Long Muted Poems
Long Muted Poems. Below are the most popular long Muted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Muted poems by poem length and keyword.
loose, lacy, white - a flowing blouse
the muse left clues in green-gray eyes
an outlier near the lighthouse-ocean
the seabreeze salty and windswept
foreshadowing of quill and paper
before she knew what to say
before the euphoria of surf
leapt up and touched her fingertips
before she learned to grasp
shadows and shapes, beyond the pale
moon and muted sun
dandelion seeds and towering
sunflowers kissed the blue sky
she’s a mere child, shy and unseen
seeded by the realm of poets
that came before her
the unknowns with journals
antique paper with vanishing ink
the poets with landscapes
that look out of their lighthouses
and see potential
perspicuity, peculiarity
themselves as a child
and open the window
let the little girl get a taste
of ebb and flow, pen and ink
Semblance veneer, a city's fear,
cadence for ears, all who are brave.
The rash of feet, like fleeing deer,
No rest until their souls are saved.
Canyons of steel and glass allow,
crossed windowed eyes that do not trust.
The same old story comes hollow
to the unconcerned, just like us.
Smack the facade, a headstrong plea,
from lack of yield on some cold ground.
For every crack, a fantasy,
and from each step, a hollow sound.
It's the snare of the promising,
the hit mode of the undeterred.
Not lacking the street-racked sounding,
by one, to be observed.
A thousand fearless and one bold fictions,
soles worn thin against the gray.
A pledge for their inclinations,
conquer another taxing day.
Bang the surface, a steady feat,
A benchmark of yearning we hold.
To gain a spot on this grand street,
Not to be measured with the old,
the failed, shattered, and the muted.
Who fell before they gained their goal?
We grow and push, we're not routed,
metro's our will, no claim, no hold.
Smash the dumb mask, a damnation,
It's evidence of what we face.
We tread ahead, we don't question,
Our nature molds a nonstop pace.
In this arcade, snakes slithered maze,
We find our meaning, find our grace.
Rest our weary bones on some chaise,
We're winning in this urban race.
Stalked digi-miles to cough out debt,
found in scruffy leather and frayed.
'Hail Mary' caused tears as they wept,
bills paid, I'm made whole, time for trade.
Form:
A single teardrop holds so much emotion
So much that it seems I am drowning in it.
Stealing my breath away, threatening to
Strangle the very life out of me.
These emotions I feel
Are raging deep inside my soul
Filling each teardrop with so much emotion
It is like a raging sea trapped inside of a raindrop.
Here I stand a midst the storm,
Each raindrop rolling down my face,
mingling with the saltiness of my own tears.
Unable to distinguish one from the other.
I am momentarily blinded by the flash and clap of lightening
I cry out for help but my screams are muted
by the deafening roar of the thunder that follows
The hurricane devastating the land around me
Seems to pale in comparison to fierceness and
severity of my inner storm.
But as with all storms
This dreadful hurricane that surrounds me
and the destructive typhoon
that rages within will also pass.
There is always a light at the end of the tunnel.
A rainbow at the end of the storm
There is always that small spark of hope that will
come rescue me from this devastation.
I will go on until the clouds become darkened and heavy
and can no longer hold onto the emotion
that is like a raging sea trapped inside a raindrop
A tear that will roll down my face
Only to be lost within the storm once more.
Perfumed earth abounds in the stir of autumn
While muted golden tones crackle with aging
Twisted, shedding branches coalesce in the touted mist
Mired in feathered, falling ocher leaves drift trailing
While muted golden tones crackle with aging
This cornucopia harvest bursts with robust fondness
Mired in feathered, falling ocher leaves drift trailing
Enriching our October path as a gift of abundance
This cornucopia harvest bursts with robust fondness
Twisted, shedding branches coalesce in the touted mist
Enriching our October path as a gift of abundance
Perfumed earth abounds in the stir of autumn
October 2, 2019
Poets October Pantoum Contest
Sponsored by William Kekaula
The vibrant colours of a Venice day
Are muted now, and drained to sombre grey,
As huddled shades of countless long past years,
Sharing their tears and ever constant fears,
Silent, intangible, diffused, now roam,
In tones of dank, primeval monochrome.
Sweet Melancholy breathes her mawkish air
As stony faces add their baleful stare,
Sightless, yet knowing well within their core
The days of pageant, and the grief, of yore.
These shifting nearly-souls of latter day
In sorrow, and against their will, they stay.
As pigeons bleakly view the scene below,
The church bells, softly stifled, peal, as though
In cotton wool. Canal sounds harmonise,
And gently rhythmic solace therein lies,
Easing the pain of those the city shuns,
Her unseen, phantom, long-forgotten sons.
As I get ready for work for the first time
after an overwhelming loss,
I see the sun rising and the dark
shifting to let the day emerge
The beauty is muted for me,
I see it, but I don't FEEL it,
the day ahead of me looms like
a obstacle that I have to scale
I dread being asked "How are you"
because if I answered honestly,
I would say "I'm functioning" or
"I'm AWFUL, how about you?"
However, I have fierce friends that
love and pray for me no matter what,
so if I fall on my face and don't make
it through the day, they won't care
But I love my job and respect the
people I work with, so I will put
one foot in front of the other and
do my best to survive this muted day
Disarmed
Bullets fall silent
against words
well chosen
Their caliber
muted
— the target on fire
(Villanova University: March, 2024)
Stuck In Gear
Motion
not an absolute
The world
is never still
Inertia
tries to write the law
Where stop and start
are nil
History
at the speed of light
Consensus
in the math
But standing
here
While stuck in gear
— the notion leaves me flat
(Villanova University: March, 2024)
Before The After
Don’t bog down
in research
Spontaneity
the thing
Truth
is most elusive
And joy
a passing Spring
In flashes
of an instant
What’s timeless
will appear
Thinking often
kills the goose
That lays
— both far and near
(Villanova University: March, 2024)
Deafening Silence
Things most often named
before understood
Then never renamed
for the bad or the good
‘Particles of light’
we now know as waves
But ad infinitum
their reference stays
A ‘Tablet of Paper’
consisting of sheets
Two ‘Bolts’ of lightning
fused Franklin’s belief
A ‘Softball’s’ still deadly
meant to careen
And ‘Deafening Silence’
— spurs wonder indeed
(Villanova University: March, 2024)
In verdant jungles thick with fate,
Where shadows danced at war’s cruel gate,
They marched, they soared, they held the line,
With courage fierce and hearts divine.
The call was sounded, duty’s plea,
To serve, to fight, to keep us free.
From distant homes to foreign lands,
They gripped their weapons with steadfast hands.
Through searing heat and monsoon’s wrath,
They carved a trail, a warrior’s path.
Each step, each breath, a sacrifice,
For freedom’s cause, they paid the price.
They bore the wounds of body and soul,
Yet pressed on fiercely toward the goal.
In trenches deep, on skies so high,
They faced the fear, the endless why.
And when the battle’s fire did cease,
And silence offered fleeting peace,
They came back home to muted cheers,
To haunted nights and unseen tears.
For some, the war would never end,
Its echoes trailing every bend.
For others, graves now mark the cost,
A tribute to the brave we lost.
O warriors, bold, unsung, yet proud,
Your deeds resound, a trumpet loud.
Though time may dim the battles fought,
Your grit, your valor, cannot be forgot.
To those who stood, who gave their all,
To answer our great nation’s call,
We honor you, both here and gone,
Your legacy, forever strong.
From jungle depths to freedom's shore,
Your bravery shines forevermore.
No one told me what to write.
No box to check, no borrowed light.
They just said: *You. Your words. Your way.*
And I paused. Then laughed. Then started to pray—
not to gods, but to the ache in my chest,
to the half-finished line I buried last fest,
to the poem I tore up for sounding too strange,
to the voice I muted to fit in their range.
I remember the years I wrote for applause,
trimming my wildness, filing my claws.
I wrote what they wanted. Polite. Small. Tame.
Every poem a whisper. Never a flame.
But something kept cracking the floor of that cage—
a rhythm, a rupture, a slow-building rage.
Not anger. Just truth that refused to stay down.
A need to be heard without wearing a crown.
So here I am, messy, loud, and slow,
not sure where I’m going, but willing to go.
I write about rain that tastes like goodbye,
about joy so sharp it makes me cry.
I write about silence my father kept,
about dreams I’ve kissed and never slept.
I write about shame like a coat I outgrew,
about people I loved who outgrew me too.
I write about the word *enough*—
how it hunted me, how it got rough,
how one day I stopped running its race
and found it already living in my face.
I write about mornings that taste like rust,
about learning to trust when trust felt unjust.
I write about the version of me who froze,
about the door she finally chose.
I don't know if they'll call it "best."
But this time, I refuse to second-guess.
I'm not sending a masterpiece carved from dread—
I'm sending the words from my own table instead.
The ones I scribbled in the dark.
The ones that left a visible mark.
The ones that made my hands shake.
The ones I stayed up too late to make.
Let the judges read. Let the world applaud.
I've already received the strangest reward:
the moment I stopped performing my worth,
I remembered why I came to earth.
Because being myself?
That's the whole damn theme.
The contest began when I stopped chasing esteem.
No trophy, no title, no numbered place
could match the relief of showing my face—
unfiltered, unpolished, uncaged, unkind
only to the lies I left behind.
So here it is. My offering. My flight.
Not perfect. But mine.
And finally light.
I’m already free.
I already wrote.
This poem already gave me back my throat.
The warm bed we keep is under siege this loving night
Ghostly shafts of the moon's light flicker to plunder my sleep
I stir with tender desire under diffused moonbeam's delight
Your warmth resides near to draw me closer to your cheek
In the darkened night I secretly kiss you tenderly
Your sleepy mystique with eyes closed lies profoundly deep
Under the lamp of the white-gold moon that renders my sight of thee
Your beauty appears, extolled as a sublime portrait while you sleep
Your breath so muted and low, your heart's sweet beating unfolds
Into the moonlight’s imparted glow that charms
Each line, every silhouette, disclosing your enchanted soul
Here as we lie as still as death sleeping in each other’s arms
Whilst the moon begets my love