teardrops are shape-shifters,
changing the instant
they slip free~
tiny pilgrims
already seeking
what they’ll become next.
spiders collect some of them,
drinking them delicately,
then spinning our sorrow
into silver webs
that glisten like forgiveness
in morning light.
some harden into marbles~
miniature worlds of color
swirled from emotion~
grief becoming something
you can hold
without breaking.
some rise as pixie dust
soft as breath,
bright as mischief~
the raw material
of small miracles.
some drift upward as moonbeams
their heaviness forgotten,
their ache turned silver
as they join the quiet
of the night sky.
some sew themselves into wings
effervescent, glowing~
the soft architecture
of angels
who know what it means
to fall and rise again.
and the rarest tears
vibrate together~
a trembling chorus
that becomes stardust,
then dreams,
then the gentle light
that guides us home.
Shape shifters come in all shape and form.
Politicians are naturals of course
Smiling and promising one thing
Then delivering quite another.
Then there are con artists and scammers
Taking advantage of the naive
And innocent at least if only once.
Then there’s those like my neighbor
Who’s nothing more than a welfare rancher
Taking funds from a do-gooder land trust NGO
Ostensively to keep his lands whole.
Appearing on the outside a good old boy
But really just another scamming thief
Feeling entitled to whatever he can take
Such as a small sliver of my land
For some reason fenced inaccurately long ago.
In this particular case the law isn’t on his side
But that doesn’t matter
In his desire to be right,
Uphold the bizarre tradition of adverse possession
And bully his way to some who knows what end
To who knows whose advantage.
The thing about shape shifters is just that,
They shift and change
So can only be trusted to be untrustworthy.
It’s good to know though
Caveat emptor
They can be anywhere, and dangerous
Especially when least expected.
(11/14/25)
Never write a poem about the sky,
she says,
that blue and blue and blue
interrupted by shape-shifters,
squawking crows, grumbling
aircraft.
It’s been done.
Besides, the day is tranquil,
disinclined to fuss.
The porch rails studiously etch
the sun into diagonal slats.
A silver spider practices ballet
across them
A chickadee chirps predictably.
If you could breathe and
see and know, she says,
all at once,
the glimmering line that bisects the air--
the one the spiders left behind--
the absence of wind, of wings,
of words—the morning itself,
woken with the slurp of ripe pears
and the ashes of a dream--
that would be your poem.
Mystic River
lazy mists dawdle
in sinuous rivulets ~
fog surfs in deep dales
river of white clouds
threads through alleys of tall pines ~
fog garden slow dance
curly silver mists
pale kisses on riverbanks ~
swirling shape-shifters
flat bottomed clouds float
wispy fogs tickle thunder ~
joy ride for cloud ships
mystic tule songs
gypsy brumes on evergreens ~
forest singalong
Moon by day, a sight to behold,
Myths and legends, forever told,
Spiritual growth, transformation,
The gibbous moon is a stunning creation.
Sunrise and sunset, a time to reflect,
In the stories of the age, we must respect,
For under the sickle moonlight,
Mythical transformations bear flight.
Werewolves howl, vampires roam,
Mermaids swim, unicorns stir foam,
Shape-shifters, fairies, and shore,
All come alive, under the moon allure.
The sickle moon, a symbol of change,
A time of growth, to rearrange,
To shed aged skin, and embrace the view,
To transform into something true.
Under the sickle moonlight,
We too can alter, and bear flight,
Embrace our inner myths and magic,
And become something truly fantastic.
So let us dance, under the moon glow,
And let our spirits flow.
Written: June 06, 2023
I was a nervous young fawn
Tasting sweet April grass in a lovely meadow
Sensing danger, realizing wolves were surrounding me
Bam!
I had shapeshifted into one of them.
Their alpha was sharp, he sensed I was still a deer.
He urged them to close in.
Wham!
I am now an eagle,
soaring high above the pack, out of reach
Even their alpha looks confused
I do not think they understand shape shifters.
Sorceress Polgara ascended above all warriors;
Fought wars against mighty kings and came out victorious...!
Remus Lupin, into a werewolf magically turned;
As great professor, taught thrillingly and his living earned...!
Count Dracula transformed all great and small into vampires;
Threatening and killing others, he founded his empires...!
Mystique, fictionally filled whole American comics;
With her strength, speed, stamina and super economics...!
Mei Lee and Ming Lee and the evil queen of Turning Red;
With wisdom and wit, turned celluloid, bed of joy and dread...!
All these shape-shifters, like clowns, do not merely entertain,
They're ideals! They give ideas to every young brain...!
26 May 2022
Shapeshifters and Shapeshifting Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
Devils and the like come in many forms
They can be invisible or a behemoth
In the flesh or of the spirit
Rooting into the foothills of the mind
Spreading and climbing like a dead rose.
There'll always be devils in our lives.
Replacing confidence with doubt
love-with disdain
clever they are = shape-shifters supreme...
Prolonged depression means a devil is chewing
the pulp of your being.
Your every failure is their victory.
Your every victory is their failure.
Never become complacent; they always circle back...
When they troll your space
they'll splinter tranquility
sprinkle burning monkeys over the mind
and scorch the soul every time-
Psuedo shape shifters
Above beyond reflection
Births of paradox
clouds are moving art
shapes shift on a sky canvas
my hands are too slow
Moulder Into Dust`
Life is made from memories
One tiny memory at a time
Scattered about like fallen leaves
In the woodlands of one’s mind
Tho’ gathered up and stored away
Put in all their proper places
Some become a bit worn and frayed
Like well used antique laces
The beauty of a leaf was ne’er meant to last
But to moulder into dust
Time’s a thief who preys ‘pon the past
Whose virtues lack that of trust
We make of memories what we desire
We shape them to our pleasure
We bank or feed our memorie’s fire
Then enjoy them at our leisure
And after time...stored in our mind
like leaves ‘neath the snow
memories age like fine red wine
Take root anew...And slowly start to grow
Our memories tend to twist and bend
like leaves upon the tree
Shape shifters at the very end
...Into what we wish them to be...
Drawing images using some words
Telling some stories that are unheard
Stealing the moment, freezing the time
Killing the beast that vultures the mind
Spilling blood, the pen is our knife
Collecting traces from this mysterious life
Connecting dots to create a line
Polishing stones to make it shine
Our words are riddles, a must to decode
Giving multiple keys for them to unload
The meaning of some could make readers insane
If wrongly unlocked it will conquer their brain
We are a shape-shifters just like the cloud
Painting angels and demons to enlighten the crowd
Hoping they'll listen to our joy and our pain
Wishing they'll get the lesson of our every rain
Observe and see
This world truly:
What do you see?
Change marks clearly
And what of dreams?
That plot and scheme
Who is better?
That go-getter!
Does style matter?
Feel knows better
Is fast smarter?
Change breaks clusters
Shape-shifters jerk
The true man works
Live each day well
Sine-qua-non tells
Leon Enriquez
19 June 2015
Singapore
You must remember this, the way the young French waiter
pronounced her name, Sarah Vog-gan
singing "April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom,
This is a feeling, No one can ever reprieve..." And how
on a small balcony in Paris where God spends His
summers, a baguette blessed with supper wine is holy.
How Green is the property of street-lined sycamores,
bursting giants of June. And, Blue, the divine province
of Bleu de Paris, a sky gold-kissed in a sly embrace until
no one misses the sun behind summer's spun-sugar
clouds. And, pray you then, think of those mysterious
shape-shifters in the Ebouie' fountain when bereft
of seas, rivers, crystalline mountain streams,
the softly heard roaring of their leonine songsters
took us to a place where the salmon leap,
their hearts bursting for home.
Man waits for his second coming, but is to blind to see
He came million of times before, but we didn't use our key
Each year, many millions of children, are born of his flesh
but, it's greed for riches and wealth, mankind does enmesh
Word's meanings, are tangled and stretched, to what end
with all this organized confusion, will mankind ever mend
His shape shifters still arrive here, as legends from the past
Will they lead us to his heaven, or keep us wandering aghast
Why? Our key is simple, all men must get on their knees,
Bow to worship and pray for children, and seek to appease
Their hearts and eyes, hold a true wealth, of riches untold
It can be seen in their spirit, outshining all of mans gold
Children are not just a resource, to be used and disposed
Born to us, his key, if we love, cherish, teach. It's enclosed
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