Best Reshape Poems
I sit in silence in a dim lit mood,
while into the darkness I cast my stare.
The rain tapping on my window intrudes,
upon such a night too lonely to share.
My thoughts then turn to the passing of time,
memories hidden in forgotten tears.
Catching small glimpses of moments sublime,
as faces and places bookmark the years.
Pondering the past becomes an escape,
from the prison of the day to day grind.
Pleasant old memories will soon reshape,
when altered by a half-truth telling mind.
As I sit in quiet darkness alone,
I wonder who else the silence has drawn.
2/19/19
must refuse relegation, obey
only the roar of our own angels, then reshape
breastplates to shield the motherland
from any warlord who dares
to pimp our flag.
Battlefields have always been a woman’s place,
We were born to bleed, to fight-
off advances, to heal from the inside-out.
We, nasty, nasty women
who dare castrate filibusters, know grit,
audacity, the combat for higher grounds.
History is lit by an army of fiery
heroines, burnt at stakes by low-life
aristocrats, suckling-pig-kings.
We, Nasty women rise from ashes
to become better-armed daughters,
knightmares, hallowed witches on frontlines,
glorious, undefeated legends.
After Jeanne d'Arc et Saint-Michel by Eugene Thirion, painting seen above
Dionysian passion fills my soul
With a stream of life that knows no restraint,
Your frantic current defies all control-
Awakens the devil within the saint.
Injected with life, I'm lost in your force
As waves of strange visions rend me apart,
For purpose that has no ending, no source-
Oh, come to my rescue, creative art.
Apollo, come harness this raging stream,
With power of reason, channel the surge,
Reshape my voluptuous, savage dream-
Transmute its horror to aesthetic urge.
Bring order to chaos—hold tight your rein-
Come, challenge this frenzy of energy!
You both are needed—the crazy, the sane-
Dionysus! Apollo! Balance me!
The Tempest
Upon enchanted sands of shipbreached shores
Dethroned beggar of a borrowed callow mystery
Heaves a lightning staff into the waves -
Thunderous and raw clandestine secrecy
On luminous swirling ariels sheering the celestial –
Into the curfew of castaway souls as a hoary appeal
Where storm surges loot delirium in foreboding typhoons
As rioting angels brood in their search
For the orphaned heart in tattered rags of upheaval.
Hear the muted tempest of dark depths roar
As wintered tantrums rock the shores
Leasing waves with unseen spells and charms,
Harnessing the tidal astrals in purifying
Tsunamis of holy risk –
Storm watch night, for souls in cataclysmic squalls,
Reshape the shallow shoals infected by deceit
Refresh the tidal pools emptied by betrayal
Now calm the ruffled gales -the shattered glassy sea,
Return from shipwrecked isle to fury abandoned shores.
11/3/2020
Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 6
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Inspired by Shakespeare’s The Tempest
Renegades Foreva!
Renegade teenage rage babes
thinkin’ they all grown, all knowin’
when they seedlin’s barely sown
bleedin’ teenage angst with teenage crankst
always rhymin’ and mis-timin’ some poetry-crimin’
mis-mashin', diss-bashin'
word-clashin' song
heard on some half-sappy, sex-happy,
yap-rap, smack-attack vid
made by some brotha who’s just anotha
angry angst-ridden
wannabe gangsta kid
With a street beat
they be hummin’ or singin’ along
repeatin’ the deceit
not knowin’ curse verses
are just plain wrong and mostly maligin’
while grownups in earshot
takin’ all them swearshots
wishin’ them words had sweeter rhymin’
or that kids be more discreet
would take their claptrap,
no-class, crass-crack lyrics
and just tweet ‘em or mime ‘em
But if ‘dults could go back, meet themselves
when they was punk teens
fittin’ into pre-shrunk his or her hunk jeans
listenin’, partyin’ to poppin’ rockin’
unusual musical junk boy band scenes
and lettin’ out star-struck
super-charged
groanal hormonal
no-one-could-understand gland screams
then they’d be amused ya know,
might change their views ya know
cause remind ‘em not so pristine
when child and ‘dult they was in-between
Kids always lookin’ to find
who they are and who they be
imprisoned involuntarily
in their youthful penitentiary
no matter what century they be from you see
So if thinkin’ rap sucks cause
it’s just no-class hurls and low-class slurs
then fire-up that flux capacitor of yours,
head back to yo’ past and meet yo’ younger him or hers
see your own rebelling mis-teen-stakes
then rapping notions you might reshape
or rapping judgments remake
or least maybe now tolerate new-age teenage
rapping outbreaks and in-yo-face ear-quakes
realizin’ that come whateva or wheneva
that all teens now, before an’ where-eva
will evamore and eva be
natural renegades foreva!
© 2014 all rights reserved
When we are walking…
and we’re stepping on a spiky ground,
Walk lightly without looking down or turning around;
Ahead of us always awaits the finest sand
where we can lay down and laze in the sun.
When we are climbing…
and we’re going to climb a scree,
Dodge those stones that roll down on us freely;
And if we feel disdain and in vain,
remember that we’re unique, with special knacks and strength.
When we’re swimming…
and we’re swimming on distraught of morass counts,
keep dancing the minuet of life in mellow sounds;
When sable clouds and torrents of rain teem down too,
swim at our best stoke, on those clouds we’ll always float and glow.
When we are loving…
and we’re loving too much from the heart,
It hurts, but Cupid also heals wound with his magic dart;
Keep on loving others, never stifle and give up
Love is a berth of comfort, a precious gift, a great reward.
When we are standing…
and we’re lashed by cataclysm that mangled our heart,
Cling to the Lord, He will restore everything from the start;
He will reshape whatever was deformed
And make us stand straight, a forever cypress amidst the storm.
Dec. 9,2014 10.50pm
©2014Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
-I hope this humble poem of mine can inspire or uplift. God bless! This was not entered in a contest because it’s too late but it’s ok with me.
Before me lies the ocean, with its shore,
maintaining varied limits day and night;
at times, beyond its border, reaching more
than ever, thrashing out in wild delight.
At other times, so docile, ebbing low
with timid ripples that creep on the sand.
With highs and lows, the tides reshape its flow,
by rhythms that obey the moon's command.
And here, I'm like an ocean at low tide,
in quiet stillness, feeling down and out-
no energy, I let my high waves slide
and merge with the calm seascape hereabout.
But like this ocean, soon my tides will turn-
as waves roll in and stretch along the beach,
and thrashing out in wild delight, return
to grasp the joy of everything in reach.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Standard, End of 2018
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 12/29/2018
~1st Place~
Contest: Tell Me A Story 2
Sponsor: Brenda Chiri
Judged: 11/08/2018
SOMETHING HAPPENED TO ME WHEN I WAS JUST A GIRL
IT INVOLVED A BAD MAN, & IT RESHAPED MY WHOLE WORLD
A NEW SET OF DEMONS WERE INTRODUCED INTO MY LIFE
PAIN, & SHAME, DESPAIR, ANGER, & STRIFE
THERE WAS GREAT CHAOS IN MY LITTLE SOUL
AND IT GREW, AND IT STAYED, AND INCREASED EVERMORE
THERE WERE NO PSYCHOLOGISTS, OR THERAPISTS FOR THE RAPED WHO WERE POOR
AND THE DREAMS!
OH, THOSE DREAMS
SO GRAPHIC, SO REAL
I BEGAN GOING WITHOUT SLEEP
I BEGAN NOT WANTING TO FEEL
I COPED WITH THE INNER-TURMOIL IN A NEGATIVE WAY
I GRASPED ON THOSE DEMONS WHO WERE WITH ME
BECAUSE PAIN BEGETS MORE PAIN
AND SO, THIS WAS MY REALITY & THE JUST OF MY LIFE
HURTING BUT SMILING, DEAD BUT ALIVE
THEN, YET MORE CHAOS....WHEN I BECAME MOMMY & WIFE
THOSE DEMONS, MY COMPANIONS, THEY INVITED SOME FRIENDS
THEY HAD TO, THERE WAS MORE OF ME TO SHARE, IN THE FORM OF CHILDREN
BUT GOD......
SAID, “ OK, THAT’S ENOUGH!”
THEN HE BREATHED IN AND HE BLEW......
“HI, I’M JESUS, GOD’S SON,” SAID A VOICE, “AND I DIED JUST FOR YOU.”
“ALL THAT STUFF THAT YOU’RE HOLDING, GIVE IT TO ME.”
THEN HE HACKED AND HE CHASED AND SPOKE AND HE PRUNED
AND WHEN I THOUGHT MY FOOT WAS SLIPPING
HE SAID, “ MY GOOD WORK IS NOT THRU! FOR MY LOVE IS ETERNAL.”
“AND WHEN YOU HURT SO DO I. NOW IT IS MY TURN TO RESHAPE YOUR LIFE.”
YET ANOTHER VOICE APPEARED, AND IN A WHISPERED HE SAID
“ I AM GOD. I’M YOUR FATHER, AND I’VE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”
“ I’M GONNA TURN THAT PAIN INTO PRAISE!” THEN HE GAVE ME A TOUCH!
“THIS IS HOLY SPIRIT, AND HE IS ALSO ME.”
AND SINCE THEN, MY NAME’S BEEN CHANGED TO ‘BEAUTIFUL PEACE’.
OH, LIFE ISN’T PERFECT, AND I AM STILL QUITE FLAWED
BUT, I AM NOW ALIVE, AND I’M LIVIN’ WITH GOD
AND MY FAMILY IS BLESSED
NOT DEMON-POSSESSED
MY WAYS ARE THE LORD’S
AND I’M FREE FOREVER MORE
Pounding at the resonant head
of my chest—he of hunger
latches his fangs just beneath my jaw—
not to sever silence, but to pummel poison.
Tissue parts with wet reluctance,
he with need more than malice
burrows into the larynx of what
was once controlled, fearful sound.
Nameless, shapeless he who
with shark-possessed teeth does not ravage—
but infiltrates—peeling cartilage from confession,
mining marrow-thoughts clogged in
curse-traversed trachea.
I am a conduit split open—
voice extracted in ligaments,
fibrous and twitching,
stripped from the cords—
myofibrils separatus tendon.
Nameless, shapeless he!
How does he so musically reshape
what I cannot say?
How does he gut syllables
I do not recognize—
yet still, convince me
they are mine?
With his guiding talons,
my breath comes out red,
heavier than blood—
tastes of steel-bitten soul—
boiled vowels
that never knew air
but somehow rise.
His incantation:
Spiritus somni!
Spits into my mouth—
a blessing—not!
a summons—not!
but a shameful dream behind my teeth
like bruises that speak sermons.
Nameless, shapeless he…
He says I was never mute—
only sealed for some latter doomsday…
And now, with my throat laid open like a shrine,
he listens as I blaspheme
my dream.
Imagination’s a blossoming flower
straight from the roots of the soul;
like the magic of clouds,
vistas open up to reshape themselves
morphing into colorful dreams.
Dribble a cloud and you will find
your dream riding upon a white horse;
a knight in silver armor
defending childhood’s castles.
Trace the lines in the face
to find the road beyond
a magical theme park
where colors are born of monotone
dreams and shape the future.
Let your imagination ride the rails
through cloud pastures filled
with fresh milk and dream-spices
upon a bed of pumpkin pie, a' la mode;
childhood is unbound.
‘Twas in another century
On a desolate, dreary day
When something red from skies above
Wafted into the land of gray.
It slowly drifted in the sky,
Then lit on the head of a boy.
For reasons that are unexplained,
It filled his heart with joy.
But the land of grey - it had rules,
Whether they be written or “un-“.
Here every hat must be grey,
And exceptions there would be none.
The notice of the king’s two henchmen,
This violation did not escape.
They took it upon themselves,
The youth’s behavior to reshape.
Perhaps it bothered those big men
To hear that cap say, “look at me!”,
But who can translate words said in “hat”?
It could have screamed “I am free!”
The soldiers were dealt three more cards
And those were number, age, and size.
They grabbed and tossed up that red cap
Back and forth high in the grey skies.
The lad could not catch that dear hat.
Those brute’s mouths filled with laughter.
The tike was separated from his joy
Which he desperately ran after.
Why’d these bruisers enjoy their jobs?
Was it just control to maintain?
Or the simple joy of sharing
The pleasure of inflicting pain?
While we do not know the answer,
We know they hid the hat so trusty
And relegated that red headgear
‘Neath a chair, dark and dusty.
This once political prisoner -
Did he escape? Forgotten instead?
He performed his mystical magic
And is now sitting upon my head.
Written: September 09, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the abyss of night, I'm held captive tight.
Addiction to idioms fuels my Phoebus fight.
I abide, vouching sporadically to escape,
From the clutches of zeal, I can't reshape.
But my quill rebels; it won't be subdued.
It dances on my fingertips, its blaze renewed.
Beleaguered by a kindle of syllables, they persist,
Won't charter me to chime, profess, and insist.
Oh, the maudlin whispers of writing passion,
Entice me; draw me into a bathetic attraction.
I whirl to abscond, to relish some release,
But the chains of my quill hold me in peace.
The words flow through me as a river so fierce,
With every pen stroke, my soul finds its release.
I'm a jailbird of this art, an enthused devotee,
In a realm of words, I rapture my sanctuary.
My heart stumbles, as leaves in the fall breeze,
But the quill snatches them away with grace and ease.
It weaves them into verses, a kernel of emotion,
An effusive love, and life's endless commotion.
I am bound to this pen, this captive quill,
Forever entwined in its enchanting thrill.
Despite my huge wack, I cannot escape.
Inevitably, it leads me back to my true shape.
So I embrace this addiction, this passionate fire.
Within its depths, my spirit soars higher.
I surrender to the rhythm and melody of words.
As they dance upon pages as fluttering birds.
In the act of writing, I find my true self.
Ink flows freely, such as a river of wealth.
I may be a captive to this quill; it's true,
But in its captivity, I am set free too.
Addiction to writing is a powerful force.
It guides me, shapes me, and charts my course.
I may be a captive, but I am not alone.
With every word written, a connection is sown.
Written: September 29, 2023
No 1245 Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Brian Strand
_________________________________________________________
Gray sky
High cry
It flakes
Snowflakes
To crawl
In fall
Landscape
Reshape
White sheets
Such treats
All time
Kids mime
Some sled
The spread
Some glide
On side
Ice fields
Reveals
Snowballs
No walls
Such cheer
Is dear
Sweaty
Dainty
The sun darts its rays
with every last bit of strength mustered
precious toasty days most glorious
it waves a lingering forget-me-not
a little something to recall
Delightfully warm baking slow mode
umbers reds oranges and yellows
colours of love breathe at their mellowest
a gentle sensuous kiss goodbye
spiced with a hint of illicit magic
yearning for a simmering embrace
that will last forever and a day
Wanting to capture divine moments
make them last throughout eternity
so press the pause button
warp the fabric of time
reshape our memories of yesterdays.
Lineku: 3 stanzas 5-7-5 lines of 5 or 7 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
People come and go
like waves upon the shore.
Some are small ripples,
barely touching sand—
a fleeting hello,
then gone once more.
Some stay awhile,
rolling in soft and slow,
leaving footprints
that fade with time,
washed smooth
with every ebb and flow.
But every once in a while,
the ocean shifts.
The horizon darkens,
the winds hold their breath,
and something vast is coming—
a wave like no other.
A tsunami.
Utterly beautiful to look at,
majestic and wild, full of life,
yet terrifying in its power.
It doesn’t simply kiss the shore—
it claims it.
It roars and crashes,
sweeping everything into itself,
making you feel more alive
than you ever thought possible.
And then…
just as suddenly,
it’s gone.
The sea retreats.
The silence is deafening.
You’re left standing
among the wreckage
of what used to be.
You gather what remains.
You rebuild the sandcastles.
You smooth the edges.
Eventually,
you learn to breathe again.
To anyone passing by,
the beach looks whole.
As though nothing ever happened.
But beneath the surface,
deep in the sand
where the water struck hardest,
there is a scar.
Not jagged.
Not bleeding.
Just a quiet hollow
the tide can never quite fill.
It doesn’t ache every day.
Some mornings the sun rises,
the waves sparkle,
and you almost forget it is there.
Then the tide comes in just right,
and your feet find it again.
You remember.
Not because the ocean is cruel,
but because some waves
were never meant to be ordinary.
Most people drift through our lives
like tides that come and go.
But every once in a lifetime,
someone arrives
like the sea itself—
beautiful enough to steal your breath,
powerful enough to reshape
the landscape of your heart.
And even after they’ve returned
to horizons you’ll never reach,
they leave behind something permanent.
A mark.
A scar.
Proof
that for one extraordinary moment,
the ocean chose your shore.