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Semihten5 Aug 2018
trace remains
from the cold times
a hot story
You know Annabelle
King Panda Aug 2017
death:
an abnormality—
deep prints left by
heavy boots filled with water
and washed away by
summer’s end.

grief:
a metal
sensation denude of
coldness—swelled up again
and again from life’s ***** driving
deeply.

I suppose you couldn’t
help but steal away.
you (now endangered
ghost) left your
trace fossils moted,
gray and cold.
our memories of you
divorced from the
mountain’s path—
a wound raised
higher and higher
to a crystal peak
where your soul
was plucked cleanly out.

we built cairns to
mark your going
and stories to signal your
inevitable re-arrival.
we welcomed the heavy contact
of fire felt in the
middle of the chest
and watered
arches cut beneath
the eyelids.
we felt the frigidness of
lit feet gliding
above mountain frost
and set forth your
eternal journey
to the solar eclipse.
but somehow
we lost your trace fossils
frozen in the rock.

where did you go?
who found you?
why?

these are the questions
of extinction of the
physical body
but the soul is
unmatched in
its uncertainty.
if it exists, it leaves
upon time of death
and reenters when looked
at through shielded glass.

soul:
a mountain
view, black and polished
by an unfurled moon. its
brother sun not far
behind.
RIP, my dearest friend. You will be forever missed.
Jack Nov 2018
Look at my face and trace.
Color me blue,
Dip me in colors that will remind me of you.
Outline my hips,
Your fingers on my lips.
Shade me grey, that's quite okay.
A canvas colored with sadness.
Maybe this way you wont vanish.
Trace me blue,
Trace me staring at you.
Me beside you.
Flowers in bloom in a room with you.
Trace me with you,
Do I dare and love you?

(C)
Trailing fingers
Across wet surfaces
Tracing patterns
From the mind onto
The vastness
Of that ocean
That emotion
And devotion
Wanting to be a part
Of something
And not apart from it all
Trans soul migration
When something inside
calls out
And like moth to flame,
You answer
When that droplet
Comes home
And the sea breaths.
#little things that matter
Jesse stillwater Jun 2018
a breath of fresh air
tickles still-waters
a lone swan's quill
let fall, takes flight
  carpe  diem ―
nigh weightless,
buoyantly skitters
across the water,
laissez faire;
barely dimpling
the shallow peace
on a lake in the wood

a wild feather's
mindless pirouettes
emanate from
the steeping silence
lapping  its
superficial  refection  

the true nature
of wildness,
unspoken freedom,
an untamed
wilder – ness
skims the skinny waters
seeking their own level;
leaving no trace
of  ever being  containable
 
like a breath of fresh air
reinvigorates
unconquerable souls
touching in the
conscious moment ―
a gentle passing breeze
arousing a rogue gust


Jesse Stillwater

01    June   2018
Thank you for stopping to read my soul scribbles :)
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2018
A mock pack of sea dogs
Lay on the hot, white shore;
Their wrinkles said
They'd been too long
In the sea.
Next to them dozed a tyrian crab
Whose sleep in a foot-trace deep
Commenced to crumble
In the green rumble
Of a lecherous tide.

Then a dark, awkward sound  
(Not too far from the drowsing crab)
Was heard.
He came forth from the mountain
To sun himself on the shore
And send the frightened rocks  
Back to the deep.

(c) LazharBouazzi, 11 June, 2018
ryn Oct 2014

will
you take
me into your
space...•cradle
me upon       the
sultry limbs      of
your        nebulous
grace•the expansive
arms of the universe,
where            peaceful
slumber awaits•your
poetry    laden comets,
bore      abundant love,
all towed     in freights•
gingerly drinking in the depth
of your face•seemingly blindfolded,
i'll tread each dark  crater•my head in
a swirl        of your  majestic         trace•
where        I would stumble         upon
V              a love ever so...             V
/     |    |   || \
(                              )
(   INTERSTELLAR   )
(                                    )
We are proud individuals
who feed into bold lies
spoonfed like we're blind
through hands of our deceitful leaders
still they rise.

Technology is forever shoved in our face;
"hurry up n buy it!"
(before it reaches expiration date)
consuming gadgets at such a fast pace
may that be the devil
that determines our fait.

