Long Change shape Poems
Long Change shape Poems. Below are the most popular long Change shape by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Change shape poems by poem length and keyword.
I thought it was that simple,
loving you beyond your fears,
beyond your past boundaries,
creating lifetime memories,
that don’t feel like they’ll break,
becoming writers of our own love story,
with no past interrupting the ink,
That was the beauty of fantasy,
when I come to think of it,
I thought it would be that simple.
I’m sorry
for the chaos of the storm
before the earth could breathe again,
Can you see the beauty of the rainbow,
or are your eyes still fixed on the rain?
I’m sorry for being the man
carrying ghosts of men I never met,
I feel them in the way you hesitate,
in the space between us
when I get too close.
I’m sorry that love met you through your fears,
your sorrows sitting in your eyes
before the tears even fall.
I’m sorry,
I thought it was going to be that simple.
Your heartbeat stutters under my hand,
like it doesn’t trust the moment.
Your sight of love is a frosted glass,
you look at me
like I’m already fading.
The true colors of love,
you’ve seen them twisted,
stepped over, trespassed.
I read the tread patterns of your past
in every step you take away from me.
You smile
like you’re waiting for me
to prove you right.
I’m sorry
I thought it was going to be that simple.
I’m sorry that I arrived after the chaos,
after the shouting stopped,
after love already learned
how to hurt you.
But nature is never broken,
the sky is still blue,
the earth is still round,
winter still cold as death,
summer still hot as hell.
So tell me,
is true love still the same,
or does it change shape
in the hands of those
who stopped believing in it?
I'm lost inside a feeling
I thought had disappeared
In a state with a see through ceiling
With walls of pain and fear
The blueprint seemed to be flawless
From materials unknown to man
For those of us seeking solace
From a life of selfish demands
There are no doors or windows
With only one way to escape
The design is totally enclosed
To leave you must change shape
All I see around me
is based on how I feel
which begs myself the question
"Is any of this real?"
All of life's reminders
only come from looking back
Memories are the binders
to this vicious painful track
The barriers around me
are all I choose to see
To change my view prospectively
just might be the key
Perhaps upon a second look
there might be something more
past the pain and fear I took
to fight this evil war
My apprehensive prison cell
will one day set me free
when I decide to see my hell
as possibility
With wisdom I could live my life
outside these walls of fear
I'd say goodbye to days of strife
and never shed a tear.
A mini chocolate bear (teddy like) delivered to your
hospital bedside
My gift of recovery in sugar enticement
I lie, "It's skim milk thin."
The sheen on your smile tells me truth is an empty room
You break apart the bear's ear
to feed me joy
Taste of hypnotic buzz like a Van Gogh sky
I touch your stitches
stitching survival
to smooth out creases
My love,
yearning for a cleansing spring
Puncture wounds of care
Unavoidable reality
Healing hope,
the perk of sun
You take the red ribbon from the bear's neck and slip it
onto your finger
Spirited charm
to re-clasp love
Heartfelt ties sharper than skin therapy
Seizing chances that change shape as we
reach for them
For sometimes life strays to alien
Must everything fade to prognosis?
What endures?
Your generous embrace of resistance
that doesn't melt like chocolate
A tranquil loyalty, easily knotted,
like your hospital gown
devotion that clocks the time between us
the past, a brash transparency, plots something new
Our world, no longer wrapped like candy
as we shake it well
to spin us out of grim
Poem revised October 7, 2022
I see two lovers kissing, one face missing,
a barking dog, a fallen log, a wheel cog,
a brandy glass, balloons like someone's ****
change shape when all things come to pass.
Pilgrim's progress, perspective roads, spotty toads,
a fencing match, someone smoking a pipe,
those lovers again but you're not my type,
a glass table which someone forgot to wipe.
Candy floss, pink and white, pressed together,
waiting, getting ready for stormy weather;
the sun burst thro' making golden rainbows,
leaving openings like teeth and turned-up toes.
An angel appeared to close all of the doors,
and said: 'What's mine can also be truly yours.'
Rocky Mountain Thunder they call it
The unmistakable thunder and growl
of thousands of Harley's reverberating
through the highcountry fairgrounds,
shockwaves rippling the air.
this was the year it would finally happen...
...my Tattoo
Gleaning through hundreds of designs
my heart leapt at the sight of
a dainty little hummingbird
small, tasteful, unobtrusive
my hearts' joy and delight!
When a voice, gruff and gravelly from
too many years of cigarettes and rot gut whiskey
whispered over my shoulder
"A tattoo should reflect your soul"
I turned to find myself face to face
with chocolate brown eyes in a leathery, wind tanned face
ours eyes locked briefly
He turned away without another word.
Three skulls spanned his shoulders
One facing right, the other facing left
as if searching for something, or someone...
...the one in the center, facing forward, almost grinning,
the words "Lost Soul" written within
a Harley emblem below the skulls,
reflected the whistful look I had seen in his eyes.
I watched as he walked away,
while the three skulls and that emblem
seemed to change shape with every step
melting into one big grinning skull
His words echoed in my ears,
"...reflect your soul"
"...reflect your soul"
Then, they wrapped around my heart
...My Hummer..!
I knew I had found the right one for me.
And in that same moment,
the skull on his back....
...winked.
