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.
Stuck inside at work
warmth flows into open doors
lucky day shifters
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.
Criminal
waste,
critical mass
materialized warfare
city dumps pile-up and fall
burnt offerings amid
clumps of Caesar salad.
Roman Empires of crud
that roam no more.
Walmart still spills over,
parachutes hung from pot-belly roofs;
air-drops from a plastic heaven.
A few old men
are found asleep at the wheel
of long buried cars.
Homeless are the pigeons
that carry a crusty canker
from pit to heap,
pitiful the pawing fingers
that pounce now upon
the once new branded,
yet more paltry
the poached mounds
of porch-pirates,
their petty ill-gottens
all unpacked alike as empty nests.
When the sooty dark
fumes and blankets,
then rust will clang
in the yawping mouths
of tin-cans,
aluminum bells that clatter.
Then the rodents,
the red-eyed night-shifters
will comb through the tangled beards
of threadbare dreams.
Then withal,
just as the ditched dross have fallen,
dregs shall rise again.
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
Blow down the snozzle
this windy wild world
is nowt but a hornswoggle.
Giddy are the blue birds
in head and heart,
blithered are the bush-beating
snit-shifters.
A good day to die and live again,
a day for tripping a bright bombastic.
A yet better day
for some nonsensical boggle
that wags words in a
beery muddle.
Fluffy are the puffy footloose
that skip well over a plushy clover,
great the laughter of children
that dance in the minding eye
of an everlasting God today.
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
It’s the circle of a trickle sliced from snow
at the mountain’s very top.
Widening and lengthening, it gushes and grows,
and at the steepest slopes it rushes - cascading
as a froth of diamonds
sparkling in sunlight.
Splitting where big boulders sit,
it splashes on its drifting way.
Shifting - ever shifting - it tumbles
over countless stones and gravel
or meanders with susurration until at last,
it is a river.
Broad or narrow; shallow or deep,
it can be tempestuous at times,
while other times
it’s as placid as
patches of mellow moonlight spilled from sky.
At last it flows to where, estuarine,
it melds with the destiny of other river shifters -
Oceanic.
June 23, 2021
for The Shape Of Water Poetry Contest
Now for 'A Brian Strand July 2' Poetry Contest
SATURDAY
The 10th of April
the sun rose
yawning
shadows stretched
as blinking winds moaned.
Night shifters scurried home
day shifters chirped.
A tired moon napped
in an evergreen.
John G. Lawless
©4/10/2021
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
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