In the hands of the media we lay
side by side on a sinking ship they say
far, far and further away
we depart from real life
and sink into a screen of shame.

Our can fake a smile
but their tears don't lie.
and though we let them remain on those sites
we sit, we sigh
and spin our glasses of wine
all the while wondering why we see them
with blubbering hearts and watery eyes.

Our elderly generation
worked all their life
hoping in their older years
that they could relax for a while.
Instead they have to sit there
with frail hands and ghostly smiles
overlooking us poison the planet
and see it turn cold and vile.

We drink until our heart is liquor
we love until our love turns bitter
our emptiness then begins to spread-
until on the inside we all go dead-
and it spreads quickly
and painfully
like the plague
and everyone is too far gone to save.

"Men are to be machines"
We say with a hand on their shoulder
as we push them out the door
off to a war
which will scar them so much so
that they won't want to live anymore.
And while not even a trace of a scar
sits on their skin,
the blood which seeps from their bleeding hearts
soaks and stains deep within.

Mass confusion;
we look to the sky
for the answers we need finding
within this cold society.
We disagree until we die
about matters of no relevance to you or I
but fury is the new joy
and may we fight until all is destroyed.

So many harsh whispers in the streets
so many expectations no one dares meet.
Some go insane
just to be the same
but just who is this madman
that we all aspire to be?
Does he have a name?
Has be ever been seen?

If now was your time to die
would you be happy
with the content of your life?
Or would you be regretful
that for the most part
you were entertaining society's lies.

If you're not happy with the way of human progression
then be the light in a sea of grey
and this horrible new game of life
you will no longer play
and instead serve now to define
a new society.



Jazmine MacIntyre
12.05.2019
Inspired by 'Iron Sky' by Paolo Nutini.
幽玄 Jun 2018
The first sign of a dream approaching is that when you’ve already awoken,
awoken to a strange place with no trace of how you could’ve gotten there.
And the unfamiliar, faces near, with eyes similar to shards– shaded  
you can’t help but notice those feelings emitted were somehow something you’ve come to known before,
but where?
–a notion coursing its way around a soundless observatory only to further dissipation—
A sign of discord covers the room,
all that was allowed is furthest from you,
a parched paper made from what seemed like rugged twine knows nothing but lead between,    you find a face emerging from it,
quickly drawn with detail,
there it stops from motion to undulating surpass,
away from a darkened room up in front of a morning taking.
This conjuring source flairs outward
rising through the outworn canvas
leading it to embers
dancing away along a fizzled plane
for what was despair inscribed in this meaningful dereliction.
To what is empty from emotion is nonexistent,
I couldn’t find the reason to live on,
this dream has died as will I... as will the will of this way this place carries over me.
Yes decay follows me,
unto everywhere will there be the silent breezes to carry me past the concrete terrain into nothingness.
I find myself to live this over,
until the advent of air drowns these lungs to knowing again,
to know exactly what it means to breathe again.
I see no reason for such things as unrealistic as they may seem likely for me to occur in this living.
Again I’m stuck in a room full of my owns thoughts,
such a dangerously sorrowful place to be.
‘For everything as it may have not been
weary am I for looking forward at
The things that never happened’

‘Turning over everyday, repetitively’

Let’s just say that this isn’t personal but for those whom share a common fate. Until overturned.
In its most rawest.
5.3

Parallels:
Snow, for me exemplifies a mute understanding from in juxtaposition with various types of sadnesses that branch off into disparately inclined yearnings, to nostalgic preferences, whether known or not. Why it happens is of course obvious but the way it affects you, makes one wonder, if at all— I think I’m trailing off my train of though here, I’m not sure where this is going..

This was inspired by a remarkable composer, as I recalled a dream before, along with the yearning of trying to expose my underlying expansion of myself with my current understanding of things. what it all could mean as much of his cello’s presence affected me during that process. I’m the gray area that needs deciphering.

—continuations:
the cello that wails the loudest, is one that suffers the most. Even so, every tone encapsulates the listener with resonance. And in that, it reaches its utmost vulnerability, showing the many hues imbedded in an infinite sadness, in an astronomical way, a type of exquisite somber, that resides in the instrument’s hollowness until implementation of procedure.
Shannon Soeganda Nov 2018
If the meds aren’t enough,
then what shall fulfill your drive
to stay alive?

