Best Trances Poems
Haiti, the home of voodoo practices
Seventeenth Century Spain cedes to France
Catholic Spaniards trembled when they saw
“Dead” men revived to wander in trances
A vile poison can make men appear dead
Revival requires an antidote
But perhaps there is more to zombie lore
An explanation to why these souls woke
Brutally treated slaves worked sugar fields
Captives from Africa known as “Maroons”
As French aristocrats sat and grew fat
Blacks sweated for “sweets” in the tropic sun
Buried guilt deep at night still festers
For conscience is God’s gift to each man
Some may suppress it for just a short time
‘Til magical night envelopes the land
Spirits of those who were taken in chains
Are given by God a chance to rebel
Stalking the living in deathly pallor
Haunting their captors with visions of hell
“Zombifications,” Maroons erected
Spreading the horrors of slavery with anger
Showing the French what their evil produced
And putting their sanity in danger
So please put the voodoo dolls back on shelves
The needle-sharp pricks of remorse can sting
Enslaved Maroons prevail in heaven’s court
Our Creator’s eyes aren’t missing a thing
Magic, black or white, God sees no color
Love is bestowed on men of all races
And those who question the Lord’s intentions
Should look in the eyes of living-dead faces
From my very beginnings I have been,
Like no other- I have lived in a dream;
The joy in life sadly I have not seen,
Yet my soul is like a cool forest stream.
My writing are fragments- I have taken,
From a broken heart that weeps a poem;
For each sad sorrow, each I awaken,
My life is writing- poetry my home.
As a grown woman I am a cool dawn,
But there is thunder in my soul- a storm;
And with my bleeding pen the words are drawn,
Each new line will take on its own sweet form.
My nights are dreams and my days are trances,
And I spin and weave poetic dances.
____________________
August 19, 2016
Poetry/Sonnet/"Poetic Dances"
Copyright Protected, ID 16-819-491-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Mid July 2018 Premiere Contest
Sponsor, Brian Strand
Fourth Place
__________________________
Entered in the contest,
Sonnet (2016)
First Place
Lost in a wistful arbor, where malaise blooms,
Mists flower in hypnotic bleak violet dusks
Shades of brooding melancholy
Bruise my treasured bouquets of dreams
And plod through ponderous mists
In metamorphic doldrums
Cold inertia spirals into lamentations,
Midnights drugged with stupor
Lean heavy on my homeless hermit heart
In withering labyrinths of tangled voices,
Atonal buds of plaintive paeans,
When pensive lethargy pierces dawn.
My rose, in apathy, sees no reason to bloom
As shades of gloom birth shadow seasons
And pale fretting’s unbroken gaze dulls dawn’s hues
Clouds of sighs ravish new shoots
Born in sweet trances of possibility -
Each breath a tedious indecision wrapped in enigma.
Dullness shrouds each new growth in greyness
A slow march into inertia’s bower of cathexis.
I see their intentions,
In their trances of manipulation,
Mind-warping affection, they laid upon you,
And knowingly you feed on what I thought you were absorbing…
You lash out at me screaming, saying,
“Rest your distrustful inflicting,
Look me in the eye, accept me, and free me!
I will consume their darkness in a bleeding light,
Whilst juggling in the enigmas you cramp me in!
You wonder why I welcome all,
As danger tickles my curves, arresting your nerves
You most sacred, superstitious little butterfly
Cease your incessant, mocking lectures
Flapping your wings at me in a colorful warning
Yes, I know you have seen it all you perfectly transformed worm!
I know what you know even though you think I do not know it!
Your metamorphosis of completion is impressive, yes,
Yet in your expectations, you ignore the fact that I am shapeless,
Stepping into the open air to confront change with all of its surprises.”
My multihued resolve silenced her…
“I hear you! I hear you oh so clear,
You innocent, raw little worm of a girl…
So I shall allow, just know:
My mighty wings are here to shade you, not smother you
As your guardian, I will trust with sting
Swearing on my every heartbeat,
I will protect you as you engorge on the thorns you call beauty
I will lift you from the brushes to let you peek at the hungry birds,
And you will plead for me to shield you once more
Though when I do not, and the birds dive down to consume you,
In fear, in haste, you will sprout your magnificent wings,
You will call out my name,
And in tears I will watch you fly far above them all!”
For Justin Bordner's contest, "The Instincts of Innocence"
The vibrant popinjay has gone.' The harlequin no more really
Spins in song.' The magic's now all in a can.' Younger female backers
Parry times looming advance plan..' The age'd icon takes his glances
Across the acres, of yearning souls in hopefull trances..Parody banners they lie.' beneath sultry skies.' Echo the effigy of the past, See it burned in the mans eyes.'
Actions Describe.' Writ large the irony of life.' Youth has
Flown.' All hail its ghost, Ronnie strums, the speakers hum.'
Geri-acrity...Fumbles combinations and with alacrity..' 0yet theres really not one chance.' No way back.' All I see is false hope.' Rod Stewart is a husk.' Not yet voiceless.' Nor danceless yet
Its the back end, of the romance.!
Hey!
My
Daily
Love-trances!
You are vain, absurd,
Pointless like gigantic bubbles!
Unworthy to reach my love’s castled, restricted mind.
Counting his forehead’s plaits, I pass my virgin life recklessly, day-dreaming worthlessly;
Glaring at his eyes, I find the dreams reigning there with great authenticity, ignoring me, my love or even my poor fervidity.
Dusk to dawn, dawn to dusk, his love encompasses me, like a haunted house and ghostly I feel I see! As the time passes, I don’t know when I started counting even his sighs, forgetting my love-dreams and all of its hues.
But Ha! His whimsical mind is inaccessible, radically changeable, it’s rather easier to count his holly eye lashes, where there is no hypocrisy at all, but existing love enormous for me; 'Silence' is the name of our love you see! Though he likes to keep it unutterable to me! It's mad love, which has kept me forever thirsty!
Escaped! furtive glances
Manifest of enchanted trances
Arrested by crimson faces averted
Too soon, too soon, they'd flirted
The air yearned with sensation
Surreptitious, delicious anticipation
Peering deeply into each other's eyes
Too soon, too soon, they'd rhapsodized
Tilted heads on swooning necks
Lips toward targets puckered, flexed
The moment arrived, two souls to merge
Too soon, too soon, they'd felt the urge...
Somberly returned, Cupid's bent arrow to its quiver
Too soon, too soon, murmured love's melancholy river
I have something to say and
for what lies ahead to God Almighty
we must incessantly pray.
We look up to those we should
shun.....
We are taught about violence
We are taught to fear guns
Yet we fight with weapons
and deadly puns......
who are the responsible for
the deterioration of the values
of our loved ones?
Are you and I free to decide
what is right or wrong or must
we hold our heads up high and
sing the song that wasn't meant
to be sung.....
" Let freedom ring"
with it's dubious and misleading
intricacies with horror I observe
the veiled atrocities of all those
who continue to abuse power....
Are we truly living in the land of
the free. do we fear or are we blind
to what the elite condition us to believe
Are we Ok living in a so called
"Democracy" with the rules of those
who are higher up? Is anyone yet fed up?
Do they now have ways of holding
our liberties hostage or our youth
in bondage...
Dear Mr. President are we citizens
or residents are we slaves of the
corrupt or should be thankful
and just shut the hell up....
Has our freedoms been sold or am
I just being bold is it a sin to speak with
truth are the ones in power not the ones
hiding the proof and silencing
the masses with drugs and trances.
I am here cause I still have a voice
even if in everything else we have
no choice....
I have witnessed the daily tragedies of
of our once beloved nation with great
indignation.
They say we live in democracy but we
are not heard ,we are not the voice of the
people; we are living in dictatorship and loving
every minute of it because we are told what to
think hear and speak and we care not know
what we are fighting for " freedoms" but we are
not FREE....
“Milk of Roses”
Milk of Roses
was her scent
and great bouquets
of baby's breath
moving messages
that blew across hearts
underneath the bones and skin of breast
baby's breath that bristled like clouds
moved by hidden white doves
who cut the air like a butter knife
for other imaginings crossing scarlet tears in skies
and whispering trances through doors
of wanton scattered minds, "do enter", she chides,
"what jewel lies open in cavernous chest?"
when she left the room
traces of her remained
hints of a haunting
The Tea service was distraught
table tipping had commenced
Candide Diderot. ‘25
“the skin she wears
may be made of calm,
but her bones
are made of chaos”
tears. verb.
/pull (something) apart or to pieces with force
/move very quickly in a reckless or excited manner
/make a hole or split in (something) by pulling it or piercing it with a sharp implement
/a brief spell of erratic or unrestrained behaviour; a binge or spree
/a spell of great success or excellence in performance.
tears.noun
/a drop of clear salty liquid secreted from glands in a person's eye when they cry (or the eye is irritated).
"Skin of the Night"
Like a moth she moves to the red light
Her blood warms and boils there
She skims the sweat like a new milk
And pops the buttons off her wet blouse
Oh Queen of the Night
Well she is deep inside
She is haunting me
(All of her soft parts call to me
She could be mine)
She digs her nails into her naked chest
Miles of veins fan out like a road map
She pulls back the skin to show her ribs
That twinkle like shooting stars
M83 (music, and lyrics)
On frost chilled night twinkling stars wink through misty shrouds
as miniature monsters in drunken sugar trances carouse the twilight.
Good pious folk stay hidden with candy alms against the fright,
while the swollen Halloween moon whimsically grins down at such a sight.
10/08/15
Native American collage
Traditional tribals that followed Sioux religion,
Had spiritual beliefs
performed controversial dance ceremonies,
Waken- the great spirit
was one universal source,
Mother Earth birthed all
animals, plants and humans,
Black Elk sheltered all,
The sacred hoop said unity,
Circles symbolised oneness,
Invisible Great spirit was Sioux God,
Thunderbird powerful spirit of sky,
Underwater spirits that controlled all commons,
Humans wanted to communicate,
Shamanic practices
to interpret dreams and trances,
Performed rituals for vision,
With visions and dreams
they could talk to spirits,
Native Americans
far more believed in,
Death and rebirth,
Curiosity on afterlife
a human's breath,
Native American collage,
Is all that's holy and mysterious !!
Written Sept 4th, 2015
For contest by Frank Herrara
Interesting to note that American govt. Banned their practises in 1800, still we are trying to solve this puzzle of life and afterlife- through now called science.
Ocean of storms within' my sleep
The sun is white with envy
The sky is raining blood
All the hatred with the flood
And visions I rather not keep.
As I relentlessly endure the fears and screams
I become shocked in silent trances of temptations only sound
Which only comes within' my dreams,
As I begin to look around...
Around at life's transition, And death's position
For me to awake from this lie,
I need to say goodbye,
Say goodbye to the ocean of storms, Say hello to pride above
For now love will take its course and replace those visions for sure.
Kld 2002
I WISH I WEREN’T A SPIDER
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
I wish I weren’t a spider, not even my relatives are a friend
Getting close to another kinsman could bring a lethal end
We're not a glamorous group, we are hairy and scary
We set up snares and spin webs snagging the naive n unwary
If you visit my web I’ll spin you into a tailored silky cocoon
In time I’ll drain you, you’ll end up resembling a sun dried prune
Now I ask you, is that a hygienic way to earn a living
I hide in nooks n crannies, my bites totally unforgiving
Most of the time you’ll get a little fever maybe some pain
But the fright that I cause is so impossible to contain
Now, I’ve got kin in a place called the land down under
Being not aware of their presence is a fatal blunder
In South America we are big, hairy and lightning quick
We hide in holes, when prey ambles by, our pounce is slick
In the jungles we can spin webs several meters across
Snagging creatures n eyeing them as they struggle n toss
No escape: some will become a gourmet’s month long meal
Spun silks are sturdy, flexible, elastic, yet stronger than steel
The mating process is a venturous trip with fatal chances
We’ve got to lure and subdue her into hypnotic trances
Being lucky enough to catch her, turns into a dangerous ordeal
After impregnating, I got to be quick or I’ll be her next meal
She’ll get her comeuppance from babies carried underside
They’ll rapidly devour her; how she lived is how she died
Now I ask you is that a commendable way to exist
We will never be included in any preferred list
But if I were a butterfly so fragile n brightly colored
I’d flit from flower to flower, sweet nectar easily devoured
I’d be regaled, loved and showered with daily praise
I’d be included in children’s books on the front page
The Way barred, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Le sens clos by T. Wignesan
Every man has to confront his own night
If he wants to continue on his journey.
But Death takes it upon itself to meet him
At the hour and the place it chooses
(The moment when sometimes this man’s most at peace
Making him forget the profoundness of being at ease.)
There’s this look which suddenly arrests him
This wall against which he collides headlong.
There’s this arrow-like fixedness focussing ahead
Visible in his pupils. There’s this stiffness
Of the nape through which the soul is reached.
There’s this man’s expression of utter surrender
Yet he takes the step into the impenetrable void.
Yet this obscure hardness is an invitation
To force the impenetrable door through dire anxiety.
It being convenient to defer to terror
The way one dons a wedding dress. As long as God
Does not imbue with madness those who love Him
He’s not loved as He would have wished.
Just the way the Patriarchs the Prophets
Train their sights towards this wine. And the face
Gaping at the first to arrive on the road
To take him back home. Someone fills it up
Like one does a cup : this passer-by becomes Jacob
Unable to control God in his veins,
And the over-abundance frothing in his eyes.
He who assails the invisible (perhaps you)
Little does it matter if he’s petrified
Or if his limbs flail in the emptiness. He equally
Experiences the misery of such venerable persons
Who mask their vacant selves with such gestures
Their atrocious trances with such stillness.
If every man must on his own open the door of his night
That’s just so as to reveal what’s meant for all mankind.
No Jacob will ever stop clasping at God
Nor await Abraham’s Justice
Nor keep silent under Isaac’s knife.
Nor for the Adam in every one of us to provoke
The echo of the void at the portals of paradise.
(Jacob, O.C. t. II, p. 147)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 19, 2014
And all my days are trances
And all my nightly dreams
Are where the grey eyes glances
and where the footstep gleams In the ethereal dances
But what eternal streams
Edgar Allen Poe
To One in Paradise
Re-write
As I danced in a sleep like trance
A dreamly night
I had in my sight
Where all the glances was upon me
My footsteps floated around the floor like a cloud
I looked around and I was proud
Not only with external beams but inward dreams