Predictive Poems | Examples

Born Between Coordinates

I was born in the pause between two coordinates
drawn by cartographers with sterilized hands.
My soul was indexed in miles and postal codes
Filed under miscellaneous anomaly at checkpoints.

I crossed borders that did not exist,
except in the mouths of men with rifles.
My breath was weighed against paperwork,
my shadow flagged by predictive suspicion.

I was processed in buildings with no windows,
where hope was a form to be filled in triplicate.
My story was annexed, taped to a strangers' bias,
then shelved into the limbo of “pending.”

I failed the empathy test of the world
where spectacle outperforms survival.
My life was too procedural for pity,
and my death was redacted for efficiency.

Deep State People

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

Caressing Touches

Caressing touches are so luscious 
That emotions so crush us.

Temping smells are so attractive 
Causing desires so reactive.

Soothing voices are so alluring 
Creating thoughts so enduring.

Our feelings are so addictive 
Our behavior so predictive.

The Real Me

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.

Constance Bee

She grouched, grumbled, griped and groaned.
We complained about her complaining.
She was a pain
Still we lugged her around to all family reunions

She could clear a good story off a picnic table in seconds
Replacing it with something dour, dank, disgusting and depressing
She is our great Aunt Constance Bee. 
Here she comes now, watch the relatives scatter.

Same attitude, same gripes, same wheezing and sneezing.
She walks toward us one leg at a time, bearing down with a hard look.
You have to admit she is consistent, mother says.
She has enough consistencies to be predictive, actually.

On a good note, we know if we bring her, we do not have to stay forever.
The rest of them clap as we get up to leave;
which makes it easier to get out the door.
Which may be why we always bring Aunt Constance Bee.

Fractured Memories Remain

Frctured memories remain
 over and over in time again refrains
 embedded in the mind dearly
 it's the heart that sees more clearly;
simple and politely attained
 focused on the encounters and love gained
 was it sunny that day 
 or did it rain?

A first love experience is often lost to clarity
 delightful and innocent predictive familiarity 
 recollected awkward sophistications 
 the when and why of final destinations;
looking back the mind can focus
 on the mix and match hocus pocus
 but the heart alone can see 
 the future you and me.

Some fifty years have passed away
 tears and laughter shared over those days
 do you remember them as well as I
 always wondered who would be first to say goodbye;
they're only sweet memories dusty now
 together we got thru them all somehow
 with minds and bonded hearts
 those memories live tho we are apart.
  



for contest by Constance La France
Dusty Old Memories
8/4/2020

Love Letter From the Soul Xlvii

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

Uncalculating Hearts

Calculation feels cold and harsh
when cash invests and divests
in matters of my heart,

Heart here intended
not a wispy euphemism,
nor a bloodless gutted nonpersonification
for my autonomous left-brain mind
and dipolar co-arising life
of love empowerment.

An empowering mind
fully embodied with win/win gratitude memories,
bicamerally pumping nutrition
nurture
nature's robust elixir,
with stasis a robust boundary
in-between diastatic ecstasies
of alternating full and empty,
with trust and loyalty 
through memorized
memed apposition.

To sing accurately,
with predictive calculation,
for my capital-purchased supper
does not invite warm jazz 
or gospel improvisation,
rhythmic investment,
crescendo and diminished embellishment,
grand and resonant
regenerative
lively opera,

Contagious organically operating memory,
of and for an improved
and thoroughly enriched
win/win world.

Love Letter From the Soul Xxxix

Key,

Black to White, Black to White
back to front, front to back
dancing naked 
a pale moonlight
passions rising 
over a burning sea

you can see
madam
you can see
in the twin mirror of me
won now
now won

one two
one two

nailed 
the predictive text 
of life 
unpredictability mailed
sent off only to be returned

sites left to be seen
running the streets
Pamplona by the sea

sipping prosecco
warm words in a breeze
minds tickling time
stopping for a world to see

I in front of you
You in front of me
unlocking secrets 
that were meant to be

Advance Knowledge

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.

Completely Predective

Completely Predective

What Kavanaugh did was completely predictive;
Had exhibited various forms of being vindictive;
Selfish for sure;
Hard to endure;
Always guaranteed to take and will never give.

Jim Horn

Nuclear Jinn

Military scholars constantly cull through the ancient scrolls
detailing battles of long ago
Searching always for hidden keys
to effect modern strategic victories
War games that summate a predictive winning end game 
But none in the past held the atomic bottle 
with the nuclear jinn
Uncork it, 
and sniff the radioactive aroma wafting 
Power of unimaginable destruction
lay dormant in the serpent juice
Just waiting to be opened ... released ... cut loose
Nuclear jinn ... knows, and is ready to grant 
what some madman is wishing
Don’t open the atomic bottle
and unleash the searing contents bubbling within
Emperor Nero
wished he coulda got his fiddling hands 
on that bottle
He woulda loved to pour out the liquid fire ... 
watch it overflow, and burn up everything
Who in their right mind believes in this MAD doctrine
Mutually assured destruction is what it will bring
Bitter verbal grapefruit juice mixed with nuclear jinn
is now being served
Let the intoxicating music of the third death party begin

Predictive Text

I really hate predictive text
It makes me think my phone’s been hexed
Try to type in a word
The suggestion’s absurd!
It’s annoying, I’m pretty vexed

03~16~17

My Phone's Testicle Prediction

I love using predictive text on my phallic,
It saves me so much hassle and time.
Just a couple of lettuce then the rest just flows,
Flows in a sweet little rhyme.

I don’t need to learn how to spelt with structure,
Use syntax or even use grandma.
I can type real fascist, whatever I want, 
My fingers’ like a little jack hammer.

And the sentences appear perfect, I must have great speech, 
I know how to wrist using diction
Shakespeare would be envious of how goon I can talk, 
Talk with my phone’s text prediction.

Predictive Text

Perhaps
Rewards
Evade
Ditsy
Idiots
Cause
They
Inadvertently
Voice
Errors

Try
Envelopes
Xchanging
Texts.




I  hate it.

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