"morphing" poems
Crawling, slowly, firmly, effortless towards me.
Billowing from sea over hills,
the blue sky is envious of its charm.
What can it offer but a backdrop of blue?
Its ever morphing silhouette captures our gaze and fascinates.
Not to be revisited, once witnessed, suddenly changed.
Forever, only in memory it plays.
Lie back, enjoy it's visions,
for it is past, as quickly as it came.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
My mentor spoke to me of two rivals,
Once, they had been friends in some distant past.
But the years have eaten their love and made grudges manifest.
|The two shattered into broken glass
To my wise master I asked only one,
One question... In all my range.
One question I asked:
“What changed?”
In the outskirts, at the home of my daughter
Where you can stare at the stars or passing cars
None more brighter than the other,
We share memories of my grandmother.
In the photographs, she looks so much younger.
Not frail, but a fighter, lover and saintly|
To me, she asks plainly,
One question, and one question only.
Sifting through the ages of years past:
“What Changed?”
At the kitchen table, feeling inadequate,
My lover screaming and frustrated,
I recall memories when we had been intimate.
Times when movement was made for desire and not duty
|A calendar of nights left in confused abstinence
I interrupt.
She delays rage.
I beg,
“What Changed?”
_
In the last few hours of night
The dawn reaches me at last.
I had locked moments-
Literal seconds of time as the truth.
But it was always changing
In flux and morphing.
Turning into something new
Just for a moment, and then on again
“What Changed?”
Everything.
Always.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
a miracle child
born to a mortal mother
***the creator pretends
to be the created***
stealing butter,
breaking pots,
teasing girls,
Gokulam’s naughtiest child
and then one day
the friends complain
“Mother Yashoda, your little one
is eating mud from the Yamuna banks”
worried she rushes
to her darling boy
her anxiety disguised as anger
he smiles - the sly little blue-eyed boy
in his musical voice he cries-
“I did not eat mud, sweet mother, the boys lie!
***come look within
and see with your own eyes!”***
poor Mother Yashoda
not knowing she stared
into that little mouth
and lost herself in what was there
he lifted swiftly the
veil of maaya
the truth shone forth
with a blinding light!
*** त्वमेव माता च पिता त्वमेव ।
त्वमेव बन्धुश्च सखा त्वमेव ।
त्वमेव विद्या द्रविणम् त्वमेव ।
त्वमेव सर्वम् मम देव देव ॥***
she saw herself
and her dear little boy
the whole of Gokulam
within his jaws lay!
and the whole earth
and the universe
galaxies and multiple worlds
was her little boy cursed?
her fear mounted as she saw
the entire cosmos
the boundaries blurred
time - a non-entity
the past, present and future
only a tiny river
she saw the vast expanse
of his creation
he made these worlds
held them like puppets on a string
and then morphing
he became death!
and unable to take more
she swooned
when the Creator, the Preserver and the Destroyer
merged to become-her adored little one!
*** You are my mother, and my father
You are my relative and my friend
You are knowledge, You are prosperity
You are my everything, My God of Gods***
and then he looked at her
with an infinite compassion
he’d shown her
what she needed to see
now it was time
for her to forget, to become
his doting mother again
he kisses her with innocent love and toothy grin
once more
maaya takes hold
the illusion more beautiful
more irresistible to behold!
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
04.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
everything is anything.
morphing, moving, & merging together.
falling deep into flow.
deep into know.
breathing & bleeding energies & essences,
from every spectrum of the rainbow.
discovering & diving into new, unexplainable realms of creation.
so much to think about.
so much to feel for.
it's easy to get swept up in the magic.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
...a diary of the falling dominoes chapter
invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near
the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence
from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart
now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed
an uncontained wildfire
smoldering within, lies in wait
for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes
a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul
there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,
squandered time
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years
invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture
wounding ... penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet
for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...
befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...
a muting suffocation
that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion
of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
Let the haunted emptiness
Let it take me away
Carry me into deep darkness
Lift me out of this day
Close my eyes with nights caress
And sleep enclose and unwind
For the relief of my stress
And I float in a dreaming mind
The morphing shadows of black
Swirl in terrifying scenes
In fear I try escape back
To such a place without dreams
Now listlessly awake I lay
Tired, but unable to rest
Sleeplessly caught in the sway
To far gone, drifting in grey
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged
this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words
his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light
there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive
you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry
suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night
understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?
