"transfix" poems
Not much inquiry
is necessary
delineating candlelight
Not much pondering,
only the flickering
whispers which permeate
time-space
And transfix time
temporarily
are the tools
for description...
...something about
the periphery
that lies beyond
its heated source
is the mystical shimmering glow
and its soothing embrace
that hugs
cradled-souls
And most matter about...
...energy not yet exhausted
heated translucent secretions
gush down
from the hot-tip likened phallus...
...the heated beads reflect the candlelight
Watching the warm trickles,
human feelings are warm
Lightly light
and light headiness
soon embrace...
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
My pups are in bed,
both tightly together.
They need their head(s),
because of the weather!
The ground is so wet,
such clouds in the sky!
They shiver, like threat:
I 'd ask myself, "why?!"
Seeing me, they get up.
Yoshi watches as Kirby grins.
Clawing our door, both of my pup,
would be as just the cutest twins!
I open the door, for them.
They'd sit, being so gracious.
Being just the cutest gem(s),
my dogs, they're precious!
They perform their neat tricks:
both wait for their sweet treat.
I’d give each one, transfix(ed),
of course they then both eat!
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 10:29 PM UTC
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crookèd eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth despite his cruel hand.
2.9k
I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled.
Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle.
I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet.
I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions.
I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means.
I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'.
I've inhaled profits and installed transformation.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor.
I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky.
I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil.
I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil.
These are moments I would give up.
There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility.
I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 11:54 PM UTC
"God, I really wish she talked like you,
dressed like you;
how do I get her to think like you do?"
Policing her to be like me will never serve you
because the one who does me best, is me.
Be truthful with yourself,
when you ask her to behave like this,
do you dream of me?
You cannot easily transpose my image onto your lover,
because no one else loves like me,
talks like me,
dresses like me,
can transfix in your mind like me.
Do you love her like you love me?
Does she know the blueprint you use to mold her from?
Could she handle knowing what I know?
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 9:16 AM UTC
Trying to understand this suffering sky,
I wonder why you paint it dark
breaking stares by ravishing storms
and blues at times, cause so do I.
Your true spark there it belongs
wonderful abyss that can’t ever be denied...
Empathy, chemical reaction to my thoughts,
rebel emotions on skin we wrote like
through your fingers drops of soul,
pure water, infinite source of light
love, you and so I did grow fond of.
Rain falls only on this face of mine
reflecting all smiles I make wildly
catching your words like souls in flight,
hearing sounds of precious stones and intensity,
sunbeams transfix my eyes
widening the esteem of immensity...
The sunset with it’s rumble,
whispers of a starry sky,
warm wind,a striking rainbow,
fluffy clouds to admire,
it’s time…
Go…
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
Step upon rose petals
One by one gently
Don't hesitate
life is a continental dispersity
Grab your depth
Onto what's left
Unsaid and do
Transfix the sunrays
Gather them in a left
Hand, handful burn
typhoons of tender typographies churn
Grab the liar by the hair roots
And pull yourself out of muddy
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 2:04 PM UTC
__|small gee for god; big bee for byron|__
Strikes a chord with you, does it?
This shambling poverty of thought,
Insta-rated and underwhelming;
Thank god for Byron.
__|keats versus shelley|__
Sparing no injury to his phthisicky frame,
Keats lies atop a make-believe of cherry trees
Searching among the clouds
For wealth, health and a Grecian urn,
While Shelley does Venice
And blows himself a hookah.
__|o poesy! for thee I grasp my pen|__
Panning the wayward sky for inspiration,
A hope, a word, a beginning;
A versification so ecstatic as to transfix the senses and pierce the heart,
A lightning phrase capable of uprooting all commonality,
As outrageous a miracle in the minds of men as crucified immortality.
__|requiem|__
Unlike the wilting rose which has no higher calling
Than to bloom and die upon the stem,
And having relinquished its last perfumed petal
Retreat from memory again,
I fear that I shall linger,
Tethered to this eternal moment
By shudd’ring will and breath combined,
A brighter shade of myself than what of me I have left behind.
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 4:21 PM UTC
big moon
you transfix me with your gaze
you hold me in your eye
with your muted clarity
your simple mystery
your enigmatic answer
your reflective light
your seductive hypnotism
your soulful beam
you didn't tell me you were there
did you?
but I knew ..
because I can feel you
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
His fingers examine mine.
