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Sam Temple Apr 2016
I closed my eyes
and felt the ground vibrate
as the Huskavarna roared to life
and chewed through log after log
devouring fibers
and depositing sawdust
the smell filled my nose
and a smile passed my lips
fresh fir in the morning
the crash of timber in the distance
the hush that fell upon the forest during lunch –
muted thumping trancelike and rhythmic
each round hit with a maul
and then bashed with the sledge
tossing split rounds
into stacks on the truck bed
perfect dance performed by the woodcutter –
the rumbling tires against the gravel road
sent me to slumber
the crunching mixed with the gentle rocking
fighting until the very last
trying desperately to hear
the low murmur
of my father and uncle Steve
telling tall tales
of 600 yard coyote kills
with just one blast
from the old 2-23 Remington
and the 40 lb. salmon
still swimming with a 20 dollar jig –
poetry month prompt 18
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
in utter radiance two bodies meld,
in decadent tenderness; emanating
from one another in mindless bliss,
like silken sheets fluttering in a
midsummer day breeze; flapping out
a heart's symphony as each mellifluous
tune is carried along effortlessly of fallen
petals in an upward warm wind...alluring

when lips touch their essence is as
delicate and soft as a newborn's first
breath and visions of meadows as
burbling brooks eke out nature's
wonderous animations of life; hidden
amongst conifers naked seedling in
cones of yews procreative life...caressed

eyes gaze upon one another in trancelike
looks of longing; in ponderance of love's
accepting embrace, to feel it's enraptured
warmth; skyrocketing moans in resonating
tremors of gossamery affection...cloud nine

emerging gasps are born to undulate in
waves; awakening love's cupidity to be
forever within one another's limelight,
delighting each other's ambiance of
life's many truisms; our spirits bountiful
and serene as we live and love in our own
paradise on earth...in spirituality

becoming excited in our veracity to
understanding the complexities of
love and living in moments of bliss;
standing still vacuumed, absorbing
one another's vitality to be as one,
soulmates until heart and mind
collide in hungering want; holding
onto thoughts only we can see
within one another's eyes...heavenly love
beth winters Nov 2010
she wrote words in
between the cracks of
sidewalks, so people wouldn't
step on them

she scribbled in notebooks
and left them at bus stations,
where strangers took
them home

she wrote her words in
aquafresh on the bathroom
mirror, and the next
person would have the
arduous task of
cleaning her mind off
and flushing it

she wrote on the stalks of
wheat, which baked into
bread fed rich and poor and
stealing orphans who became
trancelike

she wrote in red sharpie ink
across the train platform
and up the handrails and across
the 90's patterned seats

she wrote pieces on the graffiti
boards in skate-parks
because they were covered
by *** leaves and ying-yang
signs that are anything but balanced,
smiley faces more crooked
than the person who painted it

she scribed phrases into
candy given to children, sitting
in stomachs and spit on the
ground

she wrote everywhere so
someone might remember her, and
they didn't

they remember words across
their cheeks, maybe a glimpse
of beauty in the
twirling joy of a child in the rain

they do not remember a girl with
cropped hair and eyes
that pierce, they do not
remember a writer, only a

book that spans the entire world with a page
Gigi Tiji  Oct 2014
lunalove
Gigi Tiji Oct 2014
lying beneath
soft starry skies
between damp
dewy leaves
amidst crisp
crepuscular
symphonies  

with moonlit bodies
glistening, and filters
listening to dewdrops
dripping, stars drizzling
from our skin

sipping from
your flower
as we sing
flowing and
spinning in
trancelike
dance
The moon is made of cheese. Not for vegans.
Marshall Gass Aug 2014
Glass walled reflections of citadels of fantasy
merge in the moment of reality
Who are you locked in the ecstasy of vampires
and werewolves, scouring the night for its mystery
blasting ******* of thoughts
yet trancelike delving into the souls journey
from thought to thought.

Behind the facade
who are you? I see
prose and poems that speak a language
seeking freedom. Maybe not.

Yet I read those writings and decipher
what it is that melts the dark and light
in a crucible of molten red hot verse,
that sears to the touch and taste
and scars come unscabbed, line
by line as each fragment falls
away to reveal a whole person.

The raven and the rogue
mix delectably in this dish.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11588305-The-Raven-and-the-Rogue-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.wmrGkKhU­.dpuf
The blankland island
an empty slate
a clean plate on which
to set our store.

We wore our modesty on Sundays only
when the bible belted our trews and
we used each week to seek out
adventure and places to fill our
imaginations,thrill us,our
determination was trancelike as
we danced by the lake in the soft
glow of Moonlight and
Midnight reached out with its fingers
to touch us,and
we, with no fuss crawled back into the island,
under the sand where our hands met the sun
which had set, and it warmed while we kept,places where we had slept 'til the great one called forth and we ventured once more into the losing of daylight and the beginnings of lines creased our vision of time.
On the Island where the passage of time is a message to read through,and the marble pillars of temples are something we see through.

What is meaning to men when the sea swallows them whole?
We have read all the tales,smashed our ships,burnt the sails and what would we need of more tales wrote to read when we make our own story.
The empty slate remains clean
the plate,
pristine,
Our store is the core of our being.
She had met this handsome stranger
So she told me, at some dance,
And I knew then she’d be leaving me,
I didn’t stand a chance,
She had not seemed so excited since
I’d given her a ring,
But I saw she wasn’t wearing it,
It didn’t mean a thing!

So I asked her where this dance had been,
She didn’t seem to know,
She’d drifted in there like some dream
Where lovers always go,
I asked her who was there, she said
They’d glided round in grace,
And but for him, her eyes were dim,
She’d not recalled one face.

She hesitating, placed the ring
Back in my open hand,
‘I don’t have any choice,’ she said,
‘I knew you’d understand!’
I didn’t, but I bit my tongue,
No point to cause a scene,
I hoped that she’d get over it,
But something was unclean.

I sat and moped at home awhile,
She’d cut me to the quick,
I’d planned my life around her,
Marriage, children, all of it,
But then I felt resentment rise
And choke me to the core,
I’d need to see him, ****-his-eyes,
See what I’d lost her for.

So I began to roam the streets
And watch her, though unseen,
To hide in handy bushes, just
To find out where she’d been,
Then one dark night she ventured out
And walked, as in a trance,
I followed at a distance as
She went to join the dance.

The gates were flung wide open to
A long, curved gravel drive,
A house with gothic columns, where
The gargoyles looked alive,
I didn’t see another soul
As Anne had ventured in,
But ballroom music filled the air
With subtle hints of sin.

I sidled to the ballroom and
I hid, as best I could,
While phantom figures whirled about,
Transparent through each hood,
The only solid forms I saw
Were first, my trancelike Anne,
And something evil on the floor
That could have been a man.

That could have been a man, I said
Despite his long black cloak,
The horns that grew from out his head
That looked just like a goat,
The tail that flicked behind it with
A barb of polished steel,
It could have been a man, I said,
But no, that sight was real!

Behind Anne was a marble slab
With bloodstains, from before,
A pale and polished altar that
Was raised up from the floor,
He took Anne in his arms, began
To sway and dance her round,
‘You’re dancing with the Devil, Anne,’
I screamed, and held my ground.

He roared, and turned his evil face
To glare where I was stood,
My heart stood still inside me, like
My heart was made of wood,
Then Anne began to shriek, her eyes
Now seeing what I saw,
Pulled back, and disentangled from
Each evil crablike claw.

I don’t know how we got outside,
I only know we fled,
With terror stricken eyes and hearts
We thought that we were dead.
That house went up, a puff of smoke
Amid a demon roar,
Now Anne won’t dance, no handsome stranger
Tempts her anymore!

David Lewis Paget
While meditating earlier today,
a flashback leapt
     clear for me to assay,
those ever receding

     early boyhood daze,
     now subsumed within fifty,
plus nine shades of gray
blissfully innocent naivety,

     (though blessed) no way
would, aye desire to turn back
     the hands of father time (hypothetically),
     where unstructured play

regularly with older sister
     (thirteen plus months
     my senior) predominantly
     slicing, sliding, and slipping

     stockinged feet skittering
     across slippery basement floor,
     this then soul full
     skinny thing bellowed hooray.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I'm Matty Mattel; I got hurt;
     Can you go out?"
Those words uttered
     by the very first

     pull-string talking doll
     Mattel did tout
circa nineteen sixty
     revolutionizing the birth

     of quasi simulated (lifelike) toys,
     and made of common
     materials found scout
ting around the house simply comprising

     hard vinyl (i.e. pseudo
     plaster of Paris) head he did flout
     with remaining body
     stuffed with padding,

     a definite no
     no (chew toy) when Fido about.
Actually that pooch,
     would be Georgie to you,

     (a hybrid Boxer Dalmatian)
     with docked tail
my young parents acquired,
     when as a newborn,

     aye did inconsolably wail
though recollection of such memory
     fifty nine years ago tis of no avail
yet, a resumption of meditation,

     sans lightness of being
     (analogous trancelike state),
     that doth prevail
replaying silent film preceding,

     when psyche seem so frail
plummeting into emotional abyss
     the nadir i.e. anorexia nervosa
pleading return to nostalgic boyhood
     decrying change hide didst bewail!
winter sakuras Sep 2016
I feel tired and drowsy
eyelids fluttering and dragging
head tipping forward and
books sliding out of my arms
but I must stay awake
for I may get behind
and when I fall into
the shadowy trancelike sleep
there may be nothing but nightmares
and deviations from tips
of angels' wings and tear-stained
****** remorseful smiles
as each being is transported
into their own individual
hells chained by personal sins
and tainted souls

I must stay awake
for as the dawn of
eternity's night approaches
I may cease to wake up once more.

— The End —