I saw a dragon flying overhead
In fascination watched him flap his wings
Then suddenly, he was a thoroughbred
Whose smokey breath came out in giant rings
How gracefully clouds play as they change shape
At times it seems they silently collide
Lost in imagination, I escape
Down in the turn we dove to the inside
Just for one second we were in the lead
Time stopped as we raced t'ward the finish line
But then that cloud changed to a centipede
Out for a sunny stroll in summertime
The clouds are filled with fun and mystery
Their beauty lies within simplicity
Sept 20- 2018
by Daniel Turner
Beautiful Mystery
Deep in the swamp on a full moon
Legend says a creature roams deep in the lagoon
Eyes red and glowing in the dark as he prowls
Even the alligators hide to the sound of his growls
A few brave souls have searched in the bog
For the creature with the body of a man and head of a wolfdog
The legend originated in France from there it grew
To the swamps of Louisiana
The Rougarou
Parents told the legend to their children to keep them out of the woods
Also, to scare Catholics to keep Lent as they should
He is super strong, moves fast, can change shape
Anyone who finds him needs to know how to escape
Put a leaf in your pocket and say a prayer
Whatever you do, never into his red eyes stare
If you should find him mustn't tell anyone for a year and a day
You must heed this warning to what I say
If you make those mistakes
I'm warning you
You could change and become
A Rougarou too
As I was walking in the silence of the morning..
thinking of a friend who died…shedding a few tears…
I started thinking how my relationship with silence has changed over the years.
I have stood mesmerized…in a field…surrounded by the silent falling snow….
I’ve watched the clouds silently change shape as across the river of sky they flow.
I’ve laid on the ground contemplating the possibility…the existence of a higher power
in the silence of an evening as I watched a meteor shower.
I’ve often found silence to be my friend…but sometime she can be an enemy
like this morning thinking of my friend’s death…the ultimate tragedy.
For there is a sadness that returns in silence…as you repeat the moment when…
you know you will never see or hear or touch that person ever again.
That your friend is gone forever…and you know for your remaining years
in the silence of your loneliness…you’ll cry your deepest tears.
In time, however, although you know your heart will always be a little broken
you feel it begin to mend in the silence of all your words unspoken.
And once you feel the moment your heart begins to mend…
the beauty and the magic of silence again becomes your friend.
As you gaze outside your silence…your smile returns because you know
It’s in the silence of the evening when a tree begins to grow.
It’s in the silence of the morning when a flower begins to bloom.
and how the miracle of birth begins in the silence of a mother’s womb.
Suddenly you re-discover the beauty in silence…in her complexity…
and you find a little meaning in her tranquility…
Like how you know…though your friend is gone…
the love you feel for her or him…from you…will never part
It will always be there waiting for you to visit
from the depths within your soul…and silence of your heart
Let it begin like a war drum cracking the ribs of the sky.
I rise here not as a man,
but as a scorched monument to every lie flung at me like burning tar.
I rise as the unwanted mirror, reflecting back the chaos she hurls,
the contradictions she stitches into a patchwork of impossible stories,
the shrieking, spiralling cyclone of memory shards
that cut no one more deeply than the truth itself.
I speak from the eye of her storm —
where timelines collapse,
where facts melt,
where every accusation is a ghost wearing borrowed clothes.
She comes at me with fractured recollections,
with déjà vu hallucinations,
with dreams mistaken for history,
with wounds older than my presence
and shadows she drags from childhood graves
and tries to nail to my name.
Her narrative is a bonfire of inconsistencies,
a theatre of shrill laughter and catastrophic leaps,
a mythology rewritten each time her emotions change shape.
She is a storyteller lost in her own labyrinth,
a witness drowning in her own tide,
a historian who cannot remember her own years,
yet insists on rewriting mine.
I stand here —
not begging, not bending —
but calling the chaos by its true name.
This is not trauma speaking.
This is not clarity speaking.
This is the echo of a life lived in storms,
trying to turn me into the lightning that caused them.
I refuse the role.
I reject the script.
I tear the stage apart plank by plank.
If she wants to paint me as a monster,
then let her confront the truth:
monsters are made of intention,
and hers is made of retrospective revelation,
of partners whispering reinterpretations,
of therapists planting new meanings in old soil,
of memories bent, stretched, and re forged
until even she cannot tell where the truth ends
and the performance begins.
I am done being the altar
on which she sacrifices her past.
Let this be the first strike.
Let this be the opening roar.
Let this be the moment the ground trembles
and the sky takes notice.
You wanted outrageous.
You wanted poetic rage.
You wanted a platform to build your fire.
Here is the spark.
I was walking in the field that time
The maize leaves blinding my eyes,
Star thorns pricking my feet,
I could hardly find what we were looking for;
We kept on following our leader:
He is the one who had sown everything,
Within minutes he had picked five huge pumpkins,
I had none at all.
I felt my effort was being thwarted
My will started to dwindle;
I started following behind him,
My eyes settled on a small pumpkin
His leg already half astride passing it by
I chose to show him how my eyes had opened.
He said its mother had died:
That's why it hadn't fully grown;
Why it wasn't worth packing
For the special people in Harare:
We just left there holding on
To its withering mother.
It had not grown half for us to see
What kind of pumpkin it would make:
They are all green
When they are not fully grown,
But they change shape,
Patterns of shade and what have you.
Each time I think of the small pumpkin,
I wish its mother had survived,
While I could not explain the death
With the rains having been so plush that season:
It had fallen hard and soft and all.