"morph" poems
#
*Ebony
silhouettes
inked
by a dying sun,
portray
lovers embraced
in
the synergy of one.
Inseparable
dreams
slowly
morph into one …
subservient
to the
whims
of the compliant
heart’s
drum.
And
azure pools reflect
a
tie-dyed denim sky,
as
enchanted dreamers
seal
their love with a kiss nearby.
Twinkling
stars confetti
the
emptiness of space.
And
as darkness descends,
shadows
swallow all of the light’s trace.
Reality
pauses …
as
time seems to stand so still
to
the depths of their very souls,
motionless
they swim.*
#
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:40 AM UTC
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.
she is sweet but sad. super sad.
a good poet who wants to guide me.
but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.
seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,
and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.
"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"
my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.
my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,
how I do not want
to be skinned alive.
for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.
and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley
***no more con the my mind into letting my body
be-fused.^***
that ain't me babe.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
of one thing
i am sure
and that is
that i am
unsure of
myself
and it’s funny
how i can’t
sleep but my
chest closes its
eyes and hums
with a heartbeat
that is unsure of
itself, too.
i try to morph
into a body
i don’t feel
belongs to me
just so i can
fit somewhere
fit in somewhere
and i tell so
many stories
about the
universe, it
forever feels
like i am trying
to remain lost.
i am unsure
of myself;
connecting the
moles on my
skin as if they
will spell out
something bigger
so i can feel
like i matter,
at least for
a little while.
i sleep beside
myself, stare at
a reflection
so unfamiliar
i couldn’t even
identify it in
a crowd of
strangers, but
i am trying.
and one day
i’m sure i’ll
be sure
of myself but
until then,
i’ll morph into
someone i can
be proud of
and hope that
the universe
sends me back
to myself.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 4:05 AM UTC
nobody warns you about the first boy who tells you he wants to marry you.
nobody warns you about the tangible shift in the universe when he parts his lips to smile.
nobody warns you about the poetry he'll write you or how your knees will weaken or the melancholy hidden between the layers of his laughter.
nobody warns you that miles will morph into lightyears and you will curse the ocean for being the only thing that keeps his fingers from resting between yours.
nobody warns you about the day his sweater doesn't smell like him anymore.
nobody warns you that human hands are incapable of holding a person together.
nobody warns you that sometimes love is not enough, no matter how much you wish it was.
nobody warns you about the crippling nostalgia that renders you breathless.
nobody warns you about the nights when silence screams for your blood.
nobody warns you about the crater that forms in your chest in the middle of the night when he doesn't answer.
nobody warns you about how it's going to feel when he tells you he's in love with someone else.
nobody warns you that forever is a lie.
- m.f.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
breathing the turquoise like lavender,
and sipping the blue summer.
bitter cold clouds glide and morph lava lather,
floating whispers cut by sweet pineapple sunshine.
soon, a moment, now
rhythms ripple the sky like skipping stones
we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.
cobalt bass rumbles the earth hungry,
pumps the air with springing spirals
pushing and pulling the senses,
reverberating through cells.
heavy mud humming, stomping
echoes through our atoms dizzy;
balancing tuned body to innate electricity
the fizz of circulating lemonade energy.
we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.
strawberry melodies spilling ribbons,
dolphin leaps of the spaces inbetween beats,
lines of colours overlapping,
colliding, mixing, merging, blending
in with the forest.
washing over souls the life fire sparkles
like a clear water cleansing harmonies,
sound waves crashing against inertia.
phosphorescent glow of re-charged love
for the world, for being, animation
flowing through burnt smoky ashes
of sapphire charcoal skies;
dimmed radiation of chlorophyll emerald days.
the smell of salt, dry bark, fluffy carbon mists,
trembling lights softening the eyes'
grip on outlines, loosening lies.
watching the cycles of patterns
tumbling colours through a mill rotating,
and the silence of listening
when the music comes to an end.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
xxxxxxx
Lonely I am not anymore,
Obvious was the need of a companion,
Tears used to roll down as if I chop an onion,
Unending is the happiness in this poem,
Sadness, I have forgotten you.
