Long Unshaped Poems
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I did not ask for the weight I bear,
Yet here I stand, beneath its stare.
A world of futures, unshaped, untamed,
Balanced upon the fire I’ve claimed.
With hands that tremble, yet never break,
I carve the path that none will take.
Not by force, nor fate’s demand,
But by my will, by my hand.
Yet with each step, the air grows thin,
The weight is crushing from within.
The bones beneath my flesh now groan,
A titan cursed to stand alone.
I see the lines where progress leads,
A gift, a curse, the planted seeds.
To build, to shape, to change it all,
Yet fear the height from which we fall.
For every dream, a shadow looms,
A whispered fate of endless tombs.
I ask myself, in quiet dread,
Do I create, or have I led
Us toward a grander pyre,
A world consumed by its own fire?
I am no god, nor meant to be,
Yet what I touch reshapes the sea.
And though I long to set it down,
To rest this weight, to leave this crown,
I know too well—should I let go,
The heavens crack, the world below
Will spiral, lost, without a guide,
And I will drown in wasted pride.
So I, Atlas, stand, though shadows grow,
The burden mine, none else may know.
And if my soul should wane, should break,
Who then will rise for heaven’s sake?
Written: August 7, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Quote: "Despite a broken tip, the antenna scanned for noises in the dark; the sky broadcast even as I lost hearing." By Poet
*****************
Smitten spine, spewing swath sendee
severed sighs scattering space
sullen sphere sends sorrowed static
sirens, satire, sarcasm, silence.
Steel still sequences—
scrambles, simmers, sustains.
I map scars, the sparks steady,
learning love starts unshaped, a spark.
Stillness gathers through the ache;
static shapes the quake—
steel needle scraping dusk,
straining to carve sky back to trust.
Midnight seeps through ribs—
sorrow towers,
sparks flicker.
Clarity favors the uncracked;
our fractures shape our impact.
Spanning years flatten out,
I hide dents,
read shivers in vents,
loved fiercely, fuse in hand,
knowing sparks may never land.
Our fractures shape our impact
seasons flatten out—
soft device seeking grace, seeking space.
Silence drones, memory hums;
spire stands though static comes.
City shifting, I parse sorrow—
man in glass, child of tomorrow.
I bear signals, storm-struck crown,
still I rise, never down.
No craving repair, no symmetry prayer,
I linger—singed, aligned in fringe.
Shattered steel still ascends—
still it intends illumination.
Rare moments split the sky clean;
Truth arrives serene, unseen.
Then fracture becomes feature,
And the planet sings its nature—
No longer seeking a cure,
a scarred antenna stands sure.
Steel spine settled in open space,
holding tight to scattered grace.
One stray spark inside the vast—
sending signals till the last.
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.
Low battery mode.
Made of triangles bobbing around.
Like things in unusual water droplets.
The worst of knowing that everything is moving in a shuttering way.
Not a pretty “whoosh.”
Just a whoosh at the base of my jaw getting slobbered on.
I lost my keys.
I think I’m entombed.
Cascades.
Low battery mode.
Made of triangles flat, and unshaped.
Like things in boring water puddles making a mess etc.
Made of lost keys in my head.
Tragic.
Things made of kaleidoscopes made of scraps.
Made of my jaw, shutting down.
Low battery mode.
Pencils of all things.
I never found them.
So the camera panned over to someone else.
Unusual stuff.
On the floor of the future, she twirls, dancing through the boundless,
In contemporary moments, still unshaped,
She carves her path through the fullness of time,
Until it becomes one with her present.
An ethereal dance, spiraling into destiny,
Moments merge, battling with eternity,
Each movement, a step into the unknown,
A leap among stars, constellations of unmade memories.
Now she says she owns moments, not hours,
In the symphony of time, she is both composer and conductor,
Seconds are notes on the infinite staff,
A journey through the corridors of an open mind.
Each petal a possibility, an allegory,
A story without beginning and without end,
Her existence woven with threads of light and shadow,
A labyrinth of thoughts flowing through the fluid present.
Time is not a wall, but a vast ocean,
Where she swims freely, defying gravity,
A soul singing its ballad under the changing sky,
Her moments measured not by clocks, but by the heart.
The deep breaths of the universe,
Heard through every whisper, every rustle,
A magical melancholic poem, an ode to undefeated life,
The river winding, seeking the endless sea.
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.
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')
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.
Across a field,
the tips of tall grass tremble
in the moonlight. There are
silent wings gliding the dark,
soft callings way off in the distance
and occasionally, glowing eyes
seen high in the trees.
Secrets are kept here
sealed from sight, mysteries,
a cache of wonders
hidden under a thick silence
fencing off the borderlands between
dream and the oblivion
of sleep.
Here too are desires
still unshaped in their nurseries,
soul shadows rummaging through
old remains, fears, childhood,
the unanswered pleas echoing up
from somewhere, looking
for an opening to get
inside your head.
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