"transforming" poems
✴
*in the quiet of stillness
I can hear a snowflake
gently land
upon my cheek
a flurry of gossamer
frozen lace lilts ~
peacefully
transforming
the ennui
of chilling silence
into a wilderness symphony*
✴
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
*she dragged me out of the house
knowing i was feeling down
not allowing me to wallow
in my self pity,
she dressed me,
painted my face
fashioned my hair,
that’s my girl friend
at Juliana’s,
small family owned Italian restaurant,
a gem of a find, she said,
Lorenzo, greeted her with familiarity
(she leaves a memorable impression)
she introduced me as her bestie
with a twinkle in her eye
young (as all under 30 people are to me)
handsome, dark thick curly haired,
with dancing eyes,
a serving towel over his left arm
nodded with a genuine smile
i smiled back despite my mood
wine was swirled, smelled,
sampled and selected
a captivating performance,
executed expertly
she watched me
watching him
describe the specials
with a melodic Italian accent
transforming my mood
garlic knots wafting with his stride,
placed on the table
with a small bowl of marinara sauce
still hovering
in his long lean fingers
it slipped,
splattering red stain
on the pristine white cloth
without skipping a beat
his eyes poured into mine
words emerged
“forgive me, your beauty made me nervous”*
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC
WE ARE TRANSFORMING
MATERIALS BORN OF LIFE
INTO THINGS THAT CANNOT
SUSTAIN LIFE, CREATE LIFE
WE ARE TRANSFORMING
THE EARTH, INTO DEATH.
IT IS OBVIOUS,
AT THIS POINT
THAT MAN,
-HATES LIFE.
*"At least to all the other things living
whom have thought, -like mammals."*
Imagine that an alien race has come to Earth....
What would you, "fix," about it?
FIX?
..ate,
eh'
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
Your smile.
.
endlessly,
my heart searched
for a vibe on another
heart with which to
resonate and found none.
finding none, it wandered endlessly like
Infra-red rays seeking a
suitable tempo upon which
to strike an interference.
i wandered in search of a fertile
land in a heart upon
which to grow seeds of
love, my head burrowed
deep in a shell of
restlessness...
.
but on that fateful day,
too-good-to-be-true was
your smile--- it caused
my eyes to twitch,
borrowed a beat from my heart, transforming my
thoughts to an ode-- a
prelude to better days
.
i still see that smile,
lucid--- your lips opening
like windows of love,
revealing shiny white
louvres of beauty (teeth)
which opened to your
tongue-- a valley flowing
with sweetness as it
goes down your palate
like a parting curtain
welcoming love... then
you said "hi".
.
this friendship began with a smile,
it deepened with the " hi"
.
i have tapped from the
happiness let out from
the windows of your heart--
your smile..
my heart no longer wanders, in your smile,
it found rest
.
my greatest wish is
to make this smile mine
someday,
plant a kiss on your lips,
the happiness that
dwells in there becoming
a remedy to my malady.
.
.
Chukwudera Michael
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
Thank you for the memories,
The unexpected, sudden hits of nostalgia
Taking me back to carefree days
Of playing football after a summer rainstorm,
Of laughing in woodwork class,
Of my grandmother's awesome cakes.
Like time travel on the cheap,
You weather away the years,
And the strata of cynicism and regret,
Momentarily eroding my reality,
Revealing the manchild at my core,
Allowing him the briefest chance to once again explore.
But these are unpredictable reveries,
Three dimensional snatches of memories.
It's time they developed some kind of smell recorder,
Just like sights and sounds can be held for posterity.
But such technology would not compare to my physiological wonder;
Magically transforming scent into vivid memories.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
Change...
a word with a world within
With the power to transform
Visions into victories
Opportunities into accomplishments
Some fear it; some resist it
But not us
We are a breed apart
We challenge the limits of action
We dare to explore new dimensions
And transform tomorrow
With courage and absolute conviction
We DREAM fearlessly,
BELIEVE resolutely
And ACT decisively
And when the odds are against us
We even it out by transforming
all we have & becoming who we are.
BE THE CHANGE
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
superhero holding friendship
I admire, I spectate , I watch and learn and notes I take
On a thunderous beauty, on this breath taking sight
Quivering breath at a mountains height
Those close around I fear they might drown
Terrified of what’s making change
Terror stricken, I flip through pages
that would never be re-written, never changed
I’m waiting for struggle, for flailing arm
for loneliness , peoples pulling up guards
Fences that we build and view as our shields
Just a horrible thing ,that wont let me in
Misunderstanding transforming
Now it’s a black mask of confusion, dooming
I panic at thought spinning around
Head is to full ,I feel for the ground
Darkness threatening my light life
I gasp for friendship and understanding
Then you flew in with a quiet landing
Tiptoeing around you lift me off the damp dirt
Wiping the darkness of my clean world
A new view of refuge, I need and needed you
Just a boy with good intention
Transformed into a superhero holding friendship.
Together walking side by side
we sort through what’s wrong and right
We plan a way to save the drowning
Climb fences and break through walls
Tear down others guards
I walk a walk , no longer alone in the dark.
I have you.thank all that is good
We stand were I stood
I love you
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 5:36 PM UTC
To future conquering civilizations
in galaxies far far away . . .
don't worry about polluting the air,
our smokestacks have shot dirty-bombs
into the clouds for centuries,
mixing rain drops with the
black grime of industrialization,
transforming our children's tears
into cesspools of sulfuric acid and ddt.
We've also drained the bayous and swamps
and between you and me
don't even bother landing in Africa
there isn't suitable drinking water
for miles, you see.
You can thank years of colonization for that.
In fact, you may not want to land
on Mondays, Tuesdays, or Thursdays
in LA either-
on those days the air quality index
is 175 and far too unhealthy for any
biological organism to survive.
But at least you won't die of malnutrition
you've got decisions:
McDonald's or Burger King
choose
cholesterol and diabetes are your shock troops.
Send them in immediately,
there won't be much resistance
we've got these things call lazy boys
and daytime t.v which have
enslaved the population and decreased
the distance
between fully functioning
human beings and mindless apes.
Don't worry about bringing weapons
we've got those too
we've perfected the art of blowing each other away
there's not much for you to do.
we destroy cities with fire from the sky
and our mushroom clouds rise
at least ten miles high.
And god can't see, there's too much smoke
in his eyes
and our radiated children die
with radiated sighs.
While we are on the topic
don't worry about us spreading
propaganda
we've lost the ability to communicate.
We've learned
books turn a peculiar dark yellow
when lighted and burned.
And forget erasing history,
we've done that too.
Our subjugation of native peoples
is masked as 'patriotism'
under the red, white, and blue.
But don't get me wrong,
I tell you all
of this not to dissuade,
please come and attack,
please come and invade.
Here, I'll even turn
on the lights . . .
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
The sun sets on Ireland,
patchwork fields illuminated by the august light of
abiding memory.
Misty hues spilling
over the mountains,
glimpsed through a mist of tears
fighting not to be shed.
The last sunset
of a brief glimpse of manic happiness
and friendship
and love.
The fields flash by,
each one transforming into a rose-coloured memory,
and a tsunami of melancholy threatens to
knock me down.
Heavy sighs and
knowing looks and
held-back tears and
one last caress of your sun-kissed skin.
The sun sets on Ireland
And opens into a bright new tomorrow.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
Upon the cardamom hills, mountain goats,
ace acrobats, above the high rocks gaily prance,
I fell in love with the coy mountain mist, silvery dense
transforming each second, her wizardry in display,
her white cloak was spread above green tea gardens.
she sprung down in a hurry to meet me, excited
how soothing is her soft caresses, impassioned kiss
from the does she has learned a lot I can very well gather,
the fear and the flight to keep danger at arm's length,
purple sun, was curiously peeping down from the hills,
mountain mist pulling spicy cardamom scent around her
whispered to me, "Don't tell any one I am here
before cruel sun chases me out of the hills, let me
hide and play with the little ones of mountain goats
in the cardamom valley where he can never reach"
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012
A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.
We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.
Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.
The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.
Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.
The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.
I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.
This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.
When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
A Jersey girl came along
and I started to think about angles of yaw
needed to take flight,
how the force of a kick skirts
the delicate line between winning and losing.
I’ve seen it all before, but not like this. Besides, seeing
has nothing to do with believing.
Corneas can't capture the vibrations of molecules or excitations
of electrons. Champions defy biology,
overcome gravity and I believe what goes up
does not always come down.
I want to know the point where focus takes control
of epinephrine, who’s cascade is initiated by the roar of a crowd,
but negatively regulated by doubt,
when to take a long shot or build up slowly.
I want to live the difference between accuracy and precision,
taste the dirt, become painted with bruises and scorch my heart.
A flag is heaviest when you carry it,
lightest when it’s raised,
worn as a cape and allowed to wave in the wind.
Countries aren't build, they're created created
denying muscles oxygen but allowing them to taste gold.
It's ability to conduct electricity astounds me.
It’s not about alchemy
but transforming sweat into tears,
fixing nitrogen, reducing triglycerides.
Not all reactions need light, some create it.
It’s only over when there’s not enough energy for activation.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
*reciprocal bonds
from transforming reactions
interdependence*
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
Just Let It In
this
language,
the perplexity
of this language,
is damaging to me.
how can there possibly
exist such an impeccably
imposing combination of
words that still manage to destroy
a soul as wasted as mine? somehow
words discover these fine little cracks in
my wall, as thin as the head of a pin. words
are like water, rushing into whatever space they
can invade, occupying whatever volume they discover.
this water trickles through the fragmented spaces, traveling
all the way to my heart, transforming me in the way they seem to
alter us all. it is these words that i take with me. words reverberate in my mind,
disrupt me to my core, degrade me. your words are the ones i perpetually carry with me...
any...all of them. yours are the ones that elicit the simultaneous firing of every
single neuron in my brain. there is something about the magic of your words
flowing together...whispered into my ear. they move through me like
a stealthy, lone snake, undulating in a field, stalking its defenseless
prey; slowly...at first glance, not appearing to be a perilous threat
...then piercing me all at once with fierce strength and
determination, devouring me without appearing to
acknowledge that maybe i still...still want to be.
to be whole. and i do. my body craves
the sensation of being complete,
not torn apart by the nonsense
of your daunting words
disrupting my spirit
and making me
despise the
necessity
of language.
i wish i could
void your words
from my brain, but
my mind is helplessly
inconsistent; i can never
forget what i long to,
scarcely remember
what i must; and
my peculiar mind
*
certainly* will never
forget the sound
of your words,
just like water,
flooding me.
taking me
over.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC
T*he black ink pours in
The white page is pure gold
Wisdom seeps through
Transforming the lives
And the knowledge speaks
To the people in every fold*.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 3:16 AM UTC
The soliloquy of the night,
what we think as
falling stars and meteors,
make time and space immaterial
in the transmission of pain across light years.
Sitting here alone, a sentinel
to pain's interplanetary travel,
and witness of it transforming
in to other forms, eloquent,
I hear them when my eyes,
acquire a sense, primordial
receive the dark waves
of pain in my veins
a volcano palpitating to blow up
in to fireworks of emotions.
Everywhere eyes could travel, is filled
by night, thick, gooey, agglutinated;
then the meditative darkness,
dreams up a beam of gentle light,
out of its deep transcending yearning,
to speak to itself,to get an alchemy work on that pain
then, the pain itself becomes a haunting journey with words
this ,is how my love, my songs
in the midnight of my lonely soul, are born.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
In my backyard, the deep sauce
of sun-gold air swivels lazily,
stirred by the occasional bumblebee.
I’m entertained by the idea of anything beyond this.
No continents, no glitter-splashed ocean.
The softened world settles into itself,
transforming from its usual busyness.
Squash lounges in the garden and
preschool train operators maneuver Thomas
through his wooden kingdom.
They move trees and buildings around their set and we,
still fascinated with the cucumber in the garden,
don’t look up from skimming our fingers through grass,
changing our own soil kingdoms with the sweep of a hand.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
I dreamt this dream before I could speak it out loud,
Between the signifier and imperfect signified,
With all kinds of broken hours and promises never kept,
I tried transforming what was often said in the past.
This place would seem so real,
Made for me, trembling in the middle,
With small and growing earthquakes.
I wrote myself again—my little truths.
Looking for missing lines without wings,
Carrying stones inside my mind,
In tight, frayed bags from my beating heart,
without hope for a final insight.
Perhaps I just passed through the steam
Of a swirling, repetitive, chaotic dance,
Seeking tickets, carving an elusive imprint
With my mosaic in this human code.
Five minutes quietly slipped by.
My earned time vanished.
I had my moments going along the roadsides,
Avoiding the end of this poetic journey.
I stay wrapped in a heavy coat of suspicion.
I saw Moirés crafting another delusion.
I found a small reward in an addictive cliché,
To feel short relief from what I call my reality.
I remember what I did before,
Choosing every day not to cast a stone
Into the center of what I can’t grasp
With my breathing, human existence.
And this breath was enough.
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 2:04 PM UTC
I wish I could be a super-hero.
I wish I could be your super-hero.
But most of all I would want to be your Bee-Man.
Flying over continents and oceans,
over forests and gardens,
until I found you,
my Rose Queen,
my super-powers would detect
your pink petals
from far off.
Down I would fly,
drawn by the fragrance of you
to the exquisite beauty
of your blushing petals
silkily emerging from the heart of you,
unfolding for me,
welcoming me to your secret treasure.
Gently but firmly
my long, loving tongue would press
between those dew-moistened folds,
unable to resist the perfume
overcoming me.
Tugged in
by your intoxicating scent,
your nectar I would sup
until I could drink no more.
Then transforming
the sweet nectar
you had so willingly granted me,
I would create my rich, creamy honey,
especially for you,
so willingly penetrate
between your soft petals,
find your hidden depths,
and to repay you for the delight
your fragrant nectar had given me,
magically inject my honey,
into the essential heart of you,
until my store was empty,
and we could both feel
the most exquisite joy of all.
I hope that you dream of it as I do,
that you wish it also,
and that some day our dreams can come together.
And if you and I could come
together
in ecstasy,
it would be the most perfect fulfilment possible
of my desire.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
Spark Me
Match my flame
Be warned after we burn up I will remain
Scars tell stories unique the stain
Suffer in pleasure transforming pain
Create a new definition of touch
All fantasies we can discuss
Tickle imagination till you gush
Bell goes ding..Square off in ring
Emotional swing soar without wings
Sparked there's no limit to what I bring
Heart exploding in my chest
Intellect feel it stretch
Transcend beyond flesh
Endless battle to the next
Please Spark me!
Beware of Ego's fire
Lips..Toungue
Turn it up higher
Sparked
We become all desired..
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
*Though, should I
or have I begun?*
To feel the tussling
Of blurring bodies.
Transforming and dancing,
Through these very halls.
Where aching is thick,
and a embrace is a release.
*Should I begin?
How should I begin?*
Swallow the dagger,
stabbing from behind.
Let it sit deep in my stomach.
Push it further, where it can’t cut.
*Where will it end?
How will I begin?*
Under lock and key,
Just where I left it .
It escapes as it did just now,
conjuring a puncture to bone.
Blood flows,
Rushes out into the world.
*Is this a release?
How can I heal?*
Pouring out,
It tastes salty on the cheek
The color is dark,
cold to the touch.
Purging the night,
that stained blood black.
Sifting the chill,
of steel from bone.
Ringing out whats left of gore and fluid,
down the drain.
*I can begin now.
This is the end.*
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
My sympathy depleted
My friendships deleted
I have been defeated
By truths that hit so hard
I was decleated
By intense hatred deep-seeded
My history was repeated
I guess a three-armed mutant
Has no need for a right hand man
Until his leprosy riddled hands rot off
When he needs them the most
But his ***** limbs had been pretty useless for a while
Since he had lost feeling in them
He had to do a biopsy on his life
After the inaccurate results of the smear test
He took antibiotics to rid himself of the bacteria
But that didn't heal the nerve damage
He yearned for the rhetoric to be less inflammatory
So he took steroids
Transforming the ***** into an ogre
With no semblance of humanity
...Except for the people he devours
Their patience is delicious
He eats that first
Their pity is a delicacy
A rare treat
Their disgust tastes sour
But it's a feast
His cannibalism may seem callous
But the non-mutant lepers take Thalidomide
And get pregnant
Their kids come out defected
With an intense, deep-seeded hatred for three-armed mutants
And lepers and ogres look exactly the same
To those of another species
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 5:51 PM UTC
Once I met this girl
On my way to a desert of snow.
With a bucket and shovel in my hand,
A bit of chill on the spine,
I was trying to make a heap of snow
Then maybe a man of it.
She sat there for hours,
Watching me, smiling with fair cheeks,
While I saw her transforming bit by bit.
A carrot appeared on the nose,
Green scarf of a childhood winter
Cuddled her cold white neck,
And a fuzzy hat sat on her snow-head.
My baffled voice asked,
“How did you do that?”
Without opening her lips, she answered,
“Just dreaming bigger.”
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC