Tracery Poems | Examples

decaying

the gate to the old cemetery is rusty and old
though once upon a time is was elegant and gilded
ornate with filigree tracery ornamentation
now, it is   d e c a y i n g   fragile, beautiful 
I push to open and the gate sighs creaks, groans, moans

s 
   t
      e
         p
            p 
               i
                  n
                     g
                         into the cemetery 
the green wraps around me like a warm cloak

ETCHINGS

in soft outline
strokes
whorls&
      stains
cropping close
 
    piercing black
upright
&
 informal
  imaginary &surprising

 ambiguous
perhaps
 an allusion
      
 something from
 nothing
      refined
evocations
of
minimalist
  tracery

The Carrion Tree

–For Burns

Hanging from its branches, 
The tree bears them like glorious fruits— 
Laden with corpses rotting: old and new.
Their eyes glazed over, forever spewing agony—
All in various stages of decay; 
Dripping blood from their slick fur.
It must have been their eyes, black like buttons,
That drew you in. The whole forest closed in around you—
But, in the end, it was a voice
That brought you back to the carrion tree.

Slowly, you released the corpses one by one
And arranged them into a circle.
Now they could dissolve into the earth 
Like they were supposed to.
Longing to be with them, you rid yourself of your clothes
And lay down—naked as the day you were born—
In the centre of your new companions.
You would dissolve with them
To gratefully give your body back to the earth;

While, above you—through the tracery of branches—
The sky darkened and the air grew colder.
Still, it didn't occur to you to move.
This was the right place:
This was where you had wanted to be—
Surrounded by the fragility of death
And at peace with the elements.

Gate

 
The gate to the old cemetery is rusty and old,
though once upon a time is was elegant and gilded;
ornate with filigree tracery ornamentation,
now, it is decaying, fragile, yet still beautiful to me.
I push to open it and the gate creaks, groans, moans;
and sighs an objection.

Stepping into the cemetery is like entering tranquility,
the green wraps around me like a warm cloak;
the majestic old trees are like a protecting canopy,
I am awed by all the hues of green I behold.
The birds are non stop, oh how divine are their songs;
many headstones are in ruin.

I begin to walk a worn path looking at the stones,
unable to read the inscriptions, I find that so sad;
yet, still some have flowers either planted or bought,
oh such a peaceful place it makes me want to weep.
I hope my resting place can be like this old cemetery;
full of green peace.

Then, I retrace my steps until I stand at the gate,
pushing to open it creaks and moans again;
and did I hear voices whispering, impossible I think,
I turn expecting to see someone standing there.
Pushing the gate, I hear the whispers, is it possible;
or is it impossible.

Creaturely

Rough hands upon her,
not near, there, or where,
nor the seashell tip of a fingering care
            or other
            lack-lustering lapping's
but the groundless clubfooted grasping
                  of long incoherent passions.

A clinker of desire hammered anew
                by the forceful hands
of mist shrouded Nibelungen;
a dross now forged bright
  into red-eyed gleams of flame.

She who bears the weight
of such a slobber-lipped changeling
                covers his paws
with a tracery of spidery entanglements
the softest spell-binding webs
          that break his knuckles;
refining hot bones
              into phantom kisses.

For her satisfaction (and hers alone),
she captures that clumping stray
            caging him deep,
  and he left with no hands but hers.

Perfection

Magnified is this cloudless sky
with nothing unseen or seen.

Yet, there, spotted; a spot
in the faraway,
a puff of off-white tracery,
a hint of cloudiness,

and yet
so perfectly placed,

an eloquent flaw
in this amplitude of
clearest blue.

Starry Fabric

All nature’s linked, the heavens with the earth,
in star formations, gas, galactic dust,
elusively in roles of death and birth
however random seems their wanderlust.
We peer in space with telescopic sight
that oft may miss the tracery that’s there
as when our past assumptions take to flight
in view of being further made aware.
Vast fabrics interwoven in the sky
that starry gazers spy amidst the mists
and what immensities they might imply
may only be a whit of what exists.
…The poets with their phrases hem and haw
…yet fail to other than profess their awe.


~ Harley White


* * * * * * * * *


The poem is in the form of a Shakespearean sonnet…

A source of inspiration was the following…

NASA’s Webb Reveals Intricate Networks of Gas, Dust in Nearby Galaxies…

Filigree

Filigree
Celtic Filigree

Graceful filigree unbroken 
Weaves a tracery
With strands entwined
Like a whisper from the misty isles
Woven into whorls of melodic unity,
Indivisible spirals of the eternal three,
Thin harp strings of crisscrossed swirls
Weaving lyric filigree
Delicate fine threads elaborate
Earth, water, fire in legends
Of scholar saints and mystics –
Erin’s braided shield 
Two hearts intertwined into infinity
As a king’s wisdom brings a benediction
Of enduring life
That reaches back into the dusty kells 
Of rosettes in oak roots interlinked
Plaited knotwork - no beginning and no end -
Echoes eons of captured grace
In continuous mystical contours

2-14-23
Contest: Writing Challenge – F Words 
Sponsor: Constance La France

There are several well-known Celtic knots including Knotwork, The Trinity Knot, the Dara Knot, Solomon’s Knot and the Love Knot.