no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride
and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light
©2016janetaylor
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
The darkness will seep, while I weep, through the walls, through the doors, relentless pursuit, nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, as I sit and cry, the weight of my conscience several hundred ton, I fight back, I'm not done, alone, in the dark, my mind begins to bend and arc, morphing what's real, breaking my seal, forces me to think about the bad, begins to make me very sad, crushes my spirit with its overwhelming size, suddenly, tears burst from my eyes, screams of fear, cries of sorrow, a raging war, a losing fight, only to be repeated again, this time tomorrow.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
I am a tidal
wave thrown and
tamed, by the moon only. Yet eternally
morphing, the moon, which
is never the same and,
always is. Pushing and
pulling and back and
forth and waves and
surfs and tsunamis
and ripples and yet never
stillness.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
I wonder if the color green releases calm and renewal energies because it is the earth's carpet, magnetizing us down to earth.
I wonder if the color red wraps around passion and chaos because the blood in our veins rush evermore when we see something we love, and it rushes to our brain when our world turmoils.
I wonder if the color blue spreads hope for the sky as a crutch for those who have nowhere else to look but up to their god or to the formation of clouds that one cannot make sense of their cotton candy essence.
I wonder what color we are. What color does the earth reflect on us? Are we chameleons, morphing into different shades by the hour or are we permanent markers, bleeding deep? Maybe we are gray and receive color by what we surround ourselves with. That's how science works, right? A reflection of light in our retinas.
I am purple. There is a cloud of mystery and romanticism that shields me like a cloak, but my emotions run like rich velvet. Maybe one day I'll find a yellow who bursts rays of warmth. I think I would like to be with a yellow one day, the golden hour of colors.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 9:19 AM UTC
A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
Faces morphing
Colors changing
Hearts convulsing
Ceilings spazzing
Hands shaking
Reality vanishing
-
What
is
anything?
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
My hipbones rock me on the wooden floor
Protruding from my frame
Skin bruises from simply laying on my stomach
Yet I am not skinny
red lines mark where the folds of my stomach have been,
my arm like wings
my thighs hugging each other tightly
stretching occasionally my eye catches the reflection of a stick like woman I can't recognize in the dark window until I realize she is me
as that settles in my true details fill in
morphing the strange woman into the ugly that is me.
Striving to become the strange woman that once was
I shove a finger down my throat
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
Fire suns out of canons of old and decay in daylight. There might not be blood under your fingernails if you'd refused to laugh. Don't doubt it though, you're being watched. It thinks about your thoughts in thoughtless ways. Dance, pony, humor it. Fail to see the source. Research more. Someone else already answered your stupid questions. Go home. Go broke. Go on as long as you go away. Get a job, you idiot, and make sure it's a good one. If it isn't, fire yourself out of a canon into the Sun. Morphing is addictive. So is heroism. Go, sally gently forth. Froth. Growl low in the gut. Yeah, breathe the fear; die ******* mad about it.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC
Bursting cherries
remind me of
the vibrancy of your
curious lips
Juicy peaches
drippin' down your
chin; a memory
from years
before.
Sour lemons
perking you up,
for the hungry
kiss.
Oranges glisten as
they mimic
sundown in the
city.
Sunsets gleam
orange and yellow,
illuminating crowds of
individuals, morphing
everyone into
no-one.
Alone, you peak through;
standing with
intention and innocence
among the shadows and
empty bodies, admiring
Mother Nature's
harvest.
You stand there
looking as sweet as
a fig; as wild and ripe
as a strawberry,
just waiting
to get
eaten.
Just waiting for
me to
place my lips
so delicately around
the curve of your
ripened
body.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC
I fall to my knees,
Kneeling before you,
My Master,
Groveling at your glorious feet,
To reveal the chains of submission,
Weighing down my delicate form.
You gaze upon me,
Beholding soft skin shimmering,
As my body is folded over;
Viewing my tantalizing beauty,
As I bestow myself,
To fulfill your deepest desires,
Conjuring the darkest yearnings,
Manifesting within.
“Rise, Baby Girl’’,
Your deep voice commands,
Reverberating within this crimson colored chamber,
As your figure towers over me,
Beckoning my legs to stand,
Obliging to please you,
As my hazel eyes encounter,
The blazing intensity of your own,
Sending flames to burn,
Down to the small of my back.
Fear is the armor I allow to fall,
Tumbling to the ground,
Cloaking myself in trust,
As I allow my body to be,
Touched by dominant hands,
Trussed up by ropes and chains,
To restrain to me.
Willingly becoming prey,
To the sweet, antagonizing caress,
Before your hand aggressively strikes,
My behind,
Sending me into a realm,
Of pleasure and pain,
Morphing into one sensation.
Free is the response I experience,
As you bounds my wrists,
With your tie,
Pinning me down,
Straddling my body.
Placed between your thighs,
With your heated lips,
Conquering every inch of my body.
The Sting of the flogger,
Is a bite against the skin I crave,
As silence is the language,
I choose to speak,
Feeling your fingertips claim me,
As your territory to reign over,
As you please.
I yearn to satisfy the hunger,
Starving to be your nourishment;
For Sadism to feed,
Upon masochism,
As a balance of power is established,
As we lose ourselves in fiery passion.
Dominance and Submission,
Forces meant to bond to the other,
In a marriage of infliction and reception,
Of blissful agony,
Accepting the temptations you direct,
Towards me as guide,
To obtain our darkest of fantasies.
Submission speaks out within,
The silence as I give you,
A proffered hand,
Succumbing to the sensual dreams,
You promise to me,
Allowing you to possess me in any way,
You wish in accordance to our terms.
May you indulge upon my form,
Like decadent candy you crave,
To devour,
Savoring every taste,
Sound, smell, and touch,
In this licentious dance between you,
My Master,
And me, your fervent lady,
Of submission.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
To often we fail to tune ourselves in.
We get caught in rut after rut,
Morphing into puppets... just going with the motions.
Too fixated on all we could lose to recognize each win.
So weary of love we keep our hearts bolted shut.
We are so afraid of change we cringe at the notion.
Sometimes you need to runaway from reality,
Take a leap off of comforts shoulder…
And dive into your intuition.
Free yourself from that corrupt mentality,
And smile to keep the world from growing any colder.
Your soul will sing a melody of bittersweet honesty…just listen.
That is where true beauty lay…
In each untouched corner of your heart,
Beneath each unspoken word of your inner voice.
It is never to late when you are blessed with another day.
To live simply, take a breath and let the past part…
And confidently make happiness your choice.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
*she returns from her classes,
ballet, yoga, core something and Zumba for flavoring,
her hair, an upward, toe pointing cannon of mop mess,
her face glowing flushed,
one look and I know she is both,
morphing high,
wipeout exhausted
a little ritual she performs somewhere between
"it was great and she (the instructor) killed us,"
auto sub conscious,
she looks herself over,
twisting elegantly like the
Argentine tango dancer she is,
in the mirrored closet doors
raising both arms to see (show off)
the sums of her endeavors,
the exoskeletal musculature
she has earned,
a life long effort,
like a prize fighter as he
macho enters the ring,
an alpha male gesture
if ever there was one,
made over to say,
hey boy, look at me!
*and the boy looks her over,
always thinking, but never revealing,
that it is her muscles of mindfulness and mercy,
that take his breath away, the ones that are worked out daily,
the ones that surround and work the heart beating,
the lung inhaler of humans in need,
exhaling the richest
oxygen for others to breathe
and the boy does his service,
providing a "wow" or "very impressive,"
only you and he know his real thinking,
and his muscle memories secret,
you to keep, just between us,
and his secret identity, only love poetry...*
8:52pm 7/20/17
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
Come lay your head down next to mine
On this endless field of grass
How soft the ground feels on your spine
As these clouds above, begin to pass
Beautiful clouds all shapes and sizes
Drift through the sky, so blue
Imagining escapes and prizes
As I drift along with you
Ever changing, morphing amazing
These clouds above transform so quick
The winds a blazing, while my eyes stay gazing
New clouds pass, within a flick
How can I hold on to this notion of beauty?
Of nothing to touch, and even less that’s saved
For the clouds pass by, as if in duty
To escape my clutch, and leave me depraved
As beautiful as these clouds can be
Look, how fast to darkness they can turn
As the sky, now void of light to see
Begins to fill me with concern
Covered by endless passing shrouds
The wind picks up, as a hideous storm forms overhead
No longer beauty within these clouds
Lets leave this barren wasteland, deceitful place of dread
But, this too, over time, shall pass
And the sky return to blue
We will lie back on the softness of the grass
And watch, The Clouds, pass on through
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
when does the poem end?
creation is never ending,
the earth is endlessly morphing
but you lean back and say
enough
not because the poem
is finished,
for it is never finished,
because an exhalation feels
satisfying, releasing
but the poem never ends,
nor does the need to
exhale
not with the final .
the next poem is
but a
continuation
of the previous poem;
a continuation
of you~poem,
inhaling
and
exhaling
& morphing.
Sat Jan 7
7:57am
Jan 7, 2023
Jan 7, 2023 at 8:50 AM UTC
**** me, I still dream of you.
When I'm thick in sleep and I'm so so lonely
and you
not you but dreamYou my dreamYou is
just so so ******* sweet...
and you're touching and I'm crooning and you're touching
and I'm twitching at the brink
the steady hand steady tongue
bringing me closer and further and closer and further
and I wish
wish wish wish
this was real
real really happening
because dreamYou isn't quite as harsh
as realYou was but
I can't kiss dreamYou without
your perfect dream face
cosmic scary dream morphing
into someone somebody not you
and what's sad
so sad, **** tragic
is you don't care a bit
not a smidge
not a ******* drop about
my miss miss missing you
dream or otherwise.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
This poem is composed by: a Nonet, a Kyrielle Sonnet, a Free verse part, a Terzanelle and another Free verse part:
In a juerga there’s nothing around
But voices, flamenco guitars ,
Dancing bodies in moonlight,
Vibrant gypsy dresses,
Passion, obsessions,
Bullfighter’s blades,
Silk shawls,
Dancers,
Capes.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Flamenco women to attract,
Like barks of olive trees in night.
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Girls have boot heels and huge roses,
Men clench their teeth , step opposes,
Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Guitars are beaten at high speeds,
Castanets scratch the music’s seeds,
Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Hands becoming wings
In their shadows on the wall,
Red becoming black and
Black becoming white,
Motion vibrating the guitar's string,
Cubic movements of colors,
In their dance ,
Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,
Flamenco woman arching her body,
Showing her passion…
From the soul to dissolve
The dancing sounds detach
From the soul to dissolve
When the movement they catch,
They may change all around,
The dancing sounds detach.
Drums and tambourines’ sound,
Exotic wrists and swirls,
They may change all around.
The weightless grace makes girls
Steal treasures from the air,
Exotic wrists and swirls.
With beautiful black hair,
Rise like birds , fall like leaves.
Steal treasures from the air,
Having tricks up their sleeves,
From the soul to dissolve,
Rise like birds ,fall like leaves
From the soul to dissolve.
Spicy slippery steps
Waiting for a clue,
Picking up portions of pink
Of hyper-femininity ,
Overflowing screwy sounds
In heavy red chromesthesia,
Morphing themselves into glamorous ,
Red feminine movements,
Men looking like marble statues being alive,
Seemingly cracking.
Slowly diminishing their dancing rhythm,
Steps sickling sweet sounds
To hear the horn of some lost happiness.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
Pulling
stretching
An oxidizing elasticity
all the while
a morphing
of shape and size
a marble of muted grays
resurfacing itself
and the pages it touches
with a softness that cannot
be touched
only destroyed
back into a density
to take away
the mistakes
better left
unseen
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
The hollow wind funneled the voice
of the distant night-train crossings,
awakening a familiar silence
hanging from the vast wilderness sky
A restless heart hearkening the echoes,
imagining a runaway Pullman
flew away off the rails, airborne
on the winged wind headed north
Winter pausing for a moment
in the shadows of familiarity,
as if parsing the unspoken breathings
in an echoless surrendered sigh;
uncertain if tacit words set free
could ever allow a heart broken
to feel whole again
There is no absolving voice
that whispers in a solemner tone :
Death has no mercy ―
love remains marooned in the wake ,..
and it feels like the world’s gone mad
letting time be the arbiter of perpetuity
The fading dream of a motherless child;
a wish to be held maternally
fell to the ground with a thud,
breaking the silence,
dissipating formless as the shape of water
Muted cold lips so full of questions
morphing into fugitive sighs
come the unsettled night;
when shadows disappear like frail memories
that passed too soon to grasp,
thickly palpable as the warm breath
a winter bird alone on frosty branch
There’s no fear in braving the darkness
in the winter wilderness of life borne alone
There’s no way of knowing what you’ll find
down that long empty road back home
Life just flashes by silently before your eyes
through the windshield
of countless miles and miles
And there’s nothing you can do about it ―
It’s like hearing the moment of truth in a lie
when all I was looking for
was how I got here in this now,.. yesterday
only finding a hopeless poet
scribbling slightly stained pages,
spilling a bitter sweet dream ...
harlon rivers ... February 2018
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Shade shifter, turn-me-red.
Master the colors and trick
the disguiser--
morphing electric skin.
Make novelty probing
into the dark
unknown.
Shake suiters with perfect
control, of all the senses.
In a savage land, or a rare
spectacle of courage
no under sea mountain
is too strong.
Or ocean to shallow
to fill the hole,
A schism dares to thunder.
In a serene wave
watched by a moon's
cyclops gaze.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 6:07 AM UTC