Haven’t you had enough already,
to have your insides ruptured?

Is this how you end things,
without leaving any
trace of ******?
This is not a suicide note; I suppose.
Erian Apr 12
We'll be tracing the stars
Across the midnight sky
Hands intertwined in the glistening snow
If only you'd know

Performing like asteroids
Flying in the air
When you're around me
Falling, falling
If only you'd know

We'd piece the suns together
Like a puzzle in our hands
countlessly reaching
Hoping we won't land
If only you'd know

I see the universe growing
In your eyes
A smile, a laugh
That illuminates the skies
If only you'd know

We'll be tracing the stars...
L B Jul 2018
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass

Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps

Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying

Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”

That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress

Some images just stay with you, ya know?

July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
"Caps"  are little red rolls of gunpowder dots, originally made to give a snap to toy guns of the 1950s.  We figured out that by layering them and using a hammer, you could get a bigger crack.
patty m May 2014
Turn out the lights

and let me drown

in passion's darkness.

Play blind

and read my body's braille;

find me in pieces

letting fingers

paint designs.

Crawl beneath my skin and

fill my hunger.

Mold me, make me

malleable and melting

as you permeate my senses.  

. . . And l will trace you too,

traveling across your uncharted map.


Darling you are my ocean

my new country, each inch of you

touched and tasted as new routes

are discovered and pinnacles climbed.

Close your eyes

and feel the tickling of my unseen hand

through the darkness

of this forever night.
Kd Pascual Jan 11
To maunder on this dusky, dubious trace
where one becomes lost and is never found
again; deafening his ears from the sound
that cries for help how to flee from this race

Unworthy and obtuse, last is my place
but no one heeds, as a snow falls on mound.
Now tell me how to stand tall on the ground
as I start quitting on this hurtful maze.

But then, my Father soon replied, "My child,
come to my arms, I bring you protection."
From that I ascertained a Father's love mild
who hears and accepts my imperfection,
who dedicates His life just for my earn.
An old poem I wrote back in High School for my English literature class.
Cynthia Aug 2014
The moon reads the abstract of our past
Always refining our path
The stars are the editors of our lives
Always stirring
The breeze sensitizes our memory
Upon the gleaming of the night sky
We journey along the memories of time
Until each star slowly disappears
Without a trace.

Copyright© Cynthia Ulloa
All rights reserved.
Ladislav Josephs Jun 2015
Read this poem only if you are alone.

You wished me nice dreams last night
I could say I have dreamed
About flowers, butterflies
It would be nothing but lies
I was dreaming about
My arms holding your hips
Against mine
Mine lips touching your sweet lips
Then
One hand squeezing your breast tight
Other hand holding your waist
So you won't fight
Then
With a slide touching the magic Place
Leaving quickly without a trace
I want to make it perfectly clear
I will never do it for real
Maybe
sophia Jun 2017
his smile glowed like the universal stars that hung up the dim lit night sky; which could be admired from afar by a certain whose dream was to trace the distant constellations of dream and night. but that smile was up there to uphold the said so unreachable dream where all galaxies far away were found in a stretch of a boy's lips.
Marina Kay Nov 2018
Dirt to Adam's ale.

As the ripples trace my skin,
the circling cyclones of my crown
lull and quell with my sinking breath.

The deepness of the blue
guarantees my sanctuary.
I swim and swim until I am free.
I've always had this almost supernatural connection to water. I adore it with all my heart. Whether it's the sea or a pool, I'm instantly at peace when I'm near it. The only time I can be truly happy is when I'm swimming. I live by the sea, my ancestors were pearl divers, water carriers, coast guards.. the list is endless. Even my name is derived from water. It just seems like a sign that it's where I belong.
Onoma May 26
i wiped your

tears off a river

that stopped

running.

tributaries signified

without a trace of

affect.

ease had you dying

openly, for once.

i couldn't stay away

from you without

daring a trace.

trip--whata.

addressed to no one

in particular.

for once.

solvent salt in open

be.
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