I now manufacture more happiness,
Shying away from smiling is nonsense.
Thoughts of mine finally orient east,
Heavy thoughts morph into light ones,
Estuary of sadness into a sea of gladness.
Becoming one with her, I am,
Expanse of the rising sun beckons me,
Sit we shall with one another,
Thickets of Selection Grass await her.
xxxxxxx
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 6:19 AM UTC
With eager eyes and tempting smile, I beckoned 'cross the wharf
And they returned, a sad reply, stating he must morph
into a man -in pieces then- who puts things back together
Whilst I sit here, and wait and wait, and keep on till forever.
Kingdom comes, piggies fly, time churns soft and slow
Every hour, like the other, shuffling to and fro
Mind is racing, heart is beating, must be with him soon...
He is the sun, he is the stars, he is the solstice moon.
But he is full of hatred, and angry, scary things
That I cannot behold because my covered ears will ring.
I will not hear the wretchedness that billows from his mouth
I will not be the victim of intentions headed south.
Now he’s an angel, under God, and all the better creatures
that prize the gentlest, passionate, souls who mirror all their features. They never asked, only assumed, that I would be alright
But Oh! the torture over one who turned away from light.
So here I wait, on endless shores, until they come for me
Or maybe not, really, who knows, what lies beyond the sea
The water holds the untold words of thousands who've passed on
And here I am, scribbling the script, of stories before dawn.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
She walks a narrow path,
over a valley filled with wrath.
One wrong turn,
and in the fire she's left to burn.
She always dreamt to stretch her wings, but never did fearing the stings.
She always wanted to soar high,
but feared the endless predators in the sky.
A smile she wears as the day goes by,
lets no one see the tear in her eye.
The pain in her heart goes un noticed by most,
though it rings from coast to coast.
Her voice no one ever heard,
not a single sentence or word.
No laughs of joy nor cries of pain,
all for herself to contain.
Lonely at times she gazes at the night sky, trying to catch any falling star that may go by.
Wishing for her misery to end,
wishing to enjoy life and its moments with a close one, a friend.
Laughs and cries to herself at times, putting down what she feels into rhymes.
Pushed around forever,
rarely allowed to pursue her own endeavour.
Her goals and dreams,
never morph to reality it seems.
For others she lives,
without thinking her everything she gives.
How long will this go on,
how long will she suffer from dusk to dawn?
All the injustice and spite,
will this continue to be her plight?
Why can't she be allowed,
to rise up and touch every cloud?
To laugh more and less to cry,
all set bounds and limits to defy.
To fight and to resist,
to deal with every twist and tryst.
To have an equal foot on every front,
no more to take the brunt.
Her eyes never to sparkle with remorseful tears,
to do away with all her worries and fears.
Her freedom to life and right to every joy, lets protect and not destroy.
To end her pitiful plight, and let her enjoy her life’s glorious flight...
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
I am not in the business of being you
or him or her or they
we doesn't even really interest me.
you hated me within the first 20 minutes
like a shallow predator
experiencing virginal danger
you have the limbic system of a prey
obvious to anyone in touch with their senses.
you were threatened-
you cracked a joke and among
the robotic laughter and among
the generic thoughts
I stood back, blank-faced
a novel piece of art you haven't the ability
to muster up the courage to understand.
aloud, I said it wasn't funny
which I'm sure your emptiness already betrayed
in a booming, and terrifying fashion
*(I'm an intellectual sadist-
I get off watching you squirm)*
you know enough, that you have no basis
that the status quo is the stale stream you do nothing but soak in.
you're superficiality is so pervasive
that your thoughts are unfilled, plastic
discarded long ago by anyone with stamina
(you're a carbon-copy of a Xeroxed person)
looking the same as the others of your degenerate breed
with much less vibrancy than the original
and far less worth.
your boundaries have been in place for so long
passed down by
generations
of
generations
of
generations
great-great-granddaddy's barbed wire is the only thing protecting your prejudice.
you're not funny- you're scared
ashamed and lonesome.
ashamed of the person you wish you could be
but don't have the strength-or the guts
to morph into
lonesome because even yourself is someone you don't feel close to
you are so basically human.
I have no pity.
for you are no Muse.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
In this space and time, that we call memories,
Eyes closed tight…we wince to recall special moments long gone.
Some, we merely exist to relive, and others are meant for painful lessons learned.
Strumming through the cobwebs, we coerce ourselves through this jaded door,
Only to find, this time, a feeling of sorrow followed by expressions of grief.
Like a bank account, we deposit memories daily,
Some are easily recalled and others are over and done.
It’s those memories that reside within our hearts that cause special remembrance,
And miraculously, we have the ability to morph these from anguish to memories of tranquil joy!
Sending a smile and all my love to you…….. I’ll be watching for you in the stars.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 4:50 PM UTC
Humility and Humiliation
Are first cousins of a sort.
When they roll off my tongue,
They seem identical twins, or
If not siblings
At least sharing some common ancestry.
But after they flee my mouth,
The resemblance ends.
Humiliation is designed by others
Their words twist, morph, bend, break.
Until the face I see,
When I look in the mirror,
No longer belongs to me.
Humility, however,
Comes from within.
No tongue can give it life,
Not even my own.
Humility is an acceptance,
Not a rejection,
Of who I am,
Who I am not.
To be
Humble,
Is to simply
Be.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
Behind the eight ball
she sits.
Resigned.
From her pimp's
leash,
she's lead.
Deadweight, she feels
his ways and ills,
like cattle, that's branded.
Best she hustles,
or be backhanded.
Once molded,
she learns to light up
Big Daddy's cigar
and bring him his pie loaded.
More cabbage to fill his gold baggage.
Sometimes he spares a small leaf for her.
Though times she short, his fist takes sport.
And every night
she plays for the band
of her john's,
singing their song,
while a thousand ****** of light
inches along all wrong.
The nameless, faceless and most relentless
getting their fill.
A flower in her wails loves not fear.
However, Big Daddy's eyes are always near.
She knows better than to run
past the pasture gates
onto verdant fields,
free as a bird,
without a home, money or vocation
and ever so fearful of Big Daddy's gun.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
As she remembers those first tears.
A Big Daddy's indoctrination.
It started off on social media,
a whim
a fantasy went wrong.
Three nights her body violated,
Big Daddy's cavalry,
descending on her picnic,
wax and whips,
a thousand ****** of might,
and the scream of the night.
Coldcocked.
Say hello to the new girl on the block.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
Her youth robbed as the days morph into years.
Like a blur.
The guise, the lure, the drugs, the fear.
The trap.
Eighteen young became twenty-four old.
A lost puppy to her folks back home.
And every lost night
she struts her Prada dress a little higher
Big Daddy has a buyer.
Logan Robertson
7/27/2018
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
Cast me not
in any mold
of your preconceived
ideas and notions
For I am
A woman
With my own
Intelligence and Intentions
Contained
I shall be not
In contours
Predefined
I morph,
I change,
As I evolve
Not in any orbit will I revolve
Chisel me not like
Some statue fine
For I am neither divine
Nor a concubine
Label me not as
Fertile or fallow
Or simply
as shallow
I am not
just a mother
sister or wife
I am a woman dignifed
At times
whimsical
at times
emotional
I can be spiritual
Or plain evil
I am but a woman
Individual!
