"shapelessness" poems
Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability
imagine that
where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
children,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain
imagine that
the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be
imagine that
a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free
imagine that
and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed
imagine that
you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret
I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins
when
we imagine that
for this how new healthy cells are born
quiet-now, go, imagine-that, now*
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
Words drift, past the pages and recollection.
Some skip just above a stream of consciousness.
Others hurdle by, accelerating into shapelessness.
A fisherman of thought.
Praying the last of his bait,
feeds him, just another day.
As the days blend together,
and the current thrashes on,
hope is a face on the water.
He’s filled his belly with persistence,
but the need for creation lives on.
Cast the line.
Spin the rhyme.
Feast on the dreams of tomorrow.
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 6:19 PM UTC
The karvings of this awe-full fantasy amplifies,
the throbbing of my freezing heart.
The shapelessness of the kloud whispers,
wonderful mysteries in inaudible murmurs.
The blue-orange painted kanvas above.
The silhouette of the mountains that hide,
behind the undaunted smokes that forms.
The opening that the heavens made,
to show the earth its dazzling threshold.
Gradually.
Sensationally.
Approaching the land with unfathomable ardor.
Devout of the seamless tenuous night,
Gangas klangs echoes through the cold.
Lumps of land deprive the moment of silence,
as the people sing to the gods with reverence.
Heareth me, O goddess of the krops!
O god o'er all the mountains come see;
How gracefully she stood before me.
While the pyre gives emphasis to her figure.
*Kurves of the kreseant resembles her smile;
edges of her lips sink.
Beautiful exkavation mark on her left cheek,*
all in perfekt symmetry; perfektion in all she is.
"Saya Suka Awak" I told her.
that very moment:
Sparkling of the stars devoured our eyes.
Sweetest morose partings seeped in voiceless lullabies;
in unison with symphonic notes lulling unsaid goodbyes.
Through the last movement of vagueness the moment subsides.
For the love that profess fades,
with the chilly thin air it travels;
back to the heart of the other.
Oceans apart they were,
yet atop the mountains. . .
love blossomed.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
Shapelessness of Love
I am a logical person
I think in polygons and geometry
But you come around and the shapes fall apart
Into meaningless squiggles on a page.
There is nothing more beautiful than the shapelessness of love.
Sep 22, 2021
Sep 22, 2021 at 3:29 PM UTC
She doesn't start in the morning
like she used to,
and her gears are slipping.
Lost some of her pep
going down the street,
and is always going in for
something or other.
There's that clicking noise
whenever she takes off;
her chassis is sagging.
Leaves an inconvenient,
messy puddle
when she's parked for too long.
Maybe it's time.
Time to clean out
all her nooks and crannies
of the detritus
of years of family life,
and haul her off to the bone-yard.
Perhaps someday,
new life will come from
some old parts.
Until then,
let her sit and finish rusting
with all the other used-up
relics, loved once and forgotten,
compressed by time
into shapelessness
in rooms stinking of ***** and disinfectant.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
today destroyed my yesterday,
moment by moment,
forced to kiss the knife that cuts
I forever bleed regret.
the promised touch that never comes
the strangled heart struggles
the kiss never forgets,
as the knife never forgives.
a silent scream falls from my tired lips
as if underwater, breathless
enduring shapelessness
bowing to agony, defeat.
with all the wasted thoughts,
ripped from useless dreams
all that's left, all that's whole
bereft of hope, loss is all.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 5:14 PM UTC
The Forge
by Michael R. Burch
To at last be indestructible, a poem
must first glow, almost flammable, upon
a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone,
then bend this way and that, and slowly cool
at arm’s-length, something irreducible
drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool
of water so contrary just a hiss
escapes it—water instantly a mist.
It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness ...
And then the driven hammer falls and falls.
The horses ***** their ears in nearby stalls.
A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles.
A sound of ancient import, with the ring
of honest labor, sings of fashioning.
Published by The Chariton Review, The Eclectic Muse, Trinacria, Poetry Life & Times, and Famous Poets and Poems
NOTE: This is a sonnet about forging sonnets. The gray "anvil" is the human brain. The fiery "glow" is the poetic imagination. The cooling and shaping are the process of revision. The hammer is the poet's pen, producing order out of chaos. Keywords/Tags: Sonnet, poem, indestructible, irreducible, hammer, anvil, forge, labor, fashioning, shape, smithy, blacksmith, ironworker, sword, pen
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 10:51 PM UTC
Take heed, but do
not take hold...memory
is more than can be
remembered.
From personal, to
collective... by
disjunction it will be forgotten.
As if its shapelessness were a ripple,
touching on itself to be--
to remember...till it must
adhere to the loss of its round.
Truly, memory is more than
can be remembered,
minds are drawn out by lack
of distinction.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
Imprison the blaze
for unlearning
the ghost of our light
to bow down before
an interim simulacrum
of the sham.
You said,
that the colours are so hurting;
that this soundless shapelessness
comforts you.
I cannot extricate you.
Cannot unleash
from the unbreachable
for I learned that
this stasis is your only home.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 6:42 AM UTC
AN INBOX.
I watched our brief memories shatter before my face,
and wondered
About our inherent chaos and implicit shapelessness;
crying now
Before me. I meet grey scars in your heart-broken eyes,
cataracts,
Singing a siren’s song that drags me to drown with you-
I hate you
For bringing me back…my head had just broken through your waters…
I miss breathing…
...so, so much.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
2
Nothing begins
nothing in.
If no valley
is a multiplicity,
Pull nothing similar
away for a moment,
“moment” gives the shapelessness
of a scattering
of occupied beds
Or it’s elephants
in retreat from flesh.
1
You’re courageous
you aren’t afraid to hate
your father
while he still breathes
though you never –
who does “never” distort? –
didn’t detest him
So they’ll divide him right here?
You always renounce the vacancy’s lack of distinction.
But you don’t, he never arrives
from written surrenders.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
Got some plastic balloons today
The kind that reek of noxious fumes
And blew them into iridescent shapelessness with all my breath
Then obliterated them into a series of sticky messes
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC