"trancing" poems
Sparkling, silvery, shades of grey.
Skin, shivering, brain of dismay.
Trees, trancing, bare naked sky.
Patiently, pondering, preparing to fly.
Wind, whistling, a dancing swoon.
Sounds, serenading a sparkling moon.
Secret , system of the seasons.
The rhythm of winter needs no reasons.
Seasonal affective disorder,
Justify this infective inorder.
Jan 11, 2023
Jan 11, 2023 at 10:00 AM UTC
Your eyes
Make me smile,
Your lips
Want me, I know,
Your hair
Is for being lost,
Your height
Is for me to faint,
Your breath
Is air of true life,
Your arms
Hold me so tight,
Your legs
Are shock, arresting,
Your cheek
Is for giddy kissing,
Your words
Go trancing, unheard,
Your fingers
Are for **********
Thank you m'lord,
For sensate love,
Thank you m'lord,
For shivering flesh,
Thank you m'lord,
For what grows in me,
I am your mistress.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 3:45 AM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
The first rain.
Silver drops that
soothe the wounds of a
parched earth!
In elation,
the emaciated earth
released an earthy fragrance
trancing in its soul.
The green frilly leaves of the Ivy plant
gifted the earth a universe
meditating in the heart of a water droplet.
A euphoric red-winged cuckoo
sang a melody in stirring tones of mirth.
The first rain came.
With it came a pall of gloom.
A nostalgic pain that
growing up
snatched from me the ability
to dance in the rain,
sing with the cuckoo,
go wild under the
thunderous fireworks of the sky.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
Dark to dawn, dawn to light, piercing rays combat the night
Dipping moon drawing nigh, floating, trancing, tracing by
Yawning morning beckons still, willing sun against night’s chill
Clash of forces, voice of wills, call to victory ever still
Shades the night, lumens the day - tendrils and spirals to strip away
Entwined in struggle, surging forth, seeking the coruscating flow
Darkness snared, one final blow - finally ending the blight of night
Out of the darkness and into the light, conflict restored - enjoin the fight
Dawn to dusk which can we trust, both sides are found in all of us
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
Mind benumbed with a dreary monotony;
thoughts rambling like the black and gloomy clouds
trying to break the boredom of the winter sky.
Dark dust of melancholy
clouding the senses to a hazy opaqueness.
I hibernate,
with shoots of life
sleeping inside me
waiting for the knock of Spring
on the frozen shell of my consciousness.
Latent I lie,
with hues of magic trancing in my soul.
Latent I’ll lie,
till the soft brush of springtime
paints my world in a
flurry of psychedelic colours.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC
Yellow Brick Road
Land of OZ
Lion scared
Scarecrow crazy
TinMan struggling
Wizard gizmo mugging.
Homeless man
Traveling man
Nomadic man
Had to go.
Left more in Kansas
Than he brought
******* feelings
Totally out of control.
All that searching
Never ever knew
Garden of Eden
Mona Lisa dancing
Lake Wilson trancing
Nomad confused
Gone distracted.
4 years drifting
Always on the road
Never realizing
Never knowing
Never analyzing
Never caring
For what did he know.
TinMan found his heart
TinMan lost his heart
Nomad down
******* Yellow Brick Road.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
so well choreographed the performance
spectacular shapes they perfectly make
soaring up then dipping down this sky dance
synchronized on a collective feather's take
outstanding describes every single formation
orchestrated with an amazing flight's wing
over the countryside you'll see the murmuration
on staying together it repels a falcon's ping
utilizing the waving motion's code of sway
unbalancing any hungry prey by such skill
utmost this inventive pattern's display
undulations devised in an expert drill
the ballet on high is ever so terrific
trooped starlings cleverly will bluff
they'll outsmart predators prolific
trancing them with adept birdie stuff
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 7:42 PM UTC
With its parched dreams,
beneath the zizzing sands,
the river waits for a surging swell
to take it to the labyrinths of a
new consciousness.
You choose your own course
when you crash into the
chasms of meaninglessness.
You hibernate to the still zone
trancing between words
when words fail to contain you.
As you flow through me,
you become the sacrarium
in the labyrinths of my consciousness
for me to diffuse in your soul’s stillness.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
(TW: Self-Harm and Suicidal Ideation)
I wish the night was more than a fleeting mirage
Coming one moment and leaving the next
I wish the darkness would surround me in its velvety cloth
Not the absence of light, but the absence of life
The darkness of total and permanent nothingness
I wish my capillaries, veins, and arteries would peal open
Slowly, agonisingly
I want to watch the final drop of crimson drain from my body
Creep slowly down my finger
Trancing the path already traced by his brothers
He will linger at the very tip of my nail
Before falling
Plummeting
Careening
Into the tiled floor
Only then will I shut my eyes
I will let darkness trail his supple fingers down my body
Encasing me in his eager embrace
He will wind himself around me until there is nothing left
But for a small white corpse upon a brilliantly painted floor
And no one will find me
Because no one will be left to care
Feb 8, 2025
Feb 8, 2025 at 5:49 PM UTC
finding streets with names standing bare back against the wind,
trees a spirit of the times step look
;;can fingers//twisted//ebbed//
gross indecencies ab.ate masterful pieces, works,, looks unlike piercing glances
trancing, truncating Euripides a species of deer unlike peace
so, canned fingers
happ
ens
a shame when you consider.
Does this make Sense to you?
"reperio vicus per nomen superstes patesco tergum obviam ventus ,
to meet with village very name survivor of another's death to be laid open back on the way wind,"
no?
good.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC
and saw off the horizon
of my minds myelin-vision
the veil, a most zenith scrysm
i sat and lay, one thrown entry
of each good-for-bad trancing sewn
threw that shush-ruggish veil's-under lining
condensed the fraey, of dust-canes done
my tearings shred the fabrics
and now all is but sound, a feeling
i'm lost, to the breeze in my bones
all that is thrown, found in my wind
i shudder, veiling hearts-kind
my mind is a'shade'in
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 3:13 PM UTC
When I'm sliding down another line
And bells in my head liquid chime,
When I'm disco dancing
Across the floor
And the feeling's building
From the basic core
Playing good funky and loud
And I recognise the faces
In the crowd
When the demon of joy
is laughing and prancing
In the stuttering strobe
I gotta slip, I gotta do some disco dancing.
When I take my time to rush not hurry
When I'm completely free of emotion
and financial worry
When I'm with an aquarious **** girl
And she is disco dancing as well
When I'm rising and the lights are trancing
I'm inviting you for some disco dancing.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
High on Tumuli,
Keeled in sways washed out from brazen oceans...
...the birds may have me now...
Prey!..strip this ageing skin, then take my eyes.
Let the Oort Cloud iris break upon
these lakes of trancing humour,
as Veronicas of astral grace
silk down the valley strides.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
Blurred lines and
Twisted visions,
Crippled ripples in the waves of our division.
What you see is what you get,
Forget the feelings.
Fizzy matters of the heart,
No contradictions.
Blank spaces,
Cheap alterations.
Whats mine is yours,
Whats yours is mine,
Dont feel frustration.
Blurred lines and
Twisted visions,
Contemplated aspirations of what fame is.
Running rampant,
Trancing passion,
Life bewilders those who cant handle whats tragic.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
Despite a lonely glaze within my chest
that steady beat still drummed a pattern true
and had not missed; as lonesome would behest,
but pattered onward tho' it were anew.
Until the fairest gaze with hands sateen
caressed and conquered in, with dainty feel
that stroked, and wrought to change what peace had been
to tap behind my breast her fervent zeal.
At will, and touch she spurred a thumping pulse
as tho' my core were drums, and she'd out-play;
a trancing mood no man could then repulse
but let the beauty dance and waltz her way.
My gentled rapping churned, her grace outdone!
To thwart in that was mine, till then, she'd won.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 9:08 AM UTC
After the petals are fallen
I wait in ecstasy
for the treasured seeds of life
trancing in my womb
to paint the wings of spring
in colours of mirth
to rejuvenate the dead dreams
of a parched earth!
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 3:26 AM UTC
Personal flowers dropped
Five spaces apart,
Life inside a bubble of dust,
Grace and places you'd rather be,
Form, thought,
Plenty enough,
Methods of trancing,
Without question or dignity,
Valueless buttons,
Strong out against the night,
Playing frugally,
With a never ending face,
Missing a hole to get in
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC