"unformed" poems
How this **** fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black
Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,
Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back
For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:
Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak
For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make
A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'
Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window of your eye
This ****** on her rack:
She, ripe and unplucked, 's
Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe
Now, dour-faced, her fingers
Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly
Askew, she'll ache and wake
Though doomsday bud. Neglect's
Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop:
Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy
Till irony's bough break.
8.6k
For the first time in his life,
he was speechless
not a word to say
A thought unformed,
a bell not rang
silently staring,
mouth agape
at the woman who made him think
in different ways
For the first time in her life,
she was speechless
to the woman who told her
she was beautiful
in so many different ways
she was speechless to the friends she had made
unable to formulate words,
chatterbox broken,
a record skipping
Like any other time in his life,
he was speechless,
not a word to say,
unforced words to people he'd never known
to people who don't care
until he's online,
with his fair share.
Like any other time in her life,
she was speechless,
but no,
not on paper,
her words flowed like a rushing river
but only on paper
to be unseen but to her.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
a gift for Aladdin Aures H
from his 3rd follower...
<>><<>
the inescapable need,
unformed firmament
inquiring; am I capable?
the impulse palpable,
the urge to urgent,
to gorge and disgorge?
instead of morning prayers,
precomposed and ordered,
morning poem plucked from
morning fog, gusted breezes,
early-on, newborn sun rays,
progeny of disheveled skies
words fused, in irregular sizes,
senses censured by drowsy eyes,
but the chest beating arrhythmia
means bursts of free verses
superimposed on reluctant eyelids,
jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed
and the first poem of the day,
emerges from the intersection
of mind, pale dreams, and the
first is special till the neu morrow,
when fresh bursts explode inward
to windward, and the first is just
yesterday's mesh of hash,
once formidable, now last,
pinned, yellowing, purely a
**descendant of the recent,
but always, ancient past*^
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
when I dream I dream in the colors
of the being yet unformed
wide eyes shut
a pseudo-dormant parasite
feeding off of my mother, still.
I dream of oily ashes,
still staining the arms- ulna, radius
reaching towards the empty sky.
For what did they burn?
black on white.
shades of gray.
the man in the turban
stepping from my closet—
the bees swarming from his mouth.
Before my body was ten years old
I knew sadness—
it seeped into my soul
and I could not speak.
For what did I ache?
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 4:21 PM UTC
from the plains drawings of smudging hands
and the palms of warriors
whose caves glittered in symbolic otherlands
flowing into yesteryears with shifting tones
abstracting melodies awry
in the songs of language growing,
from the blood of worldly pains
and passionscapes of grounded glees
which surge in transtemporal veins,
to the gifting of a poem;
cosmic movements
ever novel
in the constant flux of fleshy presence
follow us in meaning—
every dot and cursive plane,
carries more than caligraphic feeling
beneath the graphing of our patient, formal, brainy gestures
(often blind to fools in Spring and better fates
of wholly kissing lovers over flower-oaths)
whose blindness in such sightly feeling,
graph so many moments black:
syntax, manner, unformed poems of wisdom’s grandeur;
stifled in the academic dust.
9:30 pm
above: praise gone awry. 12:52 pm
still, this universe expresses its possibility
through this minute verbia;
prolix trivia swinging by
the inquiries of existential mania
and the hope of solid, open value.
1:29 am
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe should and aught
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
enthroned above the kingdom of desire
hardly born... a chestnut of wane fire
stealing metronomes from garden gnomes
shunning the gimme
of asking for nothing.
your breaks mend
iris slivers sleep in dungarees
of dross and stale glass
sick lemurs. dancing in the Cherokee of sublime Dementia
dueling rhapsodies of function
utterly bereft
of form ....
unformed.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 11:44 PM UTC
These words, floating to the surface,
come from amongst an ocean of others.
Sleeping, ripening, unformed,
swimming in darkness, some rising
into green, translucent waters.
Titles, remembered images, voices
of loved ones, colours, scents,
secret moments never spoken aloud.
More, and more still, residing,
unseen, unheard, unknown
beneath this iceberg of words.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe, aught and should
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
My story is filled with blotted ink
from the tears that so freely fell
Ensnared behind my closed mouth
words form and then rebel
Hands bleed with the need to write
but the pen has long been dry
Sometimes I wonder if
it has always been a lie
Then what is this
that flows through my veins?
Forged from silver
held back by chains
I do not see blood
only unformed murmurs
Mere fragments of the thoughts
buried beneath the armor
And if you tore me open
all you will ever find
Is blank paper
torn pages
and ink run dry.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
It’s like crying in the rain
Being drowned out by the rest of the world’s woes.
A voice yearning to be heard
But can’t utter a single word . . . it’s too young.
Too young for a world so old.
Facing the brunt beginning of our future
We’re just the runts of the pack.
Aware of the all the deluded foolishness
Amidst this crazy circus
Trying to put a stop to the ruthlessness
And erase the selfishness
We only have a “futile” esophagus.
Old beliefs, but new fashion
Knowledge is dangerous to those who have it,
And all the youth who have it
Are shunned . . . because youthful thoughts are unformed views.
“Useful” thoughts come from a view
That is so high up and extremely corrupt
It makes the change seem distant.
And discouragement from the encouragement
Is the exact thing that’s sought.
Take a stand and make all the old beliefs rot
It’s time for the new fashion:
A youthful mind and fruitful esophagus.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
At the sacred heart
of the profane
Utterly forsaken
in the tranquility of exile
An Unformed prisoner
emanates...
Prowling dead space
and blue skies
As if
they were
the hearts of Men ~
At the center
Of the Unmade
A Leviathan sleeps
dreaming of
Truth.
Roaming the Confines
Of Paradise
Sequestered in the throng
Of our savage lives-
Witness to our Miracles !
This One
Strides
Through the Parthenon
Of our Ruin
A Rook amid our vapid fictions -
Savoring the daily wisdoms
That Delight
In our
Surprise.
At the naked heart
Of the cloaked Soul
Utterly untarnished,
by the ashes
Of our distant fires...
The Unexpected -
Dominates Reality
Immune to our convictions
The Banished One
Is Lord.
It takes no shape imagined
and remains
Beyond the nimbus
of our Theories.
Unadorned.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Unburden my heart
With soft words or hard
Unseen unformed words
Like clay in a jar
What can my soul spring
But fountains of dreams
From the depth of divine
What will my muse bring
Unburden my heart
And set my mined free
Untainted by memories
Of the hell I have seen...
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Sleeping in the palm of unformed,
time,
reading the almanac,
of the coldness of,
moon,
the first section is,
an achromatic afternoon,
the setting sun,
arranged the gloaming,
in the last line of,
a familiar paragraph,
the footprints,
awake at the end of,
the avenue,
the page turned,
stamped with deep,
soliloquy,
and it’s said that,
the illustrations on the cover,
are the unfinished snow of,
last year.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
About 4 years into the friendship, or whatever it had by that stage become, during a chat on our Internet **** preferences
over badly-filtered Americanos
in the UCD student cafe, I said to her
" I think I enjoyed our friendship more when we used to get coffee and just laugh for twenty minutes. "
And after a half second of unusual silence from her, those pools
of ever-renewing blue eyes of hers almost incisions
into my consciousness, I added" That was pretty unique."
And then I laughed unbound, and she almost shrugged
and definitely smirked as if to say "this is where I am now, it took some time for me to realise but it's where I've always been."
Unapologetic, as only she could seem to be.
And it was, like any tryst, fling or abandoned half-romance is, utterly unique. Half on the way
to becoming something we were going to hang on to and definitely regret
and half-stopped, sulking out of a puddle,
dead damp weight created by the differences we made ourselves
for the other to behold and dismantle.
The immediate was meant for us, first the attraction, then the disgust, then the despair, then the cursing off, then round to the intrigue all over again.
She remained the great question mark of my undergraduate years. Heartaches after her were equally demeaning, but far more easily explained.
You know you've found someone irreplaceable when they tell things you really shouldn't know,
things shoved up in boxes for years, things too unformed to be really caught sounding out, in the moments after your first kiss.
And every clever undergraduate will tell you how negative all connotations of "irreplaceable" are.
And yet these are the backhanded good graces,
the immeasurable gifts that memory serves
I wear this like a wound I can find wry mirth at the very sight of,
I have learned all this from her without her ever intending
These memories are indented in a music box with an imitation sacred heart all mine
distempered by the candid lines of a girl who never wanted religion, divulged somewhere in our seat of learning.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
I found myself creeping along the wallpaper
Jane intensly studying my movements from a rotting wooden bed
only the walls aren't peeling and stained and yellowish
but of the purest ivory instead
I felt as if I could breach some unformed truth
among the mountains and valleys of common architecture
and this would be an untold secret between she and I
as this truth is hidden from minds accompanying stricture
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
I know this woman well
from the curl of days
each day I write
a love letter to life
I strive to allow anything as
it is unfolds emerges
aliveness deadness blindness
foolishness fright ignite
the gloaming of thought
the expiration date for
the hade of dreams
I welcome every pain with a smile,
white hair and a glass of wine
this kind of love nested
in the voicelessness
of uncanny zoons
hues tunes lagoons
in the silence of soles
when you step so carrefully
not to disturb the unformed truths
pain love, neighbours
in the flow of synonyms
they taught myself to me -
the density of ribs
the depth of skin
the electricity of muscles
the tautology of heart
the logorrhea of thought
the temptation of beauty
moon is to blame
it hid its unforseen tales
inside the blueprints of
songs under the skin
Feb 13, 2023
Feb 13, 2023 at 5:57 PM UTC
Scream and shout, kick the ground, fall apart crying
I hate the world, it isn't fair, hold my heart from breaking
My life stretches way too far into a fog I can't see through
No one's fault you don't understand but you don't have a clue
Stop thinking stop thinking my mind keeps on racing
Not words it's all emotions like I just can't stop feeling
Endless accusations left unformed drive me insane
I'll be alright but this moment now all I think about is pain
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
I suffocate my brain with gin.
Again.
I'm seashores and tin.
I bend.
Proximity alert.
The priest becomes megaphone. Spilling my guts when the circuit breaks.
Privacy. Harmony.
Quickly decode the differences.
Hollow bones.
Betsow a vision.
I ask to receive.
I feel the answers.
Too light to break this Earth's atmosphere.
Too late.
Behold,my vision.
The infant sleep of Mother Earth.
A great extinction.
A man is born with grey in his heart.
His thoughts unformed.
A ridge of her leaking core.
A beach with sterilizing water.
Meeting and leaving.
A pool of molten glass.
A lake of cold translucent glass.
A rock to fracture the truth.
A crack forms.
A club is pulled from there.
Echo. Echo. Echo.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
lets release unnecessary tension
i am not surprised that you arrived here
we all reach this shore eventually
and we can only remain indefinitely
so come now we must speak freely
and release the ego’s defenses
now is a respite from mind
as life is blind
and fire is destructive
unless you learn to contain it
for then it transforms into radiant virtue
like a serpent and a vulture intertwined
a flame that never yields
i speak of a thousand rivers
who each have the power to heal you
let's swim naked in amazement and wonder
let's contain the cosmos in our smiles
let's adventure on the path of sacred warriors
and breathe beauty from our noses
slip slide along the coast line
life is like a zip line
and its fine if you smack into a cliffside
cause you'll get a brand new set of fingerprints
i am a complex sentence
i am an unformed question
you are the iris’ extension
you are bliss
you are lifting up my world
and i am peeking under your carpet
i swear i had lost my mind
but you found it reclining on the couch
i swore that there were no more secrets
and you revealed my insecurity
life is a queen
and in fragmented dreams
she keeps me clean as a star
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC
Fri Feb 10
8:12 AM
“As artists, we are exposed to a heavy level of scrutiny, mostly from ourselves,” adds Villarini-Velez. “At times we might be insecure when a choreographer asks us to do something that takes us away from our usual, classical vocabulary. I felt like some of my peers who aren’t exposed to this movement would feel insecure at times, but nonetheless, rise up to the challenge of exploring new levels of artistry. It’s easy to rely on our usual bag of tricks, but I enjoy the risks of detaching from what looks good and moving in a way that feels good. It’s our responsibility to rise to these challenges and expand our artistic horizons.”(1)
<>
guilty. as charged.
so, incorporating new words,
differing styles.
do what does not come naturally.
“detach from what looks good,
moving in a way that feels good”
make radicalization your ethos
make new-for-you your eponym.
give your name to what you create,
a mere signature insufficient, it is not part of the work!
taste the wet words upon tongue and lips,
let the saliva linkage be to the following morseling phrase,
the mouth sac moist be where verbal embryos are birthed.
hear them spoke in your voice, but,
silently, in your mind, and yet, speak-say them inside
with the shocking thunderous force of a newborn’s first cry.
and when you read them assembled,
weep with pleasure, relieved, this, your child,
looks exactly like no one, with but trace elemental traits of you.
but it is all yours, sinew and cell, fiber and skin,
drawn unformed, ejected from the intramural hollows of the body,
then and only then, mark them at last as truly
mine..
Mar 23, 2023
Mar 23, 2023 at 2:05 PM UTC
Words unformed stuck in her throat
Dry as a first communion host
She tried to push them past her lips
They slid back down
In a fevered putrid torrent
All the things she could not say
Trapped inside her mottled mouth
Beneath her swelling tongue
An angry cloud of hornets
Again again again they stung
All the words unspoken
An abscess ripe with pus
Throbbing in her throat
Every breath a battle
An emotional death rattle.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
My three year old daughter
Bubbling with laughter
Sang to me a sweet song
In a long ago summer.
Fresh washed and brushed blond hair,
A pair, of bright white shoes
With heel and unformed soul combined
To give this girl in new blue dress
And eagerness for lucid life
A twirling grace, that framed her
Face with swirling curls, which spoke
Of innocence to win the race
By perfect form and fortune born
Of a pure and guiltless mind.
Remind me; despite my tender care,
That this fair and loving child
Was an embryonic wild and wanton woman,
Whose finite measured days of fun
The sun disdainfully allowed to run;
Whilst guileless beauty, golden, turning,
Passed the infant hours of learning
Unaware that time had planned
A moving of the hour hand,
To end the promise
Of this fresh faced start
In pain the coming rain would surely bring,
Filling these growing years with knowing tears
To slowly stain this new and true blessed heart,
And force; this singer, and her long departed song,
A long; long way apart.
© James Rainsford 2010
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 2:09 AM UTC
I haven’t written for a while;
my mind seems dulled:
perhaps the dark days and nights of Winter
have suppressed my inspiration,
thrown my Muses back into the shadows
where they huddle and wait
for the light to return.
I haven’t written for a while;
those thoughts I have remain unformed,
a phrase here, a para-rhyme there
but, like my Muses,
prefer the shadows
cast by these short Winter days
and long, dark nights.
I haven’t written for a while
until today when I drew back the shades
and saw the Spring sun rising high in the sky
casting light and warmth;
my Muses joyfully returned from their dark place
and those disconnected thoughts joined with them
to write the words now forming on this page ...
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC