Misshapen Poems

Weighing Up Bittersweet Goodbyes

Goodbye cuts the air
with an odd, misshapen lance-
too sharp to swallow
it lingers on ragged breath
it's aftertaste scalds the soul

It feeds like a beast
clawing at the heart's locked gate
demanding more tears
its anger never subsides
its hunger never sated

Yet inside the wound
a new dawn begins to break
away from parting
sweetening bitter sorrows
with a palatable sauce

Goodbye has a seed,
to be cast in barren fields
fragile and daring
when given a chance to grow
now the stubble has been cleared

Kneading the old clay,
we shape what remains behind,
sculpting mementos
into what can not be done
before the goodbyes are said

Each farewell when made
to echo in memories,
fierce, bitter, and sad
can welcome what's to follow
by seeing sorrow as sweet

Undergrowth with Two Figures - Van Gogh

Nature distorts humans
to conform to its pattern, in shape and form.
Stretching, bending, squeezing
the human form to somehow fit in,
as an odd Chameleon,
hiding out of place 
distorted and misshapen,
bashfully conforming in camouflage.

Long Man

I can’t fit inside this lock
I can’t fit inside this sock 
This hole is not meant for me
Body stretching out from me
Out of sync 
Misshapen link
Wash the ink out in the sink
You went day and I went night
I went left and you went right
And everything just looks so wrong
I don’t understand this song 
I am way beyond repair
My liver’s pulling at my hair
My neck is biting at my tongue
My leg is choking out my lung
My hands are fighting with my heart
My pieces mixing with my parts
I’m a jumble mumbled mess
An uneducated guess
I went no and you went yes
You went more and I went less
All tied up and all stretched out
I got lupus I got gout
I don’t fit into this mold
I’m too hot and I’m too cold
I’m lopsided and askew
You went red and I went blue
I went one and you went two
And I don’t know what I should do
Fool me once and fool me thrice
But now I’m chewing on the dice
Rattle brains and saddle lice
Grip my shoulder in a vice
Two thirds left and halfway done
Three makes ten and nine makes one
Now you’ve got me all confused
Now I can’t fit in these shoes
I think that I went too long
I think that I went too long

An Imperfect Morning

Imperfection abounds, 
the evidence is everywhere,
misshapen leaves and tree trunks
hunched over and almost touching
the ground mark the morning - 
a dog chasing a ball along the beach
has a bent tail, the owner a limp. 

Across the road, a mower 
that is cutting the grass
in the municipal gardens coughs 
smoke out of a sick cylinder and a seagull 
that waits at my feet for a scrap 
is missing a foot.

And I and all the people that are here
taking in the morning air share
an imperfection written in our genes, 
unseen, benign or a ticking time bomb 
waiting to explode into disease.

Perfection is an ideal
that perhaps exists only in our heads, 
a notion conjured up and given to grace
our departed gods. Everything carries
the seeds of its own decay,
is sentenced to pass away

and yet we swear we see it 
shine through a crack in time,
in nature when caught sublime 
in a moment of transcendent beauty
and in the love hiding at the center
of ourselves and our art 
that threatens to break through 
and illuminate our dark.

My Truths

"I feel truth is relatively subjective. My truth need not be your truth. When I hold onto what I believe is truthful, I am honest though another may suspect the verity of my truth"~ By Poet

                        I am a rough stone rugged,
            misshapen and unhewn, hard, asymmetrical, raw and jagged.
If chopped and cut fine, can become a sculpted marvel.
I am neither a genius nor a prodigy or mastermind,
                        an ordinary woman who can love
and forgive, never letting dark deceit show its ugly head. 
Always wishing not to let the truth crumble before lies.
      As I try to show a little piece of myself,
            I must admit, I have said small lies,
                        that I couched in honesty's guise.
Now I have earned wisdom to amend my lopsided vision,
            to see my faults and rectify them by all means;
      leave every pretense and be honest
                        admit mistakes, feel genuinely sorry and never repeat.

All Summer Long

It was ugly,
a misshapen ball, creviced 
and bulging on one side
as if a hernia had pushed
through the lining just beneath
its skin - I held it in my hands,
lifted it to my nose to get the full
depth of its smell
then took a bite, unleashing
a burst of tomato, sweet, tart,
full flavored 
like the warm, plump, 
blood red ones I would sneak
from the prized crop my father
grew in our backyard
that graced the table
with thick slices of ruddy goodness
sprinkled with salt and pepper
and spread upon a white oval plate
all summer long.

Puzzling Relationship

Puzzling Relationship 

Our edges seem so similar
Meant to fit, snuggly together 
The tongue of your dry humor
Locks into the Grove of my clever wit
Forming attachments in every aspect of our lives
An image appears of our happy union

Then, as we filled in more and more, 
Layer upon layer, 
I found pieces that did not fit just so. 
I rearranged my shape, 
Just a bit, that's okay...
To force the connection that began so easily. 
Pull this bit in, push this and fold here, 
Until a ***** image forms
It is the appearance of "Us", but off.
Until, we no longer recognize ourselves. 

Is it possible to unravel this mess?
Once we tear the pieces apart
Will they ever regain their original shape?
My pieces, unlocked from yours, seem deformed, 
Misshapen, wonky. 
Who is this Picasso I see in the mirror?

Nature's Ballerina

A ballerina in a gown of green,
blowing in the wind, she swirls in the air.
And it's the weirdest thing I've ever seen;
I am mesmerized and can't help but stare.

Blowing in the wind, she swirls in the air,
performing perfect pirouettes and twirls.
I am mesmerized and can't help but stare,
watching her swaying as she spins and whirls.

Performing perfect pirouettes and twirls:
her elegance dominates Nature's stage.
Watching her swaying as she spins and whirls,
I know she will only improve with age.

Her elegance dominates Nature's stage,
and it's the weirdest thing I've ever seen.
A tree, time has left misshapen by age;
a ballerina in a gown of green.

Museum Of Masked Faces - First Draft

On synthetic derelict stage of deception domain,
I gyrate the split mind, ensnared by bipolarity chain.
Under illusive limelight of ostentatious time, 
I’m entangled in machinated invasive paradox prime.
In make-belief life’s drama I act with no compunction, 
I face fabricated faces flocking redundant in conjunction. 
Identity lost in conglomerate of counterfeit facades,
I don’t perform by heart's prudent prompt if it pervades.
In masquerading faces reflected in warped mirror, 
I see concealed the contorted contours of rancid rancor. 
With their phony pretense a conciliation role I tactfully play,
my misshapen face of spite, the actor in me doesn't portray. 
Finding a fake place to subsist in pretend archival spaces, 
I’m a configured antique in the museum of masked faces.

The Flaws

The flaws,

The way that my shoulders are broader than they need to be,
So that the small, tight tops never fit right,
So that I look muscular,
“Like a man,” my mother says,

The way my nose is a little too big for my face,
And my thighs are bigger than they need to be,
Where my skin is darker in some places than others,
How the acne scars cover my back,

The way the discolored birthmark marked its place,
In the dead centre of my back,
Or how I have a small black mole on the bottom of my right foot,
And one on my right, ring finger to match it,
A mole so small,
That you could mistake it for the numerous pen smudges on my hands,

How my nails are uneven,
And have little white marks on them,
How the nails on my right hand are tinted yellow,

How my chin wrinkles when I smile,
And when I smile,
I display my misshapen teeth,
For the world to see,

These I call flaws,
The imperfections,
What makes me different from the rest of them,
No worries because,
No one can even see past that,
That’s what makes me different,

The flaws

An Autumn Aloha

Ever-changing Autumn, its shapes and shades.
Fanning breath stirs the heavily laden;
transforms and redraws like playful charades,
prepping, and grooming, all the misshapen.

A pastor's mural paints pure from trespass,
ever-changing Autumn, its shapes and shades.
Prismatic design grounds tell-tale stained glass
and forest steeples are Redwood's crusades.

Kids taking the plunge, multihued cascades,
succumb to trampling and crushing horseplay.
Ever-changing Autumn, its shapes and shades,
the bejeweled waits: Sunday's white bouquet.

Awe striking vista blessing amble eyes,
bounteous nostalgia praising persuades.
Peace thine harmonious artwork baptize,
ever-changing Autumn, its shapes and shades.

Prayer At the Gallows

"Nobody favors a share ...
for sins I bear,
no one cares.

Now that the appointed hour pines faintly,
I stand in lights grace, a shadow no more,
barring lives in my wake and none before.

My cup did run over, right into me,
and spilt nothing,
and as I saw the empty cup,
I prayed.

Do tell, 'What does absence appear to be?'
Shunned by God as a void cataloged life.

Does it take some sordid form?

If so, be it horridly misshapen,
and be there a face that pulls night's veil,
luring darkness to hide its shame,
thus causing sleepless nights forevermore.

A son and brother were I and then a husband,
later, a father ... a family's man, thought I?

Benevolence accommodates me naught,
for charity had tipped over its cup.

Hopes I join with lives once shared,
those times when I was happy."

Life's A Puzzle

Fragments of crumbing emotions morph
into all the different shapes necessary;
to complete the puzzle of life.

My youth is a collage of missing bits and pieces,
fragmented memories of family;
haunting, faded
recollections.

I recall a few fleeting moments of happiness,
and yet, the veil of time shadows the rest.
I don't remember any suppressed stuff;
those old scars still mark my dreams as incomplete.

Can love compose a meaningful picture
from so many misshapen pieces;
find the castaway cut-outs,
and start shaping new ones?

Life is a puzzle;
and like all puzzles,
if you want to see the completed picture,
you need to fill in the pieces.

Misshapen Countenance

earth turned bald.
skyscrapers loom bold.
waste hideously piled.
toxins profusely spilled.
nature cruelly defiled.
we stand greatly appalled!

April. 4. 2023

Bite Size Poem.No.61. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Line Gauthier

Boundaries An Open Form

BOUNDARIES
an
unworld
explicitly
 rendered


incorporting
misshapen
 pictures
in a
gradual gloom
 stubbornly
numb
&   constricted

a
 statuesque.
impression.
affluent
in
appearance
of
practiced
postures
of
still life
accoutrements
with
plentiful
 attributes
universal
&
poignant
throughout

a
   glimpse.
a
proof
transplanted
pirouetting
breathes
 trabquillity
the
ultimate
contraint

a
sensory
manfestestation
of
creativity
&generosity
in
a
rightful vision
encapsultes

to
resassemble
depicting
the
sanctified
in
continuing
expectations

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