"reshaping" poems
He was the ocean; handsome, but yet, Impulsively damaged. He had a sandy heart to correspond his sandy eyes, the moon dismantled that omitted pride he carried at a dead weight; shoveling and reshaping it, so people would see a sandcastle statue assembled in strength. But his washed-up soul and unannounced insecurities were aware of its genuine purpose,
this beach alongside his pupils;
quicksand, he'll sink so slowly in. Waves in his hair like ripples on his cheeks, skipping stones land at his defeat, he left notes in bottles for you, sank multiple ships for you, because he hasn't the heart to say he's desiccating with the arrival of the stars.. Retracting scars are not too far from gasps for air, foaming words of crisis by writing in the sand, signaling a light as the last one in him died. You wouldn't understand, the calm before the storm, as valve after valve puncture him. So intoxicating as it drains him, and from within, he's drying out. Sunburns stain him, a smile restrains him,
in an inescapable drought--
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
Growing up there was chaos reshaping the love;
it was the cycle that gave us our dynamic.
A single thing acted like a looming shadow as it circled our warm home.
It would **** them one by one into its cold smog.
I grew used to its presence;
making me numb to its touch.
I had to settle the rest of their souls by ridding them of the darkness.
I was young but I understood pain;
I saw it in their eyes,
heard it behind a smile,
and felt it with the lingering touch -
longing to be comforted.
Eventually, the shadow turns to light.
The pain dissolved,
but I still remember every situation I made right -
the memories of the darkness still live inside me.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
Why do poets and photographers love fleeting things?
Angled shafts of sunlight piercing a mass
of clouds. A rainbow flashing from dragonfly wings.
Water drops beading like shards of glass.
The fluttering shape of a sycamore’s shade.
The sun sinking into its reflection
In a purple bay. Smoke’s shadow. The rayed
Curve of a finger reaching for perfection.
Whatever churns, bursts, rocks, flies,
Foams, flickers, roils, evades
In pigments of impermanent dyes
We try to fix before it fades
Once I mourned the endless dying
Of here and now, the present always past
Elegized each moment, sighing
Beauty is loss and can never last.
But now I think I had it wrong. In fact
(I learned this from an artist’s eye)
Fleeting beauty reappears faster than we react,
At the speed of a daydream flashing by.
All around, light coalesces into form,
Form explodes into light,
And we live lavishly inside this storm
If we can learn to see it right.
Beauty multiplies, tapering, swelling:
Reshaping, reforming, now familiar, now strange.
This gaudy blur in which we’re dwelling
Is the permanence of change.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
It is said that those
who have emotionally touched you
leave an everlasting imprint
on your beating heart
and shining soul
An impression of sorts
like one of a fingerprint,
the swirling patterns of their delicate fingertips
pressed against our skin
leaving a permanent mark
for everyone to see
a tattoo of beauty
or sometimes,
a scar of spiteful hatred
and sham
The imprints left on our skin
eventually travel to our hearts
recreating our character
and traveling to our souls,
shaping us anew
taking and reshaping our very beings
to become a kind angel
or a vengeful demon
refining our once innocent minds
to become something else
Fingerprints pressed to our eyes,
lips,
hands
and feet
either leaving us with good impressions
or wicked intentions
It is not for us to decide
whether those who touch us
leave fingerprints of swirling beauties
or a labyrinth of anguish
but we can decide
what we do with these unique tattoos
and what we create using
their magnificent power.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
*the state or quality of being elastic.
flexibility; resilience; adaptability: a statement with a great elasticity of meaning.
buoyancy; ability to resist or overcome depression.
Physics. the property of a substance that enables it to change its length, volume, or shape in direct response to a force effecting such a change and to recover its original form upon the removal of the force.*
are you ready?
here it comes!