Large experienced hands
Smoothed by rivers of past experience.
Tracing, tripping on the stony boulders in my creek.
Please tell me a story they beg.
The creek whispers “What is in the black hat?”
His slanted eyes smile wickedly.
“Play me for it”
Rock. Paper. Scissor. Shoot.
Rock. Rock. Rock.
A magician’s slip of the hand.
Cheshire cat grins always win.
Paper triumphs over rock.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
My boulders try to Cut and Paste the paper.
Tell me a story. Please.
What happened to the black hat?
His eyes- transfix mine- watching them watch me.
A coin pulled out of my ear.
Glinting-mischievous- dare I say- caring.
One larger than the other.
His hand in mine.
Did his face just say that?
Explain the eyes magician.
What’s behind the black hat?
Why do the eyes slant?
Why can’t you see straight?
Why can’t I see you straight?
What is beneath the hat?
His finger traces my hips, my lips.
I talk. Talk. Cover it with talk.
Talk in circles- dance in- jab, retreat- spin.
Please. Story. Hat.
Two lips block black and white text.
The magician’s done it again.
Searching for the trick I whirl away.
What is in the hat?
I challenge.
Rock. Paper. Scissor. Shoot.
Scissor. Scissor.
Scissor never works.
Slip slit- out of fabric.
The rainbow scarf slips back up the sleeve.
His eyelashes blink
Remind me forget forget.
White bunnies spin in my eyes.
One eye bigger than the other.
No story to see.
Black Hat.
The white bunny hops back in the hat.
Where did it go?
My finger, traces, digs, his lips.
Praying. Open. Speak.
Hat. Black Hat. Hat.
Cheshire cats don’t speak. Just stare.
River Hands circle my waist.
A bouquet pulled out of his sleeve.
Before he can—stare
Boulders BLOCK. Hands over the eyes.
No more tricks.
No more tricks.
“Wanna play?”
Rock. Paper. Scissor. Shoot.
Paper? Paper? Paper?
I fall into the black hat.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
Sweet dreams until we meet again.
Sweet dreams while your heart slumbers.
Sweet dreams from this cold world we fend,
Sweet dreams, sweet dreams again.
A lullaby, A broken dream.
A memory not remembered.
Do no be afraid of end,
Sweet dreams, sweet dreams again.
No tears shed, No light granted
Just peaceful, silent bliss,
No wars fought, no blood bled,
Sweet dreams, sweet dreams again.
A broken heart can mend itself,
If not completely whole,
A broken smile can still shine full,
Sweet dreams, sweet dreams again.
A pain so deep, one can’t confess,
A daring tongue in cheek,
A gaze so strong, that can transfix,
.
Sweet dreams, sweet dreams again.
You’ll be held near, so close your eyes,
Let everything unfold,
Throw out your harm, let it all die.
Be sweet. Sweet dreams to you.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 2:55 AM UTC
Your eyes are sockets of disapproval
My eyes are sunk in their reticence
Would I be the flustering morning sun?
No I'm not, I only break the dawn
When, creeping from my slothing insolence
I enter the world afresh to some harried call
A new day stretching my body from contortion
To a slumbered, slouched hunch
With bags afrenzy under these eyes that stare back
Are portals to my soul, which is also empty
Reflections of woeful, haggard dejection
Which, in my mind's eye, which is yours,
Give me call to curl back to my hibernation
To recede like my own vacant eyes do,
To my seat of morose repose
Senseless, as I stare thickly into space
Beholding my dreams strewn before me
As I curl away from them, and they seem ever reachable
Moments ago, I used to speak to myself
A mutterance for the day's outlook
Something to find a more suitable reflection
Waiting for me at the day's end
A worldly philosophy, or mind set proposal
But a strange shame spoke back at me,
As I perceived my speaking of these words
That with each day's turn only mildly echoed
As I turned from monotony with each night
To mediocrity of passionless habit
With a pinch of thought each glance conjures
I look upon myself in years,
My futile vision, my rampant egoism
With which the twinkling eye discerns me
At my now stage, and with
Reassuring confidence tells me not to change
As with time's growth will I become you
But blink and I return to forever
For without vigor and drive will this image
Imprint and stagnate its glare upon this glass
My eternal face, my motiveless eyes
Which so piteously transfix themselves on wonder
But turn up only rubble and soil
Now, I turn in disgust, relinquishing my desires
And, turning to the hour, feel slowly
The weight of each second's thunder
Crash upon my shoulders as it is snatched from me
And now I must not lounge through this new morn
I must not lessen with the tide
What I have stored up in greatness
But instead find the key to my ghostly heart
Bring myself back,
Forward into each new life
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
Riding on the moon
My name is heard
Trying not be blue
The tide of life is high
Sounds of rationality become drowned
By the thoughts of disbelief
Beauty is really overwhelming
Dreaming is a tool for living
Surviving is merely all that is possible
Tonight the breeze of the night
Will cradle the thoughts of my pain
Beauty of the moon will transfix this being
All that will remain is solemness and calm
The shallowness of the frame
Now a day the gray cannot forget the crime
Ease of mind, for that there is time
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 5:22 AM UTC
There's a spark in your eyes that makes me jealous...
Even hope doesn't shimmer that bright.
...
look in to my eyes.
down, down, down it goes.
this abyss of nothing whole.
galaxies made of broken pieces of me.
hollowed voices drift from every chasm of a fractured soul.
this darkness is greedy.
so close your eyes, and pull yourself away.
before
these hollowed voices beguile you,
before
galaxies transfix your gaze and siphon your light.
so close your eyes, and pull yourself away.
Because there's a glint in my eye, that's beginning to make you jealous.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 5:00 AM UTC
The explosions come but we do not run. We see them before we hear them.
The high-pitched sounds permeate the air and all we do is sit.
We wait.
They explode from the inside out.
The explosions leave a spidery trail of sound and sight that no longer exits anywhere but in our minds and all we do is listen.
The colors fight against each other.
They spread in all different directions pushing out whatever empty space was occupied there.
The noises change and now we hear the demonic mutation of the sound of rain.
We are hurt by the light but still we stare.
The booming and the blinding lights transfix our gazes so all we do is sit.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
do not fall in love with a poet
unless you can accept flickering candles at obscene hours
and ink stains that cover their fingers and clothes
and constant eye bags that they may need you to kiss
do not fall in love with a poet
unless you handle them dropping all and suddenly
composing
and then shutting you out in frustration of imperfection
sometimes words just do not do the things that they want
do not fall in love with a poet
if you do not appreciate paragraphs about your eyes
or if you do not have very beautiful prose
your simplicity will scare; they will simply hide their heart
do not fall in love with a poet
and solely be swept away by their mesmerizing verses
they will take you and transfix you in the dead of the night
leaving you breathless
but they'll be gone by morning
k.c.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
What will become of me?
or better yet, what could have become of me?
At times, I stare out at the world
from screened and barred windows
contemplating alternate futures for myself.
The “what-if’s” and “could have been’s” taunt me,
causing me to flirt with the idea
of things being different.
___
I seem to forget what actually is,
unappreciative of what actually has become of me,
of what I have already become,
overlooking the things I’ve done right.
___
It’s time I changed focus.
Transfix upon the ever-changing present,
not concentrating on what never was,
and no longer entertaining worries of what will be,
or what will not.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
The aftershocks
Ripple rash anger consuming my frame.
****** duels with metal swords of rage
That slice innocence in half.
Irrational self-destruction,
Showing signs of weak malfunction.
Boiling blood gurgling through my veins.
How do I dare let such a horror rule my weak blackened hands?
Snarling fangs,
Foaming rabid with distain, puncture my brain.
Ripping pride and ego to bloodied shreds.
Failure, weakness, defeat,
Their sharp clawed feet incessantly transfix me.
Agonizing.
Inflicting purposeful pain,
The need to destroy shall grind me to a pulp.
Evil is ruling a twisted game.
Queen of Hearts.
King of Spades.
Gnawing at my bones, my tendons snap.
Eyes of fire that could torch one’s soul, encase a beastly rage.
