PREDICTIONS FOR 2016
Despoilers of the army of the dead,
restrain your greed, lest fall upon your head
the wrath of Saturn and the ire of Mars.
In humid borders near the realm of jars,
below the dusky earth, there hides a scroll
to sooth a fever and revive a troll.
Flowers are mingled in the prickly thorn.
The egg must perish ere the chick is born.
Awaken mica ledges! Heed my meme!
Throw out the rascal and the luscious theme!
A plague in Tripoli, a drought in Kazan,
a melancholy passage for the answer man,
an alien collective and a luncheon,
acrobatic failures and a truncheon:
the more they’re cooked the darker they will get.
The man from Tana wins a hefty bet.
The valve lies open; gas goes up the tube.
Can scientists refute the scoffing rube?
Historic implements that make one proud,
a casement, and a cargo disallowed.
A surfeit of rich food assuaged by tea.
The principles are four; the means are three.
Who draws a magic circle to repel
discordant magnates with dour personnel?
Blazing diamonds, yet she cuts the cord.
An ignoramus strikes the hollow gourd.
An old mustachio by poison dies.
The lyre can now be heard across the skies.
The workers thumb their nose at paltry yields
while carp disport themselves in flooded fields.
Find patagium on a buttercup!
Men who see it, rarely pick it up.
The sands of Mali, shunned by migrant birds,
become a trap too horrible for words.
Convenience trumps the ancient ways of life.
An irate husband searches for his wife.
Who knows what remnant of the golden hoard
lies in between the cape and shining ford?
His head is large; his forehead small and round.
The eagle flies; the toad digs in the ground.
The she-wolf hides an unsuspected light.
Rewards are vast, but no one gets it right.
The German foreign office is appalled.
All funding for the institute is stalled.
The finest bay in Europe has a dock
without a door where anyone might knock.
What have I seen? And where do I reside?
600 angels and a theater guide.
Where reason and propriety combine,
one hears a booming Amazonian mine.
The Chinese meddler tries to muddle through.
There should be twelve, but one will have to do.
The cactus cat receives a lunar blessing.
The wounded ram still keeps old hunters guessing.
Where people turn away from sophistry,
their withered trunk becomes a verdant tree.
The tiger women beat on gongs and drums.
Across the lake the sacred message thrums.
Stand by with ensign, uniform and arms.
We’ll meet again in crafty mountain farms.
When rock appears once more, we will return,
where squirrels frisk above the thriving fern.
Now floods have dried, and earthquakes lie at rest.
The year is done for pundits to digest.