Long Muffled Poems
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Here we go,
We decided to go for a walk in the park
I remember it was summer so the evening isn’t dark
Now me misses is not small
Rather large, but not tall
So we have to walk slow
The sort of, take two steps have a breather, that kinda thing, you know
We eventually walk a good distance when she gasped “over there”
So with all me strength I help her as she slumped onto the chair
Now I’ve never felt sorry for anything in me life
But this was the first time, for the metal chair straining to support me wife
Next to me wife was a ninety year old gran with a pop eyed stare
She screamed before she fainted “that not fair”
I heard a muffled yelp come from below me wife’s butt
I cringed when I saw the dog leash and thought, me misses killed that old bags
mutt.
Running toward us was a 7 foot built like a Brick Sh-t house which made it worse
He had muscles on muscles, I thought “today I’m going home in a hearse
He picked me up by the neck and said “Look what your wife done”
I couldn’t speak and could only feel the life strangled from me which was not fun
“I’m sorry it was an accident,” me misses said so elegant
I just managed to say the first thing that came to mind “That… is… not my Elephant…
Well it took the fire brigade an hour to prize the mutt
From the chaffed tight squeaky cheeks of me wife’s butt
Now I don’t know what she had in her bag
But when it hit me mouth at break neck speed it left me jaw that sagged
So for six months I couldn't drink a beer
And to rebuild me mouth the dentist had to do it through me rear.
I lie here, naked and exposed, splayed out upon
an open plain, under the hot, African sun, still as stone
slowly decomposing. My life fluids have drained away.
I am a massive hulk of dried out skin and bones
my large trunk lies flaccid at my side, my great
ears are rotting at the edges. I smell of putrid waste.
Do I detect a presence in my midst? Do I hear a sudden
gasp? A muffled cry? Are your eyes widening, pupils
dilating in horror?
Do come and see my wretched state. For I was hunted for
pleasure, for mere sport, discarded like a worthless penny
shot down for the hell of it.
Why is man so careless? So callous? For we beasts are at
your mercy. You mourn for me today, but will you care
tomorrow?
I lie here, naked and exposed, splayed out upon
an open grave.
Written on 4/8/2016
Wishing a truer vision of self
expression that breaks the mold of concealment
to face the costs of starkly truthful
to restore confidence chipped, eroded
to drain a bog of self doubt reason
Resolved the splattered mess of sham posing ends
my muffled cry, "Do it now"
Kick start a rush that fills one's veins
voicing faith that needs unearthing
breaking fragments of hibernation
Something happens
we lose our way
tightly wound plans fray
Agitated self hits the pause button
pandemic lethal from variants brutal
Sign around my neck: "Do Not Disturb
Self Improvement on Hiatus"
Poem composed: January 29, 2021 (revised April 12th)
A girl who was scared to put up a fight
Was pushed away into the abyss of loneliness
She was drowning but nobody saw her struggle
On a cold night she slipped away in absence
People were busy fulfilling their own needs
But none heed to her crying voice
Sinking in deep, striving to come up
Muffled gurgles and silenced bubbles
Bleak minded people with bleak hearts
How could no one notice someone's struggling?
The water started to turn crimson
That's when the folk panicked
They rummaged for a body, not for a soul
They found her but she was lost forever
Thats how it is feels to be invisible
Note- last picture.
It's exactly what I'm going through. So its what I experience everyday
Usually it is twilight when I succumb to sleep.
Waking up in some indeterminate realm.
Sometimes favorable.
Other times, haunting and elusive.
The space I am in is familiar.
But there is also a feeling of hesitation.
As if something is about to swoop down.
Even though I am protected by the ceiling-
I still know there is danger above.
A few minutes pass of me lying down, frozen.
Until it starts feeling like my room again.
And I am starting to become suspicious of the outside world.
As if the birds chirping…
And the muffled voices…
Are fabrications.
Suddenly, this room feels welcoming in comparison.
I can close my eyes, and be both trapped and free.
This room is like a coffin that is about to be buried forever.
But the sunlight ruins the illusion.
So starts the day.
Written: October 12, 2025
Quote: "Having hope in the future is like planting a garden," By Poet.
**************
In the calyx of coma,
where terror slithered akin to boas in shade,
a cryptic slipper of mercy tiptoed—
artless, and aquiver,
a callow requiem for innocence.
Obsidian skies whispered their eulogy,
muffled by the harsh breath of dyspnea,
and yet—beneath the ebony loam,
a seed, embryonic,
shivered.
It did not shy away from agony,
nor reject the dark fate
lurking in the shadows of Lethe.
It rebounded—
clear as dawn,
passionate as a golden flame.
Hope transcends mere cliché.
It embodies alchemy—
a dynamic, endogenous force
ubiquitous, yet not ominous.
that navigates through desuetude
Dance around nonsense and detritus,
skirting the prolonged epitaphs
of imitation and the scent of rain.
It shows the archetype of meliorism.
not a golden aegis of katabatic chasm,
but the lush abundance of a rural demesne.
Our heron-filled pondering was slow.
Serenade in dirge to azure sky.
Optimism is not ridiculous.
It is emulous.
A multivocal lilt
in the labyrinthine lagniappe of sorrow.
It is the verdigris of acatalepsy—
the verdant veridicality.
It's a syllepsis amid agony and auric grace.
It is the pulchritudinous gasp,
of a sylphlike truth,
the gossamer wafture of a whispering genesis
in the ossuary of despair.
It is the slipper that fits no foot,
the slipper that fits every foot—
a slipper made of alabaster and stammer,
of aurora and archaic glamour,
of insouciance and invocation.
Hope slinks through the squalor,
svelte and sacred,
a nemesis to nemesis,
a vivacious vestige of Elysium
in the stygian Anthropocene.
It is the seed that knows
how to resile,
how to shimmer,
how to bloom
despite the slipper,
despite the boas,
despite the oblivion.
Once there was a girl who visited her grandmother on a long weekend. She was alone with the old woman and told, "Good girls listen and get delicious rewards." Her grandmother placed a fresh batch of doughnuts on the table. The sugary aroma danced inside her nose. She wanted to be good. She reached for a doughnut—the glazed promise melted in her mouth. It stayed within her teeth along with three cavities.
Upon the first bite, the kitchen warmed, like an oven heating up to bake a meat pie. There are two types of grandmothers in stories like these. The first kind of grandmother was the loving grandmother who cared for their grandchild and taught them a bit of magic. The second kind of grandmother is the monstrous grandmother who abused her grandchild and ate them when their tender flesh fell off the bone.
A girl like her hoped that if she followed the rules laid out, her grandmother would turn out to be a loving kind. The threat of being turned into a meat pie terrified her. She liked her flesh attached to bone and beneath skin. She couldn't help but side-eye her grandmother when the old woman prepared chicken for dinner. "Strip the bird of its skin in one go. It's painless that way."
Time was something the girl didn't have when she woke up in a hot room. The temperature rose, and she baked under a brown blanket. She wheezed and tried to loosen the bondage to escape the heat. Her grandmother's muffled voice slipped through the gaps in the metal door. "Sleep tight, dear, don't let the bad dream disturb you." She felt the sweat steam off her skin. She wiggled and escaped the stiff blanket. She scrambled to the door and burned her hands from shoving against it. The door cracked open, heat fled the oven, and she didn't see her grandmother.
Globalism dreams itself a hegemon, a giant upon a throne of glass, ephemeral,
And can only live through brief stints, sporadic in time and deed,
Through the harshest force of terror, its heart locked within shadow;
It silently prepares to rule through fear, for such is its path to ascend.
"Children of the world, unite!" is the cry, but it's a cry muffled by deeply implanted fears,
They hammer nails of "justice" into half-informed minds as into hard, thick wood,
To steal away the thought of self, to wring out reason to the last drop,
And to build within them a clean conscience for the dirty game they are doomed to play.
Crumbling on stage, this globalism cloaks words in noble masks of care and well-being,
But beneath them, the whisper of ancient chains lays upon the shoulders of the unsuspecting.
A world that rolls towards unity, yet breaks into pieces of ice and silence,
In their play, we become unsuspecting pawns, in a game that pawns its future for naught.
Truths were told, yet beatings continue
He knows but he won’t intervene
Cries are heard from the floors below
He hears the damage she causes
et he remains hidden behind mahogany doors
Our lips gasped for air, as her grip tightens
Whispered pleas of repentance from what,
we did not know.
Shadows dance behind doors
An entity lingered with hushed sighs.
TV muffled their screams, desensitized him of
there woes.
His porcelain dolls shedding scarlet tears.
Pillows hollowed out there screams of intense pain.
Through the looking glass, they lay blank stares,
and outstretched hands, reaching...but for who?
He did not intervene.
Strained eyes through keyless holes
Stifled sighs as he did nothing but
Eavesdrop
In clamor continuum
noise navigates
decibel waves
beyond discernment
numbed,
voice of frenzy
feels the caress
of hushed calmness,
halcyon sentiments
sink slow
in solvent serenity
unexpressed
in remote recess
of mute mind,
fluidity swamps
sonic impulse
insensate.
Corrosive cacophony
finally ceases
compelled,
the unsaid composes
sonata of silence
echoed,
finds nascent niche
tranquil,
strikes reticent concord
sensuous
in concerto cord
of harmony,
vivacious voice rises
serenades
lilting lyric
unsung
in sanctum of silence.
Strident storm
spite spent,
stops consumed
on catastrophe
contrived,
sheathed placid
by stalled silence,
spreads
where it finds
muffled manifestations
smothered,
beguiled spring breeze
incites
taciturn emotions,
floral feeling
sprouts fragrance
in sanctuary of silence.