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
What I'm imagining isn't considered pretty
You don't want to know where you're sitting
What I'm imagining isn't considered pleasant
We're inappropriately using a pheasant
What I'm imagining doesn't go with God
And is laughed at because it's odd
Into my life they peer
Trying to insert fear
My owl head on a swivel
My rabbit ears perked
When people don't act civil
And decency is shirked
I needed answers
For my cancer
I find them in love and pain
They both seem the same
I begin to view the rain
As a type of gain
Everyone knows love's scorn
Which leaves me torn
I can't help but feel my situation differs
Something about the rejection seems stiffer
So I become a shapeshifter
To avoid the hate gifters
To avoid bearing the shame
Of being called names
I know other people have it worse
Sometimes that feels like a curse
I can't gauge the importance of major events
In my life
I don't know whether to think they're intense
Or just right
Maybe I'm just being dramatic
But these instances aren't sporadic
When those that I love
Push and shove
I start to wonder if I'm broken or stained
Until I realize we're all burnt by love's flames
We all have a path to travel
And they're all made of gravel
Our feet become sore
Which affects our core
We find people below us on the totem pole
To know how it feels to treat someone cold
For when our enthusiasm for love has faded
It's easy to become jaded
There are things we're ashamed of
That morph us into something unrecognizable
In which we should be truly ashamed
In the mirror we look the same
But our actions are toxic
We become radioactive
We see where our stock sits
And become merely reactive
And it's hard to find grace
After being punched in the face
But one must remember punches come in all forms
And we must not punch back to survive the storm
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
beautiful round ***
a firm smack
it smacks back
fast pace
you looking back
moans morph to screams,
I could get use to that
begging for more
and I reach back
some deep strokes
I love that
Jan 11, 2023
Jan 11, 2023 at 8:59 AM UTC
i admit to 'male' --
'female' strikes me low
curving
concupiscent hips (of Venus swaying so)
the one who places,
caught bathing in her morph
to mar
her goddess innocence (Peleus grasps her so)
her evergreen paradise-
apple spraying scruples,
while the sun
dries forgiveness **** (on Eve's fragrant *******
in other Edens
Lilith simply leaves him blind
to lust
for unknown Didos (craving **** or suicide)
the limping god
nets love and war, olympicly
to smith
a mortal death (from Vulcan jealousy)
foresight's fire-gift
leaps obedience
to lie
far falls the divine (in ******* he defied)
potent swan of sky,
what judgement?
for a girl
you laid in that white rush, (virginity unfurled)
immortal ****
fates sails of progeny,
raging
poet-birthing strife (for temple priestess' cries)
fated nation-death swoons,
shares beauty's scale,
and Aphrodite's foam (caresses history's thighs)
Trojan tensions mix
the modern mind to heights of doubt
of mythopoets' truth ( -yielding blindnesses)
lonely walk the earth
with guiding wisdom lacking
all the pawns of fate (forget love's darknesses)
sphinxine hunger asks
the soul of destiny
of hubris, tragic sight (and orgiastic nights)
of unknown woman
man struck down
sickly city safe
and burning, yearning (nymph and satyr sating Bacchic rites)
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
You know.
It's true what they say.
That once you fall asleep in the arms of your lover,
You can't sleep alone anymore.
Something doesn't feel right.
Something is always off.
The feel of her body,
Her warmth,
Her breath,
As she lays behind me,
Clutching on to my waist,
Is a feeling that gets you intoxicated just thinking about it.
Gets you high without realizing it.
You do that once,
You can't not do it again.
Because then you'll constantly feel alone.
In the dark.
Always thinking back to a time,
When she was lain behind you,
And when she held you close,
So close that you almost morph into one.
So now as I lay here,
Clutching onto a pillow that smells of her,
I keep hoping that this pillow,
Will turn into her,
So that I don't have to sleep alone tonight.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:29 AM UTC
Alone by a wharf
Peaceful yet forlorn
Wishing I could morph
To mask how badly I'm worn
Wish I was strong
The way I used to be
But where I am, is where I belong
The pain will pass, there'll be jubilee
But first I have to crush the glass of the once before chary and elusive me
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
for Lori, Riley and Kendrick
the questioning words jump off the page,
into two hands transforming,
words shape shifting into
multicolored ink stained fingers,
now, all a chokehold on my brain,
my throaty gasps rasping from
a simplistic convolution -
single questioning deserving an answer
what are you made of?
the obvious answers left in the slow lane,
bone, tissue, rivers and arteries of blue bloods,
just oil and fuel of a containership,
but the cargo carried, that’s the real stuff
you have insight inside that cannot be seen,
self-survival instincts that morph into morals,
our shared air affects you differently,
a sense of defending, caring,
costless and costliest simultaneously,
spaghetti strands strong sinewed intertwining,
into a better human than most
to call you hero is wrongly insufficient,
but the thesaurus lends me no substitute,
weep, I do,
as the spring and summer blushing green
will not be seen by you at all, and by me,
seen now so differently,
when thinking of
soil-born courage instinctual that has no name,
but grows only in nature
what are you made of?
we know now, but knew not well,
that thing that makes you leap first,
was all you, the entirety of the best,
that exists, existed, as reminders to us,
to mine it, wear it,
medal it upon our fabric
*you three,
breathe it back, exhale it from where ever you are,
that trace chemical odor in our atmosphere,
of life-giving sweetness, a rebirthing chlorophyll freedom
that we humans all desperately need,
even just to know it exists,
and inform us*
what we need to be made of
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 5:43 PM UTC
So many succumb to Group Think
in such a way that it is dangerous.
From a young age, though I knew not yet of the notion,
I rejected opinions passed to me as fact
for the reason that opinions are subjective:
I did not hold as 'beautiful' what they told me I ought to.
I did not hold as 'wondrous' what they said was so.
I did not hold as 'difficult' what others had not yet accomplished.
I did not regard as 'easy' what others had yet done.
I was not serious when they told me I must be.
I made jokes when they deemed it distasteful.
I laughed at the hypocrisy, right in it's face.
I didn't just lay down and accept it as fate.
I did not like the music they told me to like.
I did not believe the biased history they taught as absolute and true.
I did not worship the mythic Gods they made to be literal.
I refused to pledge my allegiance in a brainwashed mass
to any flag of any nation under any God with Liberty and/or Justice for merely a few.
Over time I acquired my own taste for these things:
I grew to appreciate the discrepancy
between what I was told
and what I observed.
From there, I formulated my own opinions,
I became an Individualist.
A Heretic.
They sure don't make it easy.
Individualism, to me, does not connotate isolationism,
though with isolation can come self-awareness and self-discipline.
Individualism, to me, refers to finding one's own Path;
being a Heretic; staying true to your own Path.
To be a Rebel to undue Authority.
To not be afraid to defy your peers.
To be an Anarchist within one's self.
To practice Civil Disobedience.
Plus, the friends you will make if you live this way
will blow your ******* mind
and last you a lifetime.
-
Opinions are never concrete; they must curve and morph with the ebb and flow of your particular life.
Opinions and Taste must be relative to one's own personality and life if they are to be genuine.
Even still, the pull of the social tide is not so easily resisted:
You are succumbing to Group Think
even more than you might think
but I think, or at least I think (that) I think
that we can all overcome Group Think
if we would all just stop and think.
Don't you think?
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
And so it begins
I can taste your release on his lips
Like it was my own tongue
That had gotten you to moan
So sweetly
So innocently
Innocent -
As if you weren’t the bi girl
Sandwiched between the sexually confused
And the dominating alpha
My turn now
To be innocent with your mouth
And to be guilty
With a man pressed against my backside
A verdict
That we agreed on unanimously
Because nothing is more thrilling
Than being wrong
With two people who are so right
One more time
Let’s make a chain with our bodies
He’ll stand
You’ll kneel
I’ll lay under you
Until we morph into one
Connected by the wetness between our legs
And against ours lips
Again
And again
Changing the three of us
Into familiar strangers
Intertwined in seductive affairs
Because baby
Two is comfort
But three is company.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
Wednesdays and Fridays:
The only days I jump out of bed
Filled with
happiness.
Passion.
Patience.
Excitement.
I walk into the classroom,
Trade my sadness for a dose of jubilance.
I feel alive again.
A dozen 3 year olds swarm the room,
the melting ***
Labels such as: typical, Downs syndrome, autistic, deaf
Come together to morph into a magical classroom.
“The Tree House Room”.
Differences are not feared in the eyes of these little humans,
They are
embraced.
Accepted.
Loved.
These are the days I live for.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
I have memories
That could be mine,
Selfies of other times.
Gray matter shots
That morph and shift,
Blur and smear
Yet shine.
My phantom snaps
Have smoke and mirrors,
Spectres with borders.
The smell of bacon,
A rising sun,
A carpet hill
To lay upon;
A door that swings
To past future,
A window to see through.
My astral albumn
Haunts my nights,
No light can dim my view.
I think my thoughts
Are photoshopped.
These memories of you.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC