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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
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
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!
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
ZOO Feb 2017
A gentle float, she runs with scents of sweetness.
The road casts and bolts, warm & cold trancelike.
As I like to her eyes, that vast power.
roaring harp and sing, thy butterflies my stomach dances.

My pout put to rest, she forms her happiness with tightness.
A little days of duckling, crosses me just beyond.
As the day, never has it come at me with lightness.
O goodness I trip each early light, forever I have found.

The disorderly rays is skilled with teaching tis' a joy to drive.
All this beauty! It’s good to be on the autobaun.
drive
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.
Travis Green Feb 2022
When you come into my life with your supreme sauce
You make me feel so hot and soft inside
I’m lost in your seductive suppleness
Intensely brilliant flex that has me so besotted by your beauty
I feel so electrified when you shroud me in your powerfulness
With your solid and manly stance, you stroke me with awe
Your wonderfulness clings to my heart
Makes me hold my chest to feel your magic all over me

Your swaggalicous splashiness has me so high
You transport me to outer galaxies
Where I go into a trancelike state
Coupled to your seductive sight
I’m so far away from my time
I don’t think I could ever return to earth
Your love lives inside my house of flowery sweetness
The thought to touch your lips sets my soul aflame
To rub the luminous lines, drown into pristine dreams
Of exploring what lies beneath the surface

I feel your smooth, imperial mustache, and I’m rapt
I place my tongue on your elegant ears and kiss them delicately
I gaze into your heavenly iridescent eyes
Such swirling designs make me lose
My way in your radiant creation
Your masculineness emanates magicalness
Boy, you taste so delectable
In your nakedness, you are a certifiable and desirable king
You are the one, Daddy
A bright bad boss
A tough top-notch charmer
My peerless perfect paradise
found himself bewitched about Circe,
particularly after reading book title by the same name.

An enchantress and a minor goddess
in ancient Greek mythology and religion
depicted as living on the island of Aeaea
(pronounced "ee-EE-uh"),
the daughter of the sun god Helios
and the Oceanid nymph Perse
Circe renowned for her vast knowledge
of potions and herbs
unwittingly cast her magic
across millenniums of space and time,
whose fictitious existence spanned
during the Bronze Age
and the Greek Heroic Age,
which roughly corresponds
to the period of the Trojan War
and Odysseus's journey home
courtesy Madeline Miller
an American novelist,
author of The Song of Achilles and Circe,
who spent ten years writing
The Song of Achilles
while she worked as a teacher
of Latin and Greek.

After reading the first hundred pages
of aforementioned well written novel,
(a riddle wrapped
in a mystery inside an enigma -
In an October 1939 radio speech,
Winston Churchill used this phrase
to describe a situation
difficult to comprehend,
when he analyzed the early events
of the second war to end all wars),
yours truly experienced
increased familiarity towards Circe,
which inadvertently brought admiration
and eventual infatuation - ha
to said subject matter at hand
compliments aforesaid
forty six year young autheress
weaned on the classics as a little girl
courtesy her mother,
(who shares the same first name)
a librarian, started reading her
The Iliad at five years old
and she started learning Latin at eleven,
hence no surprise the daughter
started writing her first novel,
The Song of Achilles,
during the final year of her bachelor's
after co-directing a production
of Troilus and Cressida.
Most of my life of threescore and six years
found me a **** poor bloke transfixed
with reading about
femme fatale fictional personas in general,
and Circe in particular,
whom yours truly
found himself besotted with
because of her intriguing charisma
and found himself pretending
to wine and dine
said figment of Grecian imagination
à la suit of lovers such as
Telemachus, Hermes,
and most significant
life changing relationship Odysseus.

Short of cash
since becoming aware
of the importance of money
(particularly the lack thereof
of said currency),
I lucked out being a Guinea Pig
to test run the latest iteration
of time machine technology
and willingly accepted the opportunity
to volunteer myself
aware that any number of quirks
could find me stranded
somewhere in time
cue The 18th variation
of Sergei Rachmaninoff's
"Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini"
never to return to the present moment
(March Madness 2025)
before circumstances
leisurely cruising thru cyberspace
texting one of the countless friends
I met courtesy social media platforms
until accursed ill-fate
found me experiencing
a series of unfortunate events.

After an instantaneous
indeterminable interval
of fleeting seconds or minutes,
a blinding flash indicated
that space-age contrivance
approached speed of light,
which pure energy form
accompanied with surrealistic kaleidoscope
of brilliant and spectacular colors,
which virtual phenomena
analogous to a rave party
typically featuring
electronic dance music (EDM),
with other genres like house, techno,
trance, drum and bass,
and dubstep being common choices
quite visible even with protective gear
donned over entire talking heads.
Unfortunately due
to some ghost in the machine,
a mechanical breakdown
within the Elon Musk
made contrivance
where time travel
to classical Greece
original objective in general
and experiencing firsthand
the invisible presence of Circe in particular
found the airy mission
thwarted (possibly a conspiracy linkedin
with John Wilkes Booth)
to pre antebellum America instead
birthing the following snippet
from a more lengthy vignette.

Nothing unusual, but
please pardon my lack of ability
to communicate in a clear and concise fashion.
The heat from summer like temperature-
induced drowsiness, which effort
to keep eyelids opened
tantamount to a futile effort.

So this fellow relented to visit
Doctor Mehmet Ozzy Osbourne land
during his Black Sabbath.

Thus mere moments ago,
while adrift in deep,
profound and tranquil sleep
(which seemed to encompass
more than the usual
one hour or so dog gone cat nap)
an undetectable transformation
quietly, softly, and subtly
jettisoned me from the here and now
to the flux of events
awash mid eighteen hundreds America.

Prior to waking
from hypnotic, trancelike state
(populated with exquisite
redolent viz psychedelic furs dreams
nearly true to realistic personages)
held me spellbound.

Akin to a frictionless,
gliding locomotion mechanism
(safely and securely
transporting human cargo
known as Matthew Scott beyond present)
ferried me across corridors,
labyrinths and passageways
countless decades ago,
I absorbed the ambient
mind-set, beliefs, creeds, ethos,
gentility, integrity, morality,
nuanced opinions, political thought-processes,
vices and virtues
of progressive think
men and women,
for their time,
who accident of fate
writ (unbeknownst to them)
their incomplete biographies
cradle to grave scores of years ago.
Travis Green Aug 2022
Bold golden yellow Romeo
Brilliant blissful slicker
Committed delicious brick
Dreamy prodigious sweetness
A calming, charming heartland
Awash with indefatigable kinematic attraction

I let my fingers brush
Your cold glowing beard
Slide my glossy chocolate cheek against yours
With your silken sizzling sunrise skin

Feel your ***** pink punch lips
In a limitless trancelike state that I can’t shake
I serenade to the fascinatingly fragrant
Stream of your tender clean handsomeness

Plunge into your luminous majestic jungle
So lively and inviting
So harmonious and blossoming
Your hotness sparkles likes
Treasured, tranquil, and sapphire seas

You  are as refreshing as the soft hypnotic aroma
In the measureless glorious rainforest
Let me drink you down like a delectable citrus sunset
Escape into your elevated vibrational energy
In your wondrous robust realm rife
With exceptional perpetual spice

— The End —