Slap!
having slapped you
with, to kind attention,
you may now recover
your original form,
when there was
no grief, no distress,
the great clarity
of eying the day's birth,
sweetly and innocently.
once again, you are
buoyant,
molecules of polluted memories,
erased.
wind scattered, gone,
blackboard erased,
whiteboard replaced.
you have been reminded,
even reprimanded,
for forgetting your
elasticity.
life, what ever that be,
is constant motion,
a reshaping of the heart,
for the heart has
no unique shape.
it's adaptation,
it's elasticity,
it's genetic forgive and forget ability,
is legend, is you,
you are legend,
You are elastic.
the human hallmark impressed
in the palms of your hands,
that cannot be erased
by time, fatigue, failure, or anger,
the hands that mold,
re-form for every need,
for every handhold,
for different are:
The hands that open closed fists
The hands that wave hi
The hands that are first to touch
and the last to leave,
waving goodbye,
elastic - tender when tender needed,
strong when strength essences.
so be elastic,
remember to be
ecstatic
remember
when you do,
you need show proofs.
Prove it to me.
Prove it to yourself.
shake, kiss, dare hug,
the one who needs reminding
that life is elastic,
even more than you.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
With every growth there is a deep struggle. The soul has to advance spiritually by reshaping itself. It slowly strips away layers of the internal trappings of our life, be it physical or emotional. In doing so, we mold ourselves back into the shape of a stronger human being
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 11:38 PM UTC
If I'm always the odd one out
I must follow where everyone goes
Regardless whether I want it or not
Just to keep everyone close
I've been conditioned to learn
From others, to always want more
More friends equates to more love
Be more successful than before
But fame and fortune do not excite me
I relish in private solitude
I'm reshaping my view on difference
As a preference I'm willing to pursue
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 7:37 PM UTC
Life is flowing
Flowing like water
Life is always flowing
Always changing
Molding and morphing
Never constant
Always shaping
And reshaping itself
Forever flowing
Along the great stream of life
Flowing from the beginning
Until the end of time
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
Fifty-percent illusion at any given time.
Your unintended muse will plead 'not guilty' to the crime
Of snatching back the quill and reshaping every line
into the role she wished to play
-- it seems the choice was never mine --
but the boy with the weighted wedding ring,
the self-appointed jury of the south;
him sheepish at the door with roses,
and the brute who owns this house.
Was it feminine mystique or was I crystal clear
while you blocked your ears and pretended not to hear?
A three-act structured tragedy.
All archetypes assigned.
"We've had this date since the beginning" --
if the part must be mine to play,
it is in my hands to manipulate.
Direct your blame to those who cast the roles.
Torn petticoat, blue piano;
flattered by the dimming glow --
oh, to be glossy pink and gold!
A trophy bride. A victor's prize.
(I snap awake and still see his eyes --
that ego swells him thrice my size --
with bruising force, he parts my thighs.)
Was it hysteria - madness? - or was I crystal clear
while you blocked your ears and pretended not to hear?
My fate was written for me,
in the frontal lobes of those who came before me:
down that narrative route, all bumps and troughs -- desire!
Fragments of an old Rossetti poem... o, vanity of vanities... the streetcar rattles and groans.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
Revisited Merak harbor one late evening
a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches
were seen from afar , chattering calls in 4 languages. 4 squalls in once was a plage
their dancing flames asked me to come closer
I hurried along the sleepy shipyards
passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors
giant padlocks accenting (reminded me of a fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling)
stacks of oversized containers solidly sat speechless. Sleepless.
The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye
1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater. 130 years later the odor of its curators
I ran closer. I fell. I laid there a while , got up and ran again.
I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way. I did not care.
When I arrived the torches were there in front of me
reincarnated into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives
bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil
For a second they transformed into torches again. One blazing in my hands.
Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand.
The fairy stared . I wasn't scared.
: come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait
dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate
I moved toward embracing fairy arms
(Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends)
So, I united with the torches
A bit of a breach pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all. Cannonball.
Black fog shrieking that same words : Keep up the struggle . Stay strong !
The alien residents might think I was making choices
but the fairy was leading me around
the torches reshaping the ghost-town
Chattering calls in 4 voices. 4 languages.
Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless. Pointless.
(Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
\\\\\\\\\\___------/////////
Sitting in the blue-grey stillness
Of my bathroom
Temperature set to make a perfect
balance
between hot and cold.
Except I am leaning on the cold side,
Prickly hairs.
Porcelain bowls,
cupids, angels,
catholic saints,
preasthood,
Angelic ivory
white
toilet bowl
Stained with our animal ****
Over time creating cracks
Of filthy streaks
Just like
how humans carve into
the Earth,
Denying our birth,
Killing our worth,
By overstuffing
our girth
To hide our
true nature.
Ivory bowl
I have just released my blood to you
Blood of my ancestors
Sacred blood
Blood pasted down
in this lineage.
Deep, deep
womb blood
Blood of mistakes.
Blood of stupid conversations and lies
I lived.
Blood of my dear dear
Precious baby
Blood of shame
Further ingrained
Into this white ivory
perfection.
Blood of the savage within me
Crying to break out
While I stand stout
And pull my bow
Tighter and tighter
Sharpen the peaks
Of my fake smile.
I'm happy
I'm happy
I'm normal, normal,
Normal!!!
While inside drums cry
To be beaten
Battles rage on
in explosive contemplation
My bodies ovulation
Of fertile
Formation
....
Then the immunization
..
I try to move to the beat of the nation
But it's a boring station
Feeling my souls frustration
With this numbing radiation.
The baby in my body wails
I am NOT(!!!!)
To be born
To a ship that
fails
The sails.
I am sitting on this
Cloy toilet bowl,
a mirage of all that's wrong
Ring wrought
Fought
rung wrong
Throughout me.
I've been living so long
Killing my song
Killing my dear
Sweet, sweet baby
Hiding demons behind flesh
An obsess
to hide the less
Only ever the best
The best, best,
Best, Best!!
And now I sit,
In porcelain stillness
A full release of the wild woman
woven deep in my bones and blood
Now I sit
Smothering myself
in the mud
I was born in.
Once too ashamed to accept the actuality
of this physical form.
Now I sit
In the silence after
The storm.
Miscarriages, miconceptions
Flopped contraceptions
Illusions, lost directions
Miscarriage means:
a foiled outcome
Of something planned,
Lost dreams,
So strongly bound
Into my bone.
Now I'm feeling
Alone.
They say you must be empty to be free...
Pulling the scattered pieces
Off of the wall
Reshaping after
The fall
Courage. Courage.Courage
COURAGE!!!!
Courageous heart
How I let you fall apart
I'm here
I'm now
I'm ready
to grow
Run free
run strong
And let blossom
The seeds
you sow.
--thank you--
.. sweet blood..
.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:21 AM UTC
In the crevice of conflation the planets watch,
In awe as the worlds collide
Each solar system fusing as one
To create a world unlike any other
Being pulled into a hole in the universe
Darker than the empty night sky
And the lack of stars
The constellations pulled apart
Like strings being snapped
When in an instant
It all stops
For a few mere seconds everything is calm
Until BAM
The self destruction of the colliding worlds
Was a beauty to be marvelled at
Each system seemed to explode
And paint the dreary sky
Creating an array of colors
Forming new strung stars,
Reshaping the old ones
And starting a new life for everything
That once was
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
In little coffeeshops
By the back corner, far from the exits
But near the little hall leading to the bathroom
At a time set by a large window
The poet, his soul filled with words and reasons to say them
But unsure how to convey them
Can observe the nerves and synapses
Converging in this single axis
The windowside throne, the great looking glass
Provides a view of every soul to pass
Through the door to the core of any good café
The front register
Where they serve the junkies
Their first no cream no sugar fix of the day
The register girl on this sunrise shift stands tall and wears
A pleasant smile
Like a suit of armor
For the fractures frayed and loosened pieces
Of her 65 hours a week between two jobs psyche
From his back corner vantage point
The poet sees this early morning warrior
And watches her adversaries approach
The sleep deprived and the caffeine dependent
The men in suits with leather briefcases
Hustling and bustling through self inflicted exhaustion
Work force revenants who begin to shamble through the door
Out of the early morning mists at about 5:30
just as the world is shrugging of the shroud of night
In his seat of power, the poet, lord of the room
Can see, despite the dim lights of the coffeeshop
These early birds, gaunt and hungry like vultures
Standing shoulder to shoulder with the last of the night owls
Shabby old things with ruffled feathers
Too tired to sleep or simply without a roost.
Their re rimmed eyes provide a window
Through which a sovereign of the word
May glance upon their tired souls
Yes from that lovely back corner
The poet is a king, a lord in noble regality
Reshaping reality
Sitting in the back of any coffee shop
In Phoenix Arizona
In America
In the world
In this whole great evergrowing span of universe
And turning people into words.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
Who's guttural laugh is this?
Who's voice with
No sorry's left?
Who is this animal
Who lays out their words
In mosaic rapture?
Sometimes shaking,
Reshaping, reshapened
Who's are these?
And these?
And these?
Bitten hands biting,
Who are they fighting?
Curiosity *********
Rage romancing
Who's face is this
Who's arms,
who's wide legs
of audacity spread?
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 9:30 PM UTC
you rise and fall like a symphony
(My silk screen diaphanous breeze)
I swim through your History,
(the coral reef of vivid crazy textured nonsense love)
saturated by the light refracted
into your marine metropolis
I coalesce into your voice
(melted butter creamed currant pastry)
and unfurl evenly.
(your solvent arms
propel my luck to fill every container
of your buoyant sounds)
you dance on my sidewalks like
Charlie Brown’s gang
(bobbing caricatured spreading smiley joke random)
you take my crinkling brow
and soften its creases
like newly pugged clay
Be my crutch,
my original thought,
my epiphany,
(reshaping nuance unforeseen renew reold aspiration),
my false laugh
(when I get hurt and love you too much to show it)
my recorded comfort
weaving precious merriment around my every gesture
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
~
*"...Though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil..."
-- Psalm 23:4*
This Achilles' heel
— die for yellow
the abruptness has come
sick shoddy steam engines
bellow
Big blue undone
don't bite the sun
seek out satin
adrift in the flatlines
of this soaring dystopian stockpile
just as the flaming Icarus
fell in exile
Unlock the nearest far
but lose a hand in the cookie jar
cockpit burn
— what new color
do we learn?
Promise me you'll live
beyond yellow
and on re-entry I'll play
the hedonistic fellow
falling from the summit
— Breaking atmo
with so great a speed
like it or not
I'll soon be eternally
freed
Starburst
and static talk
ionized trails
and blisters of aftershock
Remembering the capsule
under the tongue
remembering the break-up
under the sun
Sensing fascination
in an endless stretch of graveyard
Duke of the avant-garde
this abstraction is now
my calling card
We're at the threshold here
reshaping into debris
and I'm wondering
just so wondering
if you will ever find me
Aug 16, 2021
Aug 16, 2021 at 7:48 AM UTC
Wittled stuck One
to Coyote Dingus
wind talks money all day and night
from all directions
but am allowed only to listen
Emotional cocooning
addictive sweet synth sup
as ready as can be
Reshaping wounded amazons
Is no easy task.
Thank you.
Now please pull your head out
before we all starve to death
from this confusing lack of true love
a swan, perhaps?
no, a turtle, one of nine
i see
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
A decent man in this world alone
DrIfting, dreaming about going home
Disappeared years ago, down the road
Mental illness, carried heavy load
Wandering daily from town to state
A handyman for hunger to slate
This man in it's grip, the devils brew
Loveless traveler no goals, no clue
Well trodden shoes worn to a shred
Shabby garments hanging like lead
No coat, no bag, had nothing left
His numbed out mind wholly bereft
An upstanding man once clean shaven
Matted hair and beard, no offered haven
To hunger and thirst in this sad way
Calculated risk leaving that day
To acknowledge failure, too **** proud
Never to return he boldly vowed
His people and love, no mail, no call
Family wondering if he lives at all
Lifes loneliest soul, filled with self hate
Reshaping existence, now too late
Loved ones lost an incredible man
Need to pray and move on, if they can
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
You've got a pair of strong hips
That pull me in with muffled lies
I've got a pair of soft lips
That you lean into with tired sighs
You've got a pair of bright eyes
That adjust to mine too seamlessly
I've got a pair of dark eyes
That are lost inside your scenery
You always know just what to say
I fall apart a dozen times a day
We're just living in this dizzy game
Three years later, I still haven't
figured out how to play
You cracked my foundation every which way
But you're the one constantly reshaping the clay
I know that everything I touch is left in disarray
*But I won't sleep
if you don't stay*
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Breath count.
Doubled out.
Half pause and exhale.
Breathe full for more.
Closed eyelids.
Charged silence.
And then
A siren vibration chorus
opens up two contrasted locked doors,
and falls through my porous shapes.
Wash the old cell storage and erase
this byzantine conduit maze made
for losing myself to the grey man inside my skull.
Pull back my irises and behold
a reshaping of awareness.
I AM thisss awareness.
In bold language and expansion,
upward glances and dances
I made up from star dust ballerinas dancin.
So far away from being lost to the chances.
There are no chances.
Life was made not for you, but from you.
To pull through purpose
and choose to
keep
on
breathin.
Directing ITs glow.
Showing God how to flow.
How to sing praise and know
that nothing has been lost or is leavin.
Darkened waters, and quaking storms are weakened
in the silent, still, space that this pressence has seeped in.
Of, in, around, and through.
Creepin.
Sleepin until called to move.
We are always callin.
So true.
Yeah,
IT stays so true.
Whatever you put in, IT pulls to you.
So open up, let in this groove
or choose to lose all that ever meant something.
Was or ever will be hard to lose.
Just see the space and welcome IT in
the empty fullness from where you begin
and end up to begin again.
Recycled through spirals of your imagination.
Practical estimate of reincarnation;
a collective memory passed down through generations
of double helix information storage stations
jotting down every hoped for expression
of who you could possibly be.
And still the variations reach towards infinity.
So yeah this kinda is your one shot
to give this particular expression what you got.
God has just got TOO many incredibly beautiful ideas waiting to be expressed.
And they are all YOU.
So take a step back, it's okay to be impressed.
But even when its hard not to lose my breath to this glorious unfolding,
I still gotta get up,
get dressed,
and go to work in the morning.
I greet presence with every breath I take.
Or at least try to remember ITs name.
I'm still unfolding myself.
Still just pushing the sleep dust from the corners of my eyes.
But with you by my side
there is no one against me.
Only a lover constantly insisting
that the room is oh so cleverly crowded with secret undercover versions of myself.
Existing in and expressing The ONE LIFE that we all are.
Come to me my Love.
Let us begin.
Again.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
These lost years of loneliness and social depravity
Have left me with nothing except this written tragedy
I sat and watched as the walls of my life crumbled away
Into this contorted sensation twisting through dismay
These ceaseless rememberance sessions screaming inside
A dead fixed stare on old friends taking cyanide
These bonds have come together in such a swift motion
And, just as fast they've came to their abrubt destruction
Dispersing any tint of mutual belonging from view
Molding a sad landscape of sighs and failing virtue
Watching as the remnants of my relationships loiter
The catacombs of these stockpiled confession letters
If only I could say anything my empathy had to tell me
My skeletal pose might have perched upright in a higher degree
And I would of have grown to a more formidable size
A clear cut aspiration that I never came to realize
Until all that I held grew too big for me to carry
and left me to stumble and sleep at the cemetary
Scratching dead love songs on century old gravestones
Where the forgotten have slept for generations alone
Hoping the crude penmanship might grace a weary heart
Or help a looming ghost feel a taste of love and depart
From the fog filled graveyard parade that it dwells
A final ringing from the synapsis of the greif bells
Sparking the ruin of a memory that doesn't seem real
A fading echo of a brotherhood I wish I could still feel
Detached from a reality that lurks in a decrepit imagery
Reshaping my empty cognition through a fake neuro surgery
I've reached the point where I have no reason to find
A replacement for all these buried pictures astray in my mind
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC