Contentment
Within love's realm, contentment is what transmogrifies two devoted
hearts...into one
Penned: 12/15/2022
9:45 A.M.
West Palm Beach
Florida
poetic trilling of joyful greedy song birds in summer
faded pink male cardinals swoop and flip
running red squirrel flashes tail
excited white-tailed deer knocks down bird feeder
mushy wet birdseed is now on the ground
bashed in red feeder lies limp and helpless
october transmogrifies rapidly into december
holiday activities are keeping farmers busy
wife is not filling feeders as diligently
snuggly nights get longer and darker
ice and snow brings in frost from the north
squirrels are in hiding now
feeder is emptying fast
hoggish crows, cardinals and wrens
blue jay watches and waits, uninvited
a warlocks magic
cannot compare to witches
wands now in battle
as she transmogrifies him
he quietly creeps away
Turquoise circus leopard could transmogrify when he took a notion.
Appearing as a shark, whale, or clown fish, swimming inside an ocean.
When he reappeared as a leopard he often retained his blue color.
He’s an embarrassment said his sister, his aunt and his brother.
But he is also beautiful, argued his father, and his sixth-grade teacher.
He is way too high-spirited and spiritual, argued the Baptist preacher.
In a few years, turquoise circus leopard began studying the sky.
Now after he transmogrifies into a cardinal, we watch him fly by!
With purity of soul she transmogrifies into an angel
Without meaning to, without any conscious effort
The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, she is a mystic.
Playing a joyful melody, she opens heaven’s gates.
How does she have this talent? It is nothing conscious.
A gift from her subconscious, when she is meditating.
She cannot play the organ at all in her current state.
It was not a talent she received in this lifetime.
The organ’s gorgeous song pranced past moon and stars.
The evening was silent, as moon listened to this melody.
Is it the spirit queen? The galaxy wondered.
No, only a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter.
Is she the chosen one from the prophecy? A star asked.
Moon beams searched for her, but could not find her.
Unsure at this time, but things are in alignment, it might be her.
Unaware of this conversation, or the prophecy, she played on.
The organ sang out with joy, reaching the ends of the universe.
Assuring the mystics, psychics and empaths that all was well.
It matters not whether she is the one, only that she brings this feeling.
Said an empath who was more aware than the others.
Clever resourceful Celtic women of this generation
Tinkling instruments sounding in the forest wind
Deer and fox watch from afar
Elementally sound, a part of Mother Nature
Ominous drumming transmogrifies the females
There is a pounding urgency
Gaia feels their heartbeats
They are united in sisterhood
The fiddler player sings
Irish tenacity springs upon the wind
Coven of five shows their colors
Mystical secrets well-kept by generations of women
Their power animals stay hidden in the shadows
Magical forest dances with pride in her kin
Resourceful women come forth as a unit
Fear leads young men out of the shadows
There is terror of the female tribe
The fiddler player sings
I sat and fiddled with the Rubik’s cube for a couple of minutes
Then I tossed it into the corner. It got a bit of a dent
My mother said something, but I did not get it out
Until Wednesday. By then it had changed
From a Rubik’s cube into a mushroom house.
Faeries and brownies were living in it.
My mother asked me about it.
She had guessed that I would want a Rubik’s cube,
Forgetting I despise all things math, even patterns.
I lied and said I could not find it.
I hid it in the corner of a closet we rarely use.
I found it three years later.
It had transmogrified into a round rubbery Rubik’s cube.
I bounced it around, watching the colorful cubes fall off.
When I put them back on, they stuck happily in the right places.
I solved it, I told my mother.
Whoever heard of a round Rubik’s cube? She asked.
Rolling her eyes.
Written 1-04-2021
Contest: If the Rubik’s Cube Was Round
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Like sparks trailing
from a million, billion fireflies,
a single thought limns a trillion suns.
From the first small bonfire
flickering across four million years,
whose light imprints itself
upon the canvas backdrop
of a feckless, barely cohesive Infinity,
the matter of man, no more than
the past, transmogrifies the future --
denies the import of "real" or "black"
or any other type of matter.
Yet existing, it defines the local locus
of now and when ... and how and then.
The freezing cold of space
burns like energy backfiring on itself.
Somewhere, celestial lightshows
flare across parsecs of near emptiness.
Liquid oxygen fuels
the laboring lungs of multitudes,
singing out the music of the spheres,
maestros of a trillion symphonies,
platelets in the lifeblood of the Universe.
Like a Coriolis wave that imprints itself
upon a formless sandstorm,
a thought burns itself
into the very fabric of Eternity,
opens like a budding flower,
and initiates its own realities.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ibPT24qMTw
Author notes
Je suis un Capricorn.
]
This is my Desiderata.
Written December 2nd, 2005
By day she is a wife, daughter, mother, neighbor.
Only her husband knows that she transmogrifies at night.
Tight neon costumes, wild hair, intense makeup.
She becomes a rock star that is unrecognizable to most
Who know her as daughter, mother, neighbor.
Her closest friend has no idea when she enters the club
Who Dynamo Diane and the Dizzies is.
She loves the Jekyll and Hyde of her personas.
One gleaning the admiration of the status quo.
The other attracting the ones the status quo despises,
They are her tribe though. They are all her tribe.
So she rocks on, hoping to be able to keep up her façade forever.
As she needs both worlds to satisfy her Gemini self.
a runaway train
blowing a warning
blasts me from my dream state
my heart is beating
as wildly as any antelope being eaten by a cheetah
I am weaker than a baby deer
wide awake for three hours
writing poetry which makes no sense
throwing my crumpled bruised words on the floor
My eyes begin to close so I wander back to my pillow
a tame zebra that belongs in a zoo begins to limp toward me
what am I going to do with it? I wonder. I do not even know what it eats.
The zebra opens his mouth and shows me vampire teeth
My concern turns to horror and I try to run
But I am pinned to my bed by a concrete gargoyle
Who is not allowing even my legs to move
I can feel my heart beating in a crazy weird way
I know the zebra is going to devour me.
But instead the gargoyle transmogrifies into a fire truck.
Gong. Gong. Gong. Gong. Gong.
I am late to work, no thanks to my husband
Who heard that stupid alarm going for twenty-three minutes.
Why didn’t you WAKE me up? I ask him.
Remember the time you had the dream about being a killer? He asks.
He still has a few scars.
a. Perspective of Malcolm X
in the ghettos
like the reservations
white man builds
a separation of skins
hearts and minds
b. My Perspective
Malcolm Little born
to roll uphill
against all odds
a boy transmogrifies
into variable X
Always holding fast loves muse; never distant from this seemingly
Knights-errant spirit; symmetrical mirrors reflecting such hues amid these
Revolving spectrums crossed....
Afore a galaxy of stars both near and afar ~
Scarlets vivid oarnge heart immersed in the pools of febrils
Passion soaked gravitations thus red; filling these eyes and burning inside
This Souls breezeway between the here and agains, taverned flames
Intangibles, searching nomad nights....
Transmogrifies columns forever shifting within the celestial skies
Although always returning unto these physio-monastic planes
Grasping tightly still this loves muse ~
Far beyond the illusions of but, a knights-errant spirit; such
Fervant gravitations towards scarlets vivid oarnge pools in, red....
Passion soaked truths burning so very deeply inside
Transitories breezeway between the here and agains, transmogrified Souls columns
Revolving spectrums crossing; this nomads searching tavernous night
Afore a galaxy of stars both near and afar, aneath, these tangible perceptions....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...."Augustine Galileo's Heart" *
Just a plain old TREE. I Ignored the weather
satisfied with me . I Looked at TREE.
What if anything do I knoe about TREE.
It used to be a thing made out of wood , always tall,
with branches near the ground. Roots fingering the ground.
Life comes up somehow to TREE. Water cascades down to ground, seeping
slowly into ROOT. ROOT transmogrifies
the water into inner sanctum stuff known only to the Lord.
People still tell me, Tree just cannot live.
There is no real feeling in TREE.
There is knowledge in TREE or it would be a blade of grass.
People say the life is in the seed or sapiling.
I think the knowledge is in the MAN, the ONE who can.
He Makes all the TREE begin , upon a distant planet,
Creates the thing again, in the courtyard of his KING.
And every meadow of his earth.
The ONE who gave me birthe the second time around.
The ONE who gave me TREE.
And Time to write this down.
The Virgin Birth.
t
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.