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Hg Aug 2018
wri
ting is
threading
your           life
thro             ugh
a ne           edle
and         if
you sew
secrets
you'll
get
po
ke
d
a
l
i
t
t
l
e
.
©Hg
Jayantee Khare Aug 2018

A fine play
of the
clay
soft
and sift
moistened
turns malleable
gathered and made
to spin on a slow wheel
formed with shaping hands
baked at a high temperature
comes out a beautiful craft
and both of 'em are ready
an urn from the pottery
and  the  poetry!!


Another shape poem......trying the analogy between poems and vases
Jayantee Khare Jul 2018
¿ ¿ ¿
¿ ¿ ¿
¿ ¿ ¿
¿.  ¿  ¿.  ¿
¿  ¿  ¿
a cup of poetic tea
now becomes ready
when emotions simmer
       on a flame dimmer  @
           with subtle swirls       @
            twirls and whirls         @
           added with words         @
          the aroma spreads        @
      strained out the waste  @
the perfect taste
and here it's ready
the poetry ...the tea!
Tried the shape poetry

soft
sweet
soothing
sumptuous
a comfort to offer
an attempt to pamper
a big scoop of ice cream
after a root canal procedure
not  to  subside
or else to hide
the pain but
to  forget it
for awhile
and / or
get the
smile
back
:)
A shape poetry after a long time
As I looked upon the
Whispers of the forming
Clouds.
So, shaped like a family of ducks
in their times.
Revealed to me the caspered calm and
Distinct instinct and ‘gifts’ to
Float, without prior education.
Towards the sky forests in
Ease and love.


(c) copyrighted
A poem about nature
Nathan Horkstrom Jan 2016
It calls me closer, its calls me near
"Just once and it'll be over"
Death whispers in my ear
Irresistible is its sweet entice
Staring down, which one to slice,
I observe my previous tries
My unseen hurt and earlier cries
No peace in my mind, no peace in my head
The quiet intelligent me, long since fled
Anger and rage consumes me
My minds demons bursting to be free
The walls of my cage finally cave
"Just be still, just be brave"
I slash down with an improvised knife
"Forget this world, forget my life"
Blood oozes and drips down the drain
A slight tingle but no real pain
A Calmness comes over me
My last attempt please, it's got to be
"***** everyone, that's made me into this"
The very same people who I'm going to miss
Tears stream down my cheek,
My head feels heavy, I get dizzy and legs go weak
Darkness surrounds me, I get a glimpse of the abyss
I embrace the darkness, then hear a shriek...

Then nothing.... Blankness, no sound
I feel my body drifting
I hear scraping, something's stirring around
Surrounding me, I can here creatures shifting
I hear a scream, I hear a moan
I want my family, I'm all alone
I hear cry, I hear a sob
And realize it's my own
I know I have sinned, still I pray to god
"Please get me out of this hell"
I start to yell...
No sound out my mouth, only in my mind
No one to help me, no one for me to find
I've never felt so scared....
My soul finally screamed and despaired
"I give up..."

A light???
My consciousness returns
As it starts to get bright
I feel myself falling
A faint faraway voice, I hear someone calling
Brighter now, getting brighter still
I feel myself escaping from this hell
Has it been months or has it been years?
Since I was stuck in that prison,
Trapped with my fears

I open my eyes, and look around
I'm lying in a bed in a hospital gown
The worried looks on their faces makes me ashamed
Sitting and staring no one makes a sound
"Sorry" is all I say...
Mother starts crying, my farther is sad
Finding me like that, must have been bad...
I get a kiss and a cuddle,
A pat from my father,
My minds in a muddle
I still manage a small smile,
And close my eyes for a while,
I promise myself, from this day on and till I die
I'm going to be the best person I can
Or at least try
Like a old cliché
"Live everyday like it's the last"
Forget all the bad days, I'm leaving them in the past
The sun is shining, my dark clouds have vanished
My demons have gone, finally banished
Life is good, life is great,
Forget wallowing in self pity
I tell you, straight.
Onoma Jun 20
though a circle dissolves--

never underestimate its

memory.

it is far more than the

shape of things.

how many oceans has

it married--tell me?

how many is it marrying,

will marry?

there does come a time

when you get centered

in it--with your greatest love.

to finally let go of the shape

of things.
Druzzayne Rika Jul 2018
Colours mixing with each other
there is a new colour born
a new shade
taking the new shape
blinding the landscape

spiralling out of control
not in hold
spilling its content
without intent
ripping over
and under
unclear
emptying till it disappears
it is gone now.
Eliseatlife May 13
You have shaped me into something
I never wanted to be

but that's okay,
I can't blame you
Roselyn Mar 19
─────────────────╔═══╗─────────────────
────────────────╔╝    it ­ ╚╗────────────────
────────────────╬  calls     ╬──────────────── ───────────────╬     to me╬───────────────
────────────────╬     this   ╬────────────────
────────────────╚╗   s    ╔╝────▐▀──────────
─────────────────╚╗i  ╔╝─────▐───────────­
──────────────────║x ║──────▐───────────
──────────────────║s ║─────██───────────
──────────────────║t ║──────────────────
──────────────────║r ║──────────────────
──────────────────║i ║──────────────────
──────────────────║n║──────────────────
─────­──────────╔══╝g╚══╗───────────────
─────────────╔═╝beauty.       ­╚═╗─────────────
────▐▀▀▀▌───╔╝            calluses      ╚╗──────­──────
────▐───▌───║    collide as i               ║────────────
────▐───▌───╚╗        fret                  ╔╝─────­───────
───██─▐█▌────╚╗     over this      ╔╝─────────────
──────────────║   tune               ║──────────────
─────────────╔╝        notes         ╚╗─────────────
────────────╔╝ are found              ╚╗────────────
───────────╔╝ fingers overlapping   ╚╗───────────
──────────╔╝           music unfolding    ╚╗─────▐▀───
──────────║          lyrics closing                 ║─────▐────
──────────║                         as this old       ║─────▐────
──────────╚╗              guitar goes          ╔╝────██────
───────────╚╗     back to                    ╔╝───────────
────────────╚═╗    rest      ­          ╔═╝────────────
──────────────╚═════════╝──────────────
i tried **** (doesn't work on mobile btw)
.               Having                                         L
         A glass heart                               A                         Y
     Is very good in theory:            E                                   O
  Pretty from the outside,       H                                          U
Filled up with hope the inside. 
But didn't they warn you?                                                    E
 That glass is hard and cold?                                               R
    That lonely dreams will fade?                                      O
        That "protecting yourself"                                     F
            Sometimes is the thing                                  E
               That hurts you most ?                             B
                   So before you build
                        Your heart of ice                     K
                             Never forget:                  A
                                 To be loved,            E
                                     You might       R
                                           Need     B
                                               To
What is the bridge between the worlds
Of matter and the mind?
That bridge is made with spoken words
Which contour and define

So if the wealth which I create
Depends on what I say
I will choose to enunciate
The strongest words today

With words I form and crystallize
And shape my world anew
With words I freshly realize
The work which I must do

Words are the bridge between the worlds
Of matter, thought, and will
I'm eager now to learn which words
Will all my dreams fulfill…!
This is Prosperity Poem 21 at ProsperityPoems.com  and you can see it displayed on a beautiful background here http://prosperitypoems.com/delivery21TheBridge.html
slay Jan 2018
1
brush my eyelashes out from yours
clasp the nape so not to wake you
purged my blackheads from your pores
i gently exfoliate you
my hair is growing from your head
your nails are shooting out my beds
i file and i shape you

arms and legs unhinged from mine
bares his weight so not to wake me
closed a loop with both our spines
said he wants to figure eight me
i feel his heartbeat in my chest,
and our skin blends with each caress
his presence mediates me
Nigdaw Jul 4
There are shadows along our city streets
That hold the shape of life,
They wander for the sake of going
Seeking our brightness out;
To cast themselves on our emotions
Sympathy and sorrow, a little guilt perhaps
That we carry our light into our homes,
Not to a bed of cardboard and rags
Where shadows can hide among shadows.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
Hadiy Syakir Oct 2017
Kudos to Kaepernick.

I just cannot drown all my beliefs and ideas, even if it contradicts my flesh and soul. When I heard that not standing up to the tune; that has always succeeded on sweeping all of the messes underneath the sad reality, to be deemed as subversive, I know that Rosa would definitely clench onto the seat tighter than ever.

Kneel, my friend, kneel.

To drag our body out there, all over the precious hills and fields, while acting as if the scale has always been set fairly beneath you all this time, will hurt you more than myself. How can a mere matter of things decide our future, our destiny? We shall shape our fate, you shall shape your own fate, and to be judged on the perception biasedly built in the name of order for thousands of years, is a situation that should not be endured by anyone or anything in a tiny dot within this vast universe.

Kneel, my friend, kneel.

And for that, I cannot stand proudly and profess my love to you as of now, even though I will always wear my heart on my sleeve for you to see. To be cheated, to be manipulated, to be deemed as surplus, by those at the tip of the plateau, that cunningly asked us to forget all the tangles and wrangles for the love of this sacred land, while unashamedly distribute everything off the land, off the ocean amongst them, is the last thing that we should allow to happen. I am one of those that can't simply put on the mask on top of our meant-to-be honest faces, to say hail to the thief is worse than the eternal grief. I have never dreamed of burying the hatchet with them, not even for a second and if I ever do it, I shall be condemned and dismissed for forgetting the roots, the fons et origo of mine. To love you does not mean to stand still to the soulless melodies, to love you doesn't mean to bow down to the meaningless piece of cloth that has overseen countless infiltration and bombing over the years.

Kneel, my friend, kneel.

To love you is to fight for the rights of many, by any means, even by not standing up. When black is no longer the symbol of miserable, filth and calamity, we shall then breath with ease, stand on our feet and fully embrace the real meaning behind all those majestic words.

Kudos to Kaepernick.
Carmen Jane Mar 4
.                                   You
                                 s   e   e
                              a mantaray
                   c l i m b i n g  up a tree
          I take a look and see a diamond
      shaped  shadow, casted by a street sign
implanted in the soil, that I   only  know for
a decade and a half. That's when I came here
  with   dreams  that    now     are    forgotten,
     but you succeed to remind me of them
        and your bright   smile   and    your    
               gleaming  eyes cast a light,   
                   a    s  p  o  t  l  i  g  h  t
              ­          on my forgotten
                              dreams
                           ­      and
                                   y
                                   o
                                   u
                                   r
                                   L
                                  O
                                  U
                                  D
                                   I
                                  a
                                  u
                                  g
                                  h                             t
                                  t                                  s  
                                  e                               u
                                  r                          d
causes a drift in t h e  air that    un
MY  F O  R  G  O T  T  E  N      DREAMS
This shape poetry started with another poem called Forgotten dreams
Although I had fun trying to create this image, I think the original poem has a better impact
ryn Mar 2015
I don't seek your permission...
To write about the what, why and how.
It could be a haiku or come in the shape of a cow.

I don't need your approval...
When I don't sound the least bit poetic...
In my mismatched metaphors or ill-rhymed acrostic.

I'm not asking for your blessing...
When I pen down and put up what I think...
Be it in cloying cliches or in tear drenched ink.

I don't crave for your understanding...
When my 10 word poems weren't filtered through your poetic lens,
Or if my contributions in collaborations lack in sense.

I don't hope for your likes...
If my content does not tickle your fancy,
Or if my words just rubs you silly.

I mean no disrespect...
But don't be too quick to click on the 'comment' button.
Private messaging has been put there for a reason.

I don't mean to cramp your style...*
You're entitled to your own opinions of course...
But if you've got nothing good to say, please save it and shove it up yours.
.
This is a peaceful community, almost sacred to many. All bearing a heart (hale or ailing) are welcome to spill their ink... Regardless of writing experience or poetic prowess.

Bear in mind that people write for various reasons. Some are really good at it, some are just barely starting. Some ask for feedback, some just want an outlet.

So... Be nice. Use the private messaging feature if you really need to offload your thoughts on another's text offering.

Respect and be respected.
.
CK Baker Mar 2017
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore

the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect

children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn

the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge

harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light

cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
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