In a perpetual state of curiosity,
I am the lover—the amator,
consumed by the pursuit,
never arriving as the station's master.
Reshaped by the objects of affection—
endlessly revealing itself
with fresh eyes.
To be possessed by a god.
I am the midwife of ideas,
so come sit with me
and be courted every day.
My heart enfolded the hued horizon of dulcet dawn,
the yearning brush soaked the sunburst colors,
painted a Monet garden for you blooming with my love,
unfurled the facsimile of your floral face, adroitly adorned.
The oasis of my mind dried in the desert of desolation
as you disappeared with the draft
of the squally summer winds of discontent
with the dregs of divested desire, disowned.
The river of longing in the abandoned valley got lost,
the fervent flowers you gave me withered in the vase,
folded your memory within my reshaped perception.
You’re gone, but an empty chair holds your shape, a reminder.
You are now present as a design of my consciousness
that silhouettes your image on the canvas of my emotion,
becoming an impression in my memory of longing,
figuring you in absence with the fabric of remembrance.
Your absence is not a void of quiet nothingness;
it is your shining presence I sense under the starry sky.
As the stardusts of the blue night contour you for me,
your fancied touch I feel in the ripple of your silent absence.
To draw them back to us
through the dimming light of years
we rely on dried flowers, photos,
and perhaps leather-bound diaries.
And our struggling minds pull
through the figment to the real,
the reality of here and now.
But what have we re-gained of these
yesteryears if not not just more
figments, memories molded and
reshaped by us as we experience
life without our loved ones.
And here we all share in the
knowing, as far as we can know.
Eternal life is this ... to know God.
To know each other is to feel
God's presence and love.
every part of me has been reshaped since your passing
I Still Remember When I Was Young
Kevin Davis 2026
I still remember when I was young,
Carefree and bright, learning life’s tongue.
Each day stretched wide, the future clear,
Laughter came easy, untouched by fear.
I ran on hope and wasted hours,
Counted summers by blooming flowers.
The world felt kind—or so it seemed,
And every night I slept and dreamed.
I gathered friends and learned in schools,
Served my country, mastered new tools.
I found true love, my truest calling,
Side by side, we rose—never falling.
Now I am older; my bones feel worn,
Mornings arrive both slow and torn.
The mirror speaks a harder truth,
Of strength refined, and losses of youth.
Those younger days feel far and strange,
A distant land reshaped by change.
Yet deep within, a steady flame
Still knows my heart, still speaks my name.
For though the years have bent my frame
And time has changed me all the same,
I carry youth where it still belongs—
In memory, love, and half-sung songs.
The cat was once a spouse.
She had everything she wanted-
even a house.
She didn’t scratch,
didn’t fight,
didn’t pounce.
Something kept her from living
and it wasn’t even a mouse
It was a bear.
A bear with claws
split thick as truth.
Each step it took
reshaped the walls of the room.
A bear matted with hunger,
a bear past care.
A bear who sang old stories,
of when Black cats weren’t loved there.
She offered love like meat,
laid it down at his feet,
called it devotion,
wished it complete.
She made herself smaller-
useful,
then
disposable.
And this story doesn’t go on much longer.
Because she learned too late:
a life built on usefulness
stays conditional-
like breath given only on demand,
always provisional.
Ah, poetry
The last vestige
Of its vestige
Fragments
Of a shattered love
Broken
By the demands
Of beauty
Showing its age
Metaphor
Lost in its meaning
Metered fences
Challenging the wanderer
Corralling the herd
Nuances lost
In the unplowed fields
A dandelion shunned
For lack of compliance.
Oh, poets,
Would we be led
To worship
At the slaughterhouse
Of free thought
Reshaped words
Rekindled passion
Or stand as one
Alone
Undaunted
Group
Of forever’s rebels
Let me fly away
to the distant pasture
where worlds meet.
I see a rainbow
resting along the cliff.
Let me fly away
to places of destiny.
Let me go
where I remain myself.
I long to search my soul.
My life has changed so much
it no longer feels like mine.
Time , another creator,
has reshaped me.
I feel
all my wings are cut.
I do not want to be here.
I want to fly away.
But my chick
has not yet learned to fly.
How do I leave him?
He will be alone without me,
and I
will be alone without him.
So let me fold my broken wings
and remain.
But when his wings grow strong,
when he rises into his own sky,
perhaps I will seek a quiet hermitage
somewhere
with my broken wings.
Annus 2025 is now history
A year that reshaped planet earth like no other
The new year is here
Rise and embrace it with vigour
Lord this is the year that you have made
You know how it began
You also know how it will end
Our divine compass lead us every step of the way.
No one can rise above his confession
It shall be well with us in the new year
Let us arise and key into God’s divine agenda
For He is our road map
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The seed planted in frozen earth now grows,
through storms and time, its tender stems arose.
Once choked by thorns, stubborn, toward light it goes,
No pleas for light—it takes what sun bestows.
The moth unfurls from silk it once outgrows,
the river carves the rock, no hammer slows.
Wounds I wore now bloom in the vein I chose,
old meanings dissolve where deeper Knowing flows.
Stars fade as night gives way to dawn’s quiet repose~
my former self decays, unmourns, and does expose
my ego, that internal script that age and turbulence depose.
soul reshaped—my life is now stunning prose.
If I could go back, I’d return to the quiet moment I told myself I have time.
I’d kill that thought entirely,
remind myself that now is the youngest I will ever be.
That lie has sat on my chest like a dumbbell for years—
too heavy to lift, too late to drop—
and all I can do now is push through the weight
of the mistake that reshaped me.
“What’s it all about, Alfie?”—
Are they hedonistic choices—and the katabatic void they leave?
This cup’s clutter, this timetable of supplejack sighs.
If the moon forgets—will it ever call us back?
Are we meant to have beyond what we bestow?
Or are we required to be seraphim?
We chase glitter, blind to its lamplight and oil.
Alfie, if a fool shows no interest,
Is revenge the clever answer?
And if life belongs only to the strong—
What’s your wager on the sphinx’s ancient rule?
Our aspirations fold like creased napkins—
still clean enough for an evasive guest.
Love? A leftover coat on the wrong hook,
a name spoken softly, reshaped when no one listens.
Hope? A medium-rare object—
warm in the middle, a blush of pink.
Never raw, though.
And relevance? The hum between two clashing chords—
your laughter mocking silence.
“What’s it all about, Alfie?” then…
Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps everything.
Or simply this:
You hesitate—and maybe that’s the answer.
Strong heart grains as gild
shone hope on her dream draped palace.
In time cracks reshaped grains
into hapless dream gratis gravestones.
the early sun drapes gently across the branches
a whisper of promise, of new golden chances
A BRIGHT MORNING OPENS EVERY QUIET DOOR
and shadows retreat where the sun will restore
love clings tenderly in petals that shine
hearts lift overhead like branches that climb
BEAUTY BECOMES BLOSSOMS, BOLDLY BREAKING THROUGH
and faith feels steady, reshaped and born anew
waves whisper gently, curling near the coast
dreams drift forward, the ones I cherish most
COURAGE CAN COME, PEACEFULLY CALLING ME HOME
leading the lost where the spent still roam
night leans close and stars give counsel to the sky
hope clears gently and grief learns to fly
DREAMS DESCEND QUIETLY, GLOWING THROUGH MY HEART
and love, unwavering-binds what was torn apart
She rises with the morning sun,
Unfinished battles, never done.
With quiet strength and fearless grace,
The fire of purpose on her face.
She walks through storms without a sound,
Her dreams are roots deep in the ground.
She bends, but never breaks in two—
The world may test, but she'll push through.
Her hands may ache, her heart may bleed,
Still, she gives all to those in need.
With every scar, she shines more bright,
A warrior cloaked in gentle light.
She speaks her truth, she owns her name,
Unshaken by the winds of shame.
She loves with depth, she leads with soul,
Each wound she wears has made her whole.
A strong woman—fierce, bold, and wise,
A mirror of the endless skies.
Not just in strength, but love she stands—
The world reshaped by her own hands.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.