, descend?
When I was born, did fate portend
I would die without a friend
on this decisive dismal day.
Yet, this dreadful drop, my life didn't stop.
Instead, I rose back to the top,
and what did I see?
I hadn't, for a minute, drowned,
and, surprisingly, I'd found,
I was small and round,
a baby, pure and wee.
Washed away, my life of sin,
but memories, still dwelt within.
I could live my life another way.
I shouted with a happy voice -
for each decision, a different choice.
It was a time to rejoice.
It would be a brand-new day.
I would not have abandoned my friends.
My life would come to different ends,
and of the girl who gave my heart a lift,
sweet, Mary, kind and fair,
I would not leave her there
as if I didn't care.
I'd recognize God's gift.
But it was not how it did seem.
This potion gave me just a minute's dream.
and I found there is no doubt,
in life you don't know in advance,
and there is no second chance,
as boiling bubbles about me danced,
and my light went swiftly out.
Our family put up a Christmas tree,
In the presence of our cute dog, Pouchee;
Pouchee thought it’s a real one,
Peeing under has been done,
All received stinky gifts in the party.
Everyone enjoyed despite what happened,
Mom said, “There are things which we can't portend,”
While speaking on microphone,
Pouche came in with a racoon,
Mom paused to chase them both in the kitchen.
I haven’t always dreaded the approach of night;
I’d loved it, in fact, for its mysterious ways
And how the darkness would seem to swallow the light
That manages still to shine its dazzling rays,
Bathing all in its path in silvery white
And giving everything a porcelain-like glaze.
Now, though, as the day comes to its destined end
I shake with fear at what the shadows portend.
It was not long ago when in the dead of night
He came to my room and loomed over me,
His face familiar though it was against the light,
He ignored my tears and most earnest plea,
So while my room was bathed in silvery white
He defiled kinship and violated me.
Now as twilight brings the day slowly to end
I brace myself for what the shadows portend.
November 3, 2024
Baguio City
A crack in the pavement
Does it portend
a death in the family
an untimely end
Is it an opening
for widow’s weeds
or just a spittoon
for sunflower seeds
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