One of the meanings of “kells” is cocoon or chrysalis

We Look Up At the Family of Tracery Architecture

We Look Up At The Family Of Tracery Architecture

Tracery architecture began seeing the light
From the Gothic Age on it gained its birthright 
Its beauty spread left and right, day and night
In the stoneware dividing the glass with all its might
It took shape in the rising windows to a viewer's delight
The molds and shapes symmetrical and out of sight
Where the decorative patterns do please the eye and incite 
With grooves, twirls, and colors holding the window tight
Many a cathedral today share its passage and sprite
Like an acquired custom, blessing, and rite
That duly accentuates the interiors and exteriors flight
Where the parishioners do see more than the rays of daylight 

1/28/23

TRACERY Poetry Contest

Sponsor-Julia Ward

Tracery

Bejeweled, in and out of the Gothic architecture, 
Conceived by Abbot Suger, through a constant conjecture;
With perfect glasswork etched out of the then-time silica,
Found its place In Saint-Denis Cathedral Basilica...!

Modestly outsized splash-smeared gorgeous goblet casements, 
Renaissance classic styled stone accent wall sacred basements;
Prettily pointed piercing cumulative curly curves, 
Rib vaults great and small intertwining like the war of nerves...!

Soaring airborne ramparts; metaphysical adornments;
Perpendicular proportions; lopsided floral fronts;
Steady solemn designs that flounce upward in height and grace;
Domed arched ceilings that charms of times, ages, and eras embrace...!

With no shrinks and wrinkles like the perfection of pure youth, 
Enticing grand elegance like the fullness of the truth;
Tracery is a treasury of architectural forms,
Within which dwell, fine ethereal elemental norms...!!!


26 January 2023
TRACERY Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward

Tracery 101

To lie motionless is essential to the art of childhood tracery.

John G.Lawless
©1/26/2023

Child, Child, Holy Child Yes I'M Still Here

Child, Child, Holy Child Yes I'm Still Here

Bless me Holy Father as I weep
You are my Shepherd and I am your sheep
I pray at the altar today to confess my sin
But I don't know where to start or how to begin
It's been fifty years since I left the flock
During that time my boat never left the dock
I've walked the Seattle streets selling my wool
And have gone thru that vicious cycle like a fool
In all those years I walked to the Devil's beat
But today I prayed and repent, as I take my seat
My eyes teared as I looked up at the ceiling
I saw the light and regretted hurting God's feeling
I could feel His ray of light thru the stained glass
Yet my face couldn't hide my dark past
I saw the folds in the glass, the tracery, and the beauty
And I, too, want to be a ray of light and be of His duty
I want to be set free, absolved of my sins, for I care
Father, Father, Holy Father are you still there

connie pachecho

1/25/23

Powerful Concepts

POWERFUL CONCEPTS
daring
to return
in
enthralling
  &
radiant
grandeur
bright emblems
 in freefall
of
nostalgiaa
  resembling
a
galaxy of
    frozen
spectacular
fragments
forever passing
as
drifting shadows
in an
astral accidentn

 explosions
of all kinds
painstakingly
  &
marvellously
 spread
out  greeting
the arrival
of the  deeply
 ambiguous
perhaps
 an allusion
 of  transformation
 something from
 nothing
  melted down
&
 refined
evocative of
minimalist
  tracery
in the
 abstract
of
 tangles
of
 vibrating  
clouds
through
the
 lens
of
beautiful
innocent
ignorance
potent
with
significance
 trying to speak
through
a  heap of
discarded matter
 subtle
& capacious
&
 drifting
a sense of a mind
unfolding
stretching
 adding
 words

NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE   using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand

Reprise

Against the depthless blue 
Backdrop of the sky
A tracery of bare brown branches
Feathers out above,
Dipped golden by last rays 
Of the declining sun.

But wait!
The show’s not over yet,
For as the sun
Makes its final bow,
A grand finale takes the stage.
Splashes and streaks
Of rose and pink,
Purple, and orange 
Dance across the horizon, 
Higher and wider,
Until the lagoon below’s 
No longer blue,
But the palette of heaven
Reflected here on Earth.

When those golden days arrive
Upon our doorstep,
And time creeps slowly
Toward that last horizon,
Our grand finale
Will be the reprise
Of all our life upon this Earth.
So gather your paints.
Splash your canvas with color!
Live! Set the scene for
A glorious exit from this stage.
To grand applause.

Dusk

A mousy light filters a tracery of sunset,
dappled beams succumb to gloaming.

Evening stretches moments
for the rescue of wreckages,
to calm the upheavals of disheveled hours.

Dusk softly pronounces its adieus,
carries the bruised upon ebbing tides
as children, they are brought out 
from burning houses.

Upon a twilight cradle
eventide glides each baffled breath 
along a dwindling shore,
a Moses basket
that dreams us unto dawn.

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