I roar,
Thrashing and afraid.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
She adopted Irish words and lingo
As her moniker-
Like the Meadbh of old, a queen
Of many talents
Her's was the gathering of languages
A menagerie of the tongues of the earth
Spoken as she lamented with crossed accents
So that her French sounded Italian
Her German sounded English
And her Irish like the incantations to old legends
In which she would have been worshipped-
If not feared
For what is not to fear in her eyes
Which speak of a passion
Like the intensity of Picasso's eyes
That screamed his power
She is the same- A famous beauty
Like a song from childhood
Her power to transfix is in her eyes
Wells to get lost in-
For she is the fairy queen of Hessen.
©Vincent S. Coster 27th October 2015
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
A sadness has come over me
As I pass this corner bye,
A junction on the highway,
A lonely cobalt sky.
A sodden pale blue teddy bear
Stands pinioned to a cross
And the glassy glint in Teddy’s eyes
Transfix a sense of loss.
The traffic whizzes past this point
Most people fail to see
The sadness manifested
In his glassy stare at me.
The sadness of a lost young soul
Who failed to take the bend,
Who with his motor cycle crash
Did meet his Maker’s end.
I know not why he died so young,
I know not why he sped.
But know I do, the child like love
He felt for his blue Ted.
The sadness of a pale blue Ted
When pinioned to a cross
Stands sodden on a lonely road
Invoking tears of loss.
Marshalg
At Blue Ted Corner
Highway 20
Taranaki
14 August 2012
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:27 AM UTC
you lay in bed
and transfix your eyes on any old thing
this is as easy as life gets
they find the ceiling fan
it isn't on, but it's doing just the same as you
this is good, right?
you ponder on things
that are so far gone
like the last time you hugged your brother
or the last time you wrote him a letter
and never sent it out
downward spiral
you become lost; cradled by longevity
but in an unsettling way
you think about how life is too drawn out
to do this everyday
this mindset is torture
atrocious clouds, unimpeded
they encompass your brain
and an unwelcome curious side
consumes you
i wonder what death is like?
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
Do you know what its like to watch a man die?
to watch the blood spill from his head
like when you turn the faucet on to wash your hands
before you go to eat dinner
Do you know what its like to helplessly watch a man die?
as he is gasping for breath
while you breathe in fresh air
unable to share
Do you know what its like to wait for the police to arrive?
how deafening, terrifying that wait is
its like when someone tells you news that's so devastating you don't even think to cry you're just stuck in a transfix
They say you feel sympathy for others when you do not understand
but this was so much more than sympathy
more than the fact that I was beyond devastated
I feel as if I should have been that man
and I felt guilty that all I could do was scream and sit there with him
while I felt his soul leave his body
Do you know what its like to watch a man die?
because I do.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
I step into graffiti and strange smells
what if the cable snaps
plunging all my horizons
into instant nothing
I push the button
grumbling
what have I done
to deserve this end
my thoughts wander
as my eyes transfix
on the sudden light
of waiting faces behind opening doors.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
I am I...
I am the the right of the wrongs
that rubber cement
the name of the game
I add links to the chain
re arrange the brain.
I am I...
I come from the west and traveled to the east coast
I am the earth the universe and this globe
I am I...
I paradoxically transfix your mental state changing the frontal lobe.
I am the blood and the veins of this country the crescendo of the symphony
don't **** with me
I am I...
I am the fist of power
I am the topic of the hour
the dro and the sour
I am the dopest of the dope yo the most of the most.
I am I...
Praise me.
raise your cup to me first.
dream and reflect//project yourself into the sky
I am I...
I am the knots,
the intricate seams
at the end of the rope
the drugs in your veins the perfect acid dose.
I am I...
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
The past is such an interesting notion.
Events and moments transpire.
Then seemingly.
Vanish.
Yet we collect them.
Hold them close.
Or far.
Attaching some form of meaning to them.
These memoirs can guide.
Inhibit.
Transfix.
Suffocate.
And any number of other descriptions to wield.
In many ways.
The time after.
Are just duplicates of the latter.
With placed meaning that's "different".
Archived seperately.
So much irrelevant information.
What can our history books truly retain when perspective is so...
Objective.
We are a society hell bent on understanding what was.
Constantly walking past what is.
And lamenting what will be.
Making it truly a wonder.
That any of us.
Are present.
At all.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC