Zoltar moved in quietly,
carried up the stairs by no one
I remember seeing.
At night, his gears murmured
through the thin apartment wall~
a soft metallic prayer
to whatever listens in the dark.
Occasionally,
I heard his cards shuffle themselves~
paper whispering secrets
it should not know.
Sometimes his lights flickered
under my doorframe,
as if he’s pacing,
as if he’s thinking.
One night,
he slid a fortune under my door:
The visitor arriving tomorrow
died twelve years ago.
Another one follows:
Your shadow will leave you
before the week ends.
At dawn, the hallway smelt
of burnt incense and cold metal.
His lights flickered wildly,
as if he’s arguing with something
I cannot see.
Then a final card appeared~
edges singed, letters warped:
Do not open the door
when you hear your own voice.
The mirror does not flatter,
it does not lie.
It stares into your eyes
and whispers the truth
you spend years denying.
It knows the secrets
you dress in smiles,
the fears
you hide in laughter,
the love
you claim you don’t need.
The mirror is patient.
It waits.
Because it knows —
you can pretend to the world,
but never to the glass.
One day,
you’ll have to face
the reflection
you always avoided:
the you
you already knew.
We had a prophet in our trailer court
His sign said “the Amazing, Seer, Mort”
He told fortunes all day long
Some predictions were decidedly strong
A few naysayers tried to chase him away
But the rest of us mobbed up and insisted he stay
I will be a queen in my next reincarnated life
The woebegone neighbor will soon be rid of her strife
The block’s meandering husband will soon come back
Mort the magician’s predictions have nothing to lack
We are all uplifted, when he reads our palm and face.
His prophecies are marvelous, full of lightness and grace.
Bad news
Infects the teller..
The teller
Conveys news which
Is believed to have
Arisen in a fictitious
Past time..news
In the telling
Colored with belief
Is what is happening
And not...
"The nature of bad news infects the teller." Antony & Cleopatra (Shakespeare)
There are deep creases in palm of the harried hag’s hand
Her wizen face is wrinkled, freckled, there is a brown spot on her cheek.
She has a surreal expression; her voice is gravelly and ethereal.
her tent seems mystical, with embroidered crushed velvet table cloth
taro cards are next to her left hand, she lifts a palm over her hard runes
there is a beautiful purple crystal ball in the center of her work table
I feel her mystical powers, and my hands begin shaking like autumn leaves
An energy I do not recognize begins zapping lightning bolts around the room
The hag smiles, there is no fear in her, I can see this is her normal.
those daring men of the truth
The Australian who has been in jail for years to avoid
being sent to the USA, where he will get
further jail terms
He, I'm sure, is difficult to live with and has little tolerance for
other people's views, it goes with the terrain, famous men
who fight for the truth tend to be a handful
We in Europe know of his valiant effort to get the truth
of the war in Syria published
What I don't do the American public know this,
or has the press
made him into a traitor?
We have a man, a protestor, a thorn in Putin's
side it's said
found dead in his cell. and we, with scant knowledge
we have of Russian affairs, and automatically
we blame Putin!
this agitator, who appeared to be wealthy or had benefactors
to make it possible for him to travel around protesting
One thinks that Putin, was useful in telling us all how
democratic Russia is, as the living standard gets better and better
Those who murdered this deluded man are mighty enemies
of President Putin, try to blacken his name and preventing
him for seeking a third bid
I wander in a trackless desert
Eyes squinting, scanning the desert horizon
Parched land, and so does my heart seem
Oh where could I find an oasis to cool my feet
Desert storms blow, I close my eyes
Some shadow approaching me
What is it, my love gone by?
The wind whistles, nay it is a fortune teller
Her wrinkled face smiles, hands me a card
What is it? A camel print?
Says she, it is a symbol of love
You will have a second chance
I safely hide the card within the folds of my diary
15 years have since gone by, the print faded
I look at the man by my bedside
My fortune cookie, I inwardly smile
She grabbed my hand and turned it palm up
Stated the obvious and read leaves from a cup
A sigh came from her heavy breast
I thought I’d offer her a test.
I was married, I began, to a woman, not a man
An eyebrow raised as she formed a quick plan
You’ll marry again, written in your palm
I wasn’t excited, but remained, strangely calm
Revelation after revelation; this woman’s good
At stating the obvious, just as she should
I looked intently, asked will I have a child?
Definitely more than one, her eyes were wild
You’ll live in a mansion with a wonderful lass
You’ll meet your soul mate, I’m not being crass
Children will fill every spare room
Laughter will echo, love will bloom
The soothsayer, finished on a positive note
I crossed her palm and put on my coat
David Cox 01/03/23
His knowledge was his untapped wellspring,
After 93 years of learning anew;
He valued knowing something about everything,
From construction & farming, to baseball & screws.
Early in life, a dairy farm taught him,
To think on his feet, with vast common sense;
Learning math at the sawmill, he estimated lumber,
And rebuilt old motors, appliances & fences.
For years he delivered, automobile parts,
To Tar Heel cities & Outer Banks towns;
Till one day, Wayne County rewarded his smarts,
With leadership to run, their buildings and grounds.
A Lion's Club/Odd Fellow—active for decades,
Making differences in the lives of many;
A loyal church member, a Jack of all trades,
Directing great efforts, that helped countless plenty!
Later in life, he started Smith’s Crafts,
With Logs that told Weather--Cow Clocks that told time;
Wrote a book on a bell, he loved to autograph,
Reading local history aloud, literary passion sublime!
His legacy is people, warm and loving,
Celebrating them in visits near and far;
Shelton Eugene Smith, Sr. a one-of-a-kind,
Honored by many, remembered by all!
(In honor & Memory of one of the world’s most fascinating men)
He was dressed like a circus clown for his grandma made him.
He thought it made him look silly, thoughtless and dim.
She was dressed as a fortune teller full of liveliness vigor and vim.
She told him his fortune and knew she would grow up and marry him.
We are spellbound as she tells us her latest tale.
It is wild, wooly, wacky and weirdly wonderful.
She is a wizard of a story-teller, and she knows her audience.
She gives us just the right amount of juice to push us to the edge.
We are ready to scream when she pulls us back in,
Reeling us into her web of a story, as easily as pulling fish in by the net.
She is the library’s storyteller, and she knows what she is doing.
She distributes the wands and the cups.
Her client taps a card, choosing it.
The death card comes up.
The client gasps.
She takes her hand and begins to explain.
She has Bambi brown eyes, and a kind soul.
The client settles down, wanting to believe
in her explanation, in the cards, in a happily ever after.
She is not merely a soothsayer and a card reader,
She is a psychologist, a mother, a grandmother, and a crone.
She understands the value of being optimistic
of bringing hope into each tarot reading.
Her clients are loyal, coming back to see her again and again.
She uplifts them, inspiring hope, promising joy.
It is what they get, for it is what they now expect.
She was a woman full of stories.
They oozed out of her and onto her skirts.
When she shook them, verbs and adjectives flew onto the floor.
I watched them congregate around her ankles
Forming run-on sentences.
No wonder story-telling is so easy to her
She doesn’t even need a muse
She has all the fixings at her fingertips and her toes
Unfold, now behold
The truth of how all answers
Are hidden within
Every folded, small facet;
Every fibre part of you.
The aged fortune-teller sits behind a large round table which is decorated with old lace-trimmed scarves, sequined tassels, and shiny gold-colored coin trim. She tells me to cross her palm with silver, meaning she waits to be paid for her services. After I place my money in her wrinkled palm, she adjusts herself in her heavy wooden chair. She begins to gaze attentively into the depths of her glass crystal ball which rests atop a wooden ornate stand. Her weathered fingers caress the glass gently. I sit, quietly and patiently, while my heart pounds in my chest. I tremble in anticipation. The fortune-teller's eyes begin to squint. She fixates on one area of the crystal ball. What does she suddenly see? I become anxious. What will my fortune reveal? My heart begins to beat harder and faster. She raises her head slowly and she stares at me. I am motionless.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.