Long Muffles Poems
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My friend came home to come inside.
Where he knew that warmth and love abide.
And he could sate his appetite.
And know that it will be alright.
He knew his human worried so.
Each time he said he had to go.
The back porch light would soon be on.
To know he shouldn't be too long gone.
The world can be so very scary.
When he goes out and dawn is nary.
And winter weathers on the front.
As he goes on his evening hunt.
I know it's just my neighborhood.
But things can happen, you know they could.
So each time that my friend comes home.
I hope that he'll no longer roam.
Since that one day when he came in.
I feel that he is now my kin.
So when he's gone I feel alone.
And wait to hear his crowing moan
That let's me know he needs to go.
Back out into the rain and snow.
You see he doesn't seem to mind.
He's truly just that sort and kind.
To keep him locked up in the house.
Just doesn't work as he starts to grouse.
And starts to call his feral friends.
In hopes imprisonment soon ends.
This isn't what I hoped would be.
The first time he seemed to like me.
As he just came right in the door.
To mark his spot and to explore.
I guess I'll just clean up his mess.
It's the best I can do, more or less.
Letting him out when weather's bad.
Is not an option, and just makes me sad.
So here we are together and warm.
Where grousing and rousing is now the norm.
But what else can a human do.
When one and one add's up to two?
Note: Muffles is my stray cat. If anyone can say a stray is there's. :/
NATURE’S DECAY AND REBIRTH
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours-waiting for rebirth." Constance La France
in October's harsh, brittle light
the once emerald leaf crinkles,
curls, and crumbles like burnt paper edges
descending to cold soil.
the creek forgets its silver song,
its throat choked thick with mud and reeds.
heron stands watching minnows turn to ghosts.
fungi blooms on damp logs.
then frost arrives with teeth of glass.
snow muffles doe's fallen carcass—
her ribcage a cathedral for ice and wind.
silence stays ‘til the thaw.
deep beneath steely, stubborn ground,
a seed split open by the cold
unfurls and drinks the melt of winter's tears
pushing through death's veneer.
soon, sap ascends the maple's spine.
new ferns explode in fractal line.
wet-nosed, wobbly fawn stumbles, blinking wide.
life wakes from the decay.
Eccedentesiast
Someone who hides pain behind a smile
Someone who laughs at jokes they don’t find funny
Just to see if the sound is still believable
Someone who muffles her sobs
because her mother is sleeping
Because she cannot bear the sight of her mother’s worried eyes on her yet again
Someone who puts on makeup
to hide her red rimmed eyes
To pretend she was worrying about her looks rather than her heart
Someone who loves smiley face stickers
because maybe that would make hers a little more real
maybe that would distract them from the fact that her smile was fading
that her composure was breaking
maybe the stickers could mend the cracks in her heart
I can’t do that
I don’t remember what it’s like to laugh
For I am too exhausted to move the useless muscles
My sobs are too loud to be muffled by my pillows
And I curse myself for the crease in my mother’s brows
For ache that is sure to settle in her chest
With mascara running down my cheeks
No makeup in the world could fix the ugliness that lies within me
The stickers are tearing along with my heart
The more I stick on the faker I feel
Who am I kidding?
I am not an eccedentesiast
I cannot hide my pain behind a smile
life is a guesthouse,
no one overstays their welcome.
As background music
slowly muffles into softer tones,
breaths struggle to appease.
Deep painful faint sighs,
fall like crumbling leaves -
I'm vulnerable like a naked tree.
Autumnal eyes gaze
towards my looming winter garden.
Heart is a paper bag of emotions,
now full of leftover crumbs -
where spring once merged with summer petals.
Mind is a vague collection of
recollections and reflections -
forgotten memories, unfulfilled promises,
words lost in silence.
Destiny tested with her games.
I am still a humble child,
with no care for winning, nor losing -
settling for her stalemate.
Regret is that untraveled path,
not following the signs - reluctant
to feast from the garden of her Eden -
pondering if it was worth the sin.
Now
so many watery eyes,
resonate like violin tears.
Brown, green and blue -
but I do not see hers.
Motionless with shivers and chills,
Lights are dimming, silence is manifesting.
In haziness, silhouettes appear,
as life begins to disappear -
I can barely hear the music.
Our life is a poem,
each beat of our hearts a drop of ink.
Some leave behind words,
some blank pages.
Simple Musing
Silent One
20 September 2020
October firmly sits
awaiting the imminent arrival
of Hallows Eve. It creeps
ever closer, and so too my ghosts.
Skeletons long packed away
play percussion solos with my coat hangers.
The closed door muffles its cacophony,
but soon others may notice the bus for freedom.
Pandora’s box has nothing on my closet!
Phantom images haunt my sleep.
Though once I worshiped you,
you never achieved sainthood
despite the ephemeral nature of your love.
Your corporeal tastes are definitely earthy,
even if we glimpsed Heaven.
Be gone, Damn Thoughts!
Drift away on the autumn zephyrs;
find another house to haunt
another marriage to taunt.
You are no longer welcome here.
The porch light is turned off;
the candy dish is empty.
Take your treats and
go trick someone else.
Join the parade of ghouls
trailing away down the street.
One more spectre won't be noticed
in the Halloween crowd, so
Take your memories, and
get the f**k out!
I love to see the previous order turning,
when the old leave all their property to youth:
it’s this, not buzz of bee or flowers returning,
that makes me feel the world has found its truth;
and if a man produces sons enough,
the chances are at least one will be tough;
and a younger loyalty in love or war
will make the heart and sword arm young once more.
A woman is old who sets no warrior yearning;
she’s old, if she keeps faithful to her spouse;
old, if she uses black and sorcerous learning,
or lets more than one lover in her house.
She’s old, if her hair’s a mess of ragged stuff,
or if she takes a lover who is rough.
She’s old, if she thinks that music is a chore,
and she’s old when all her talk becomes a bore.
Women are young, whose hearts remain discerning,
whose actions show the values they espouse,
who do not look with scorn on merit’s earning,
whose virtues are a light no scandals douse.
A woman is young, whose manner is not gruff,
yet gives impetuous youths a wise rebuff.
She’s young, if her figure’s nothing to ignore,
and she doesn’t pry and listen at every door.
I call a man young who’s passionate concerning
jousts and courts, considering thrift uncouth.
He’s young, when he thinks that money is for burning;
when, ruined, he smiles without a trace of ruth.
He’s young, when he stakes his fortune on a bluff,
and feels that no extravagance is enough.
He’s young, if he is skilled in lovers' lore,
and he’s young, if he judges risk what life is for.
Though a man be rich, I say that he’s old, if, spurning
pillage and war, he wastes away his youth
piling up bread and beef and wine, then turning
monkish, serves eggs, as if we'd nary a tooth.
He’s old, if he muffles himself in woven stuff,
and can’t command a horse and ride him rough.
He’s old, if he rests in peace when battles roar;
old, if he shirks the field and bars the door.
Poet Arnaut, go take this song of youth
and age to Richard, that he may feel its truth
and never wish to heap up worldly store,
since youthful daring enriches honor more.
— translated from the Provençal by Jon Corelis
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I've never heard the sweetest sound.
Until this little friend I found.
He calls his girlfriend through the window.
And now I've heard what he must know.
The sweetest sound a heart can make.
It starts out loud, walls almost shake.
Then he begins to call so sweet.
In hopes his and her hearts will meet.
So many different syllables.
A symphony of little yells.
That come straight from his little heart.
That melt your heart right from the start.
I've come to love this little boy.
Who's filled my heart and life with joy.
I never knew there was a sound.
As he can make, this friend I've found.
Note: my little friend is my stray grey cat I've taken in who I call Muffles.
This is for the, Your favorite animal contest of Gregory Paul
In the depths of the night, under a sky painted with stars,
Why do I write, you ask? Because my voice is a prisoner,
Chained behind a mask that muffles my cries,
Whenever I want to say something clearly,
I feel the world turns a deaf ear.
In weariness, I gaze at my pen,
A silent companion, a vessel for my soul,
I pour my feelings into ink once more,
Hoping that the words will find their way
Into the hearts of those who seek to understand.
When I hold the pen, my thoughts and emotions flow freely,
Like a river breaking a dam,
Captured on paper, each word a drop of my essence,
Where they find solace in the embrace of poetry.
The ink dances on the page,
Weaving stories of pain, joy, and longing,
Each line a whisper of my soul's deepest secrets,
A bridge between my silent heart and the outside world.
My voice, though muffled by the mask,
Finds its freedom in the written word,
A magic that transforms the intangible into the tangible,
A spell that binds my scattered thoughts into a coherent whole.
In this silent ritual, I find my peace,
In the act of writing, I reclaim my voice,
For in the realm of ink and paper,
My soul speaks without restraint,
And in the quiet of the night,
My words become a symphony of unspoken truths.
So I write, not just to be heard,
But to give my inner world a place to breathe,
A sanctuary where my emotions can unfold,
In the timeless dance of poetry,
Where each verse is a step towards understanding,
And each poem a journey into the heart of my existence.
An Ocean filled with children's tears
who's crashing waves muffles the cry s of a desperate mother
looking for salvation just beyond the seas horizon
Yet to far to save you Aylan as the world passes you by.
Just a headline on a throw away newspaper
A politicians conscience awakened just for a day.
Weep not at the picture, Weep for the cause.
All this destruction just for freedoms hope.
Or is it your imaginary friends greatness that drove you from your land
Oh weep little children. his god commands.
The 1st world plays golf and watch s the news
The poor and the desperate board a boat for a coffin shaped cruise
not for mere money but genuine hope
that somewhere over the horizon
there's a a land free from the bombing,
Free from the fear,
a land with hope
the picture of the little lad on that beach will stay with me comp entry 20022016
Aylan didn't make it to this utopian land.
Time to stop the slaughter and give a helping hand.
Trigger Warning:
This poem contains references to teen suicide and human trafficking.
Sometimes, life starts to go sideways,
completely goes astray
Without you even knowing it,
somehow ... life gets away
Don't throw a "Pity Party,
and Why Me?" refuse to say
Stop! Realize God sees your life and
8 billion others ... today!
Someone's marriage goes down the drain.
Someone's beloved pet dies.
Someone thought sweetheart was faithful,
painfully learned ... they lied.
Some child grieves when notified,
parents getting divorced.
Fear, uncertainty, and self-blame,
muffles ... each questioning voice.
Teens driven by desperation,
bullying stress, doubts, despair.
Find their escape in suicide,
convinced ... life isn't fair.
Abduction of children, adults,
trafficking of others.
Zero comfort and, wilting hope
police give ... Dads-Mothers.
Revelation 22:1,2
promise that helps me cope
Isaiah 25:8 God reveals,
"God's Purpose" ... my true hope.
Friends, life won't stop going sideways,
this world can't help you cope.
Jesus always turned to Jehovah,
"God of Comfort" ... and hope.
Tragedy of 9/11
horrific loss of lives.
God's Word gives true answer to,
"What happens ... when someone dies?"