Best Unshaped Poems
The difference in saying you,
a great big unseen pointed finger, or we.
I didn’t know. Some figurines
wave while others scrutinize with wizened eyes.
The analytic panics, hairs raised by static.
The simple leans in to catch butterflies. One is cynical.
The other sensuous. One slaps your hand away.
One squeezes it. Personality
like the word itself broken in pieces, a flotilla.
In the storm the words like jigsaw waves.
In placidity, the sun’s too hot or doldrum’s ebb and flow.
We will make it!
Still, even in this exchange, coarse sand,
a castle with a moat. Your motives sought - there I go again
“Y O U R…”
Sisterly size-up. Am I trying to win? I didn’t know
we were preparing to arm wrestle. I’m unshaped,
neither the flat piece of a puzzle or linked.
The dreamy sky from the beach. Salt in the air,
eyes on the horizon, lap of the waves —
the same lift I feel when swinging high and higher.
The excitement of adventure, no one’s judging
my every word. I’m breathless…it’s breathtaking
when my feet float above the ground.
There I’m in the arms of love. There I point
and God answers with his digit reaching out, touching mine.
I am reborn by the finger of God.
We will make it!
12/19/2020
I might forget you for a little while
but when the last desert hues of sunset roses
wrap the bareness of these arms
Out of nowhere and without reason I think of you
Darkness falls and so my tears
but then the wind wafts its zephyr breeze
and exhales away my fears
My fears,the deepest of fears I ever fear
A pearlescent moon rises above an unshaped horizon
casting its opalescent glow upon my face
making me feel your warm embrace
Silver dust descends so softly
like your lips over my skin
It confirms you've returned back
from wherever you have been
Your return brings back the melody
as you love me unexpectedly
Oh my love come close ,Come lean on me
How you make the stars hush breathlessly
Once again you play your music
on the muffled strings of my heart
Once again the fluting sound of distant birds
fulfill two souls that can never truly part
Oh my love come close ,Come lean on me
How you make the stars hush breathlessly
Still,so still they keep our secrets
and would not reveal life's destiny
Tnks for the inspiration,not for the contest
(For those who wish to participate its the contest
-'How you make the stars hush')
Just past
where the world of the atom ends
there are spaces that we try to fill
or pretend they don't exist.
Hollows that harbor silence
or an unshaped need,
the imprint of something
the mind can't conceive.
Music makes its way there
and knocks on the door,
takes its seat to hear
the sublime and capture
in glorious notes
what can't be said
in words. The chords
of creation sound
in the chambers of the ear.
Poetry goes there
with its clumsy feet, trying
to fit the formless into a cage,
give beauty a face,
fumbling to shape shadows
into three dimensional space.
And yet it is the word
that brings things into being,
gives each its sacred name.
Language the blunt instrument
of the poet's art,
the poem a sanctum
to house the holy embers
of creations spark.
This sitting takes me to an attic of raw light
bestowing foams of quiet glow for travelers
unyielding to a precise compass
of direction, a spaceless space
nourished as it were, losing the self
to Bodhi-like clouds
and nomadic lotus spreads.
I release this soul
buried in the kundalini to a congregation
of ambient tunes saying nothing,
taking flight unto a hymn of
unknown obedience moved by elemental
balance: no more weight or cities divided,
united by forms of one, one core.
My malleable flesh dissolves into tiny
breaths; it comes and leaves with
floating grace ascending the next chi ,
as I go deep, deeper… high, higher
centering second, fourth, seventh chakra
until this my body- mind- spirit marries
in a ceremony of calm traversing zones
unnamed by time, one with all senses,
bliss or regrets… the airiness of journeying
through this unshaped season fed by something
unbidden in my life so blessed.
I step outside my body, somewhere…
without a trace that realms chop my head,
searching for a mantra of stars… stillness fed.
* chi – life energy
* kundalini--a force which ordinarily
rests at the base of the spine.
*chakras-major centers of spiritual power
Roy Jerden’s Religious Poetry: Non-Christian
Buddhism
10/18/2014
Words
verbs
aimless
adjectives
amalgams of verse
unshaped until
imagination's birth
bursts
fly free
on unfettered wings
blown to
&fro
to settle
long
forgotten dreams
as words floating
as petals
on a stream
a fragrance that lingers
a passage of light
inspiration
delineated
as
a thought
ribbon
originality
conceived perceived
crystallised
in relief
"The Eyes Of A Poet"
"The Eyes Of A Poet"
are directly connected
to his or her heart.
What's truly seen and then seeks expression
is where poems do get their first start!
All human kind has a pair of eyes
and though open may not actually see,
certain conditions that may prompt a poet
to express them
with word artistry!
"The Eyes Of A Poet"
are similar to a potter or sculptor
who take an unshaped form,
and with vision and determination
they are guided,
by hand,
to mold, create and transform!
We do this very same act with words
and a heartfelt desire to say,
words that will touch,
also transform the reader
in a unique poetic way!
"The Eyes Of A Poet"
see this world in a way unlike any other.
They see the unseen,
send this vision to the heart,
with need to use words to uncover...
"truths" that can only be conveyed
by the poetic words that are written,
because we know
that through this poetic expression
we are also helplessly smitten!
"The Eyes Of A Poet"
are a truly gifted glimpse
into life and it's myriad conditions,
to express what is seen,
and felt and heard and done
with poetic compositions!
Every word expresses the heart!
We've something to say
and we know it!
Keep writing and know
that this gift of expression
comes from
"The Eyes Of A Poet!"
WTA-IV 3/21/2016
POETRY PLEA
There was a time when every word and phrase
Each sentence stanza paragraph and verse
Was written, with a clearness to our gaze
When simply made, extravagant or terse
Crafted in empyrean structure did they seem
With lucidity and freshness of a dream. *
Though perhaps this retrospect views life 'en rose'
By one who mourns more recent language trend
Please excuse an old curmudgeon to oppose
Loss of rhythm, rhyme and form when words are penned
In wild emotion stream, no punctuation
Unshaped, obscure, unfitted for oration
I concede that those in anguish loss and pain
May find solace in expression, ease the ache
I will greet some words bizarre that rules profane
And find space for conscious stream and Finnegan's Wake
But let's start from proven cast fore violation
Symmetry in form and grammar's affirmation
* Hat tip to Wordsworth for the inspiration of this verse
Nine solid months of changes, you carried me
While I am in your womb, You take care for me
Your shape, I unshaped
Your stamina, I weaken
With every food you intake, I partake
With every emotions, I feel you too
With every movement, we both sway
With everything, together you and me
Mama, That I used calling you
Eight to how many hours you labor
That I do not specifically know now
All I know is that you love me so
(Mama, I love you too... )
Together, we go to window shops
Guiding me you never ever stop
To my heartbreaks, you, ready to mend
To my winnings, kudos, you always send
I love you my dearest mama!
Though I don't tell you this much
Evermore to your every touch,
I am so deeply attach!
By:
olive_eloi
12:22pm
02/04/2014
Within the soul of my experience
Unconscious seeds of tomorrow's joy,
Awaiting the warmth of encouragement
Lay dormant,seeking inspiration's light;
Words,verbs,adjectives,aimless,without form,
Times,past,times present,amalgams of verse
Unshaped,until imagination's birth,
Bursts from the spring of my maturity.
Social uselessness is a virtue of its own,
Those we cast aside, glance at and then away from quickly,
Lest they notice, and smell our guilt,
Are free to live immodestly,
There being no need for posturing
When one's invisible.
Trees that grow lumpen or misshapen
Are left to live long and go unfelled,
Never to be transformed into pencils and park benches.
They carry on, in love with the sun,
Spreading their arms to embrace the sky
Season upon season;
The children skip over their roots
And lovers loll beneath their boughs,
Their shade relieves the weary,
Their age comforts the old.
No carpenter's ambition
Will ever reach their wondrous hearts,
Then, perforce, transform them.
When they kick you, unwanted
Out of the hospital psych ward,
Your illness not important because you've done
Nothing to make the newspapers,
You can wander like a prophet, complete in yourself
Living your truths without needing an apologist.
So it is with those we look away from,
The odd shapes among us who don't fit our spaces.
There's more to be seen by looking between things
Than can be found by looking straight at them;
The unshaped space around us speaks with an incessant tongue
Interpretable only by the spirit.
So if you really want to slip the blindfold for a change
To see the ones hovering around the fringes,
Start by studying their shadows;
If they should deign to speak,
Listen with your eyes,
If you want to feel them,
Reach deep inside yourself and rub the sore spots
You spend the day denying.
Reflection sustains reality
Like dewdrops on a leaf.
Try to understand this like a lesson and you'll fail,
But accept it without judgement;
It will come to you.
No man finds more truth than he who looks for nothing;
This is writ upon the bark of twisted trees.
Read it, then know what wisdom is.
The thing I must do’s just the thing I can’t.
It’s my artistic nature, I suppose.
Impatient, volatile and – heaven knows –
disposed to overthrow, subvert, supplant,
less drawn to things that are than those that aren’t.
A deft, exquisite ode trumps plodding prose;
four hours of labour, twenty of repose.
An acquerello, limber, quick, you’ll grant
is more attractive than your slippery oils,
since easier to manipulate. You see,
I’m not the turgid type that, tortured, toils
for excellence unshaped, illusory.
I’ll take it if it surges, fizzles, boils
and masters me. If not, I’ll let it be.
As unshaped as water, as filthy as streets, as hard as rocks:-
The separation we create
I remember our memories, I turn in pride
I remember the days…, how we used to pass them by
I remember the times…, when you wouldn’t talk
And I would drive the words out of you
I remember the plays, I remember that place
The place of where we acted, the place that played with life
I remember the jokes, I remember the silliness
I remember all pride
I remember the closeness, I remember the smiles
But I remember the jerkiness, I remember and ask why
I look at the pride
I forget the memories, they’re all in line
I remember the thoughts, the separation of some filthy joke
Told by an unoriginal friend, as silly as snake, as separating as earth
I miss the memories, I miss them deep
None of this would happen if we just swallowed our pride
A life created,
not yet rated,
plenty to bend,
to escape and reshape.
To exist in the lost and found.
Spill my full glass,
make me empty,
then half empty,
then half full.
When I do refill,
spill and spill again,
till I'm once again empty.
Spill a life created,
a version unrated.
Spill the glass.
Smash the glass.
Bend and reshape.
Exist with no shape.
The mess of a life created,
your place,
your shape,
unshaped,
and erased.
WHITE FLOWERS OF BEAUTY
Within the soul of my experience
Unconscious seeds of tomorrow's joy,
Awaiting the warmth of encouragement
Lay dormant,seeking inspiration's light;
Words,verbs,adjectives,aimless,without form,
Times past, times present,amalgams of verse
Unshaped,until imagination's birth,
Bursts from the spring of my maturity.
Listen to me read this poem on youtube under name of ichthyschiro
Scratching the rusted face
of the dust storm?
to read the message.
I have come very far,
from the old stinks.
It was not the escape.
The unshaped sap,
spills from the cut end?
of treetops. I gather your cones.
The fall begins abruptly.
It was a landslide of
leaf drop. Yellow and brown.
I wait for the red.
It reminds me of blood
dripping from your poem.
Satish Verma