Long Mutes Poems
Long Mutes Poems. Below are the most popular long Mutes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mutes poems by poem length and keyword.
She wasn't a learned woman per se or so I was told,
by the air that surrounded her late in the eve as she talked away;
Its as if she plucked it from the time belt of knowledge,
Nostradamus style, I would say:
Sometimes she addressed Kings & Queens, other times paupers and cats
she wrote like she tasted her words, rolled them around on her tongue,
but other times she blew them through you like wind, sifting through a kite.
Scattered reckless like a hungry seagull, carving a morsel only to die for her trade.
She was water going round a solid rock always turning,
rearranging herself to please everyone and no one.
She suffered no fools except for the man who placed his palms around her,
shaping her like a piece of wet clay.
Playing nice in a world of pipers and mutes, she was a diamond in the rough;
He once told her there was a woman called Helen who made millions,
hosting a show on the tele, she didn't even have a high school degree.
He knew the scattered wild garden she tilled, yes she was a beautiful mess,
one that reminded him of a he, of long ago.
She was a woman with big words and small, who wrote for animals,
humans, aliens, Neanderthals, scientists, priests, and flowers.
She was both the flame and the match, always ready to strike.
Written by: Beautiful Mystic Rose
POETS
Desert dust before the rain hampered our walk
on the Oregon floor
boards creaked with late afternoon lore
Dry gin in a glass waiting
it wanted to bubble like champagne
but there was nothing to babble about
A rake for an unworked farm
listened for fractals
Tesla said he was not available
today
Ears with a mop of white hair
detective with his magnifying glass
he thought of making love to a
young African maiden
she came for the cheese and drinks
not the poetry
he changed his mind
in case she wanted his property too
A thick skinned peach arrives
nourishing seed
sugar salt and cinnamon sticks
she was not about to offer anybody lifts
To hell with this poetry thing
I want to be rich oozed from her brain stem
Wooden baton
rich gravied marrow
gurgled a verse through throttled container
One-eyed pond
there were mosquitoes to be uncovered
or a tadpole or two
Maybe
the mud was sufficiently thin
Such strange creatures, these poets
Gingerbread woman
hot from the oven
offering the sanctity of materiality
she appeased our hunger
with a jaunty hat
What do I think, the ego asked the ego
No thoughts arrived
What do you think, the ego asked Soul
I do not think
I feel oceanic passion
as the rain mutes the dust
beneath the poets’ feet
©GhairoDanielsPoetry2017
Be still and absorb the sound
of serene tranquility.
A silence so loud, it's never heard on the glisten of the sea, or the spectrum of the rainbow, so quiet that light escapes to travel just to hear its colors.
The magnificent wind drifts. Sometimes forever until it catches itself, flowing through the weeps of a Willow only to hear the chaotic whispers harmoniusly falling one by one on the wings of doves.
The visions of this Cathedral silence enlightens the sweetest of mutes. Colorful and silent. They see in awe the beauty of serenity.
So quiet that an orchestra builds in numbers.
Carefully draped across a the waves of a faint breeze a sparkle of silk leads to a design only an artist could weave.
Very delicate. And a wonderous sight to behold this magnificent gallery was designed in the silence of the night.
Where landscapes come alive and the painter of light finds true inspiration. And whilst the world closes and lovers , love in silent
The writer and poet, that sits on high, can smile in silence.
“Hyacintho Caelum”
salvus me
per poetica
Hyacintho Caelum
advenit
sicut turbo
in pluvia
red life reigns
poetry awakens
opening
gifts again
a gain
Life
mysterious
calls us all forward
metronome time
constantly calling
the call
it never changes
the poets’ Majesty
pleasure through
the wrecking balls
dropping white and
black dogs barking pain
blue sky arrives
through inner worlds
ownership -
their belief in faith
messages
in the crazy minds
all turning keys
treasure notes
delivered
and passed
like naughty kids
in class, romantic
black sheep
waving white flags
and all the recalcitrant
revolutionaries
marching metronomes
marking wild rides
through storms
in search of some
golden purpose
down rabbit holes following
their shining diamonds
tears of mutes imparting
stars shining their way
they seem like magi
searching for some better
more beautiful
destiny
dark night
becomes day, eventually
some not blind, find losers
leading the way
red roses,
sacred hearts
deep, some
bitter and dark
turning inwards
then outwards
now becoming bees
pollinating the blooming
of all the others
lost then found
poets
and their stories
parked, for sedentary
ghosts to read
ignite new sparks
blessed
through soft and harsh
sentences
in the prisons
of their mind
they are now
opening doors
like the Magi
protectively
holding forth
their Frankincense
and Myrrh
wisdom for fools
now wise men
is eventually found
in an unrecognised world
birthing pearls
placed reverently
on electric walls of worship
lights glowing ultra violet
are ignited by something other
to lead the way
Winter watches sky
arriving on clouds
Christmas melts all
like a Summer heatwave
hearts to bloom again
we have read
what others wrote
poems and verses
in their ancient tomes
their scrying books
before us they
were searching
for their purpose
written with love
through joy and pain
gifts and lessons
through
one true word
our destiny
now begins
LOVE
always
wins
awakening
awakenings
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
Christmas, 2021
The Poets
When accidental
auroras stroll along
the pale highlights of
camouflaging corpses
and death blossoms
in vulturous hearts of
dreadful puppets,
she always holds
pixie dusts of
strawberry seeds within
october's obsidian quartz.
Gaze beyond those
glass-stitched horizons,
as she cracks the
carmine cocoon of
judgemental juxtapositions
and transforms
carbon-coated
milliseconds to
magenta-gold
pronunciation of
peaceful phrases.
She is a silken
cream-dove,
floating above
murky musings of
redolent rhinestone-
reveries.
As prismatic primroses
shall cleanse every
sin from the witching
spellbook, she will waltz
in whispering lulls of liberty,
emancipating from
chloroform-stained
chains of blood-
scented blames.
Her sunflower-shield
and aurous
summer-sword of
amber poesy
can slice spicy
silhouettes of
graphite goblins,
she will never
surrender to those
misinterpreting
megalomaniac minds,
who twirl along
masquerading rivulets
of manipulative
assumptions.
She is the shiniest roar
above grimoires of grief,
like an 'unassailable purity',
washing away
emerald exhales of pain,
who mutes each cosmic
raven's lament and
distils russet-white-lilies with
her alchemical aroma.
A thunderstorm passed over,
gun turrets flash.
gray hulls rumble and roll
above tumultuous clouds.
Evening commences to weep -
an aftermath,
a damp emotive capsizing
that barely touches upturned faces
yet it washes fright from brows.
As seafaring battles go
it was a skirmish,
flotillas of cruisers awash from
near misses;
they sailed away
leaving this whittling rain,
a backwash of electric jism,
the distant sound
of sailors shouting for rum.
Behind our eyes
deaf fish mouth deaf bubbles.
Sea legs are braced against
peripheral nerves.
Ozone spumes against inner ears.
The wake of the storm
mutes and tingles, damps down
as it slowly drips
into a salty bucket
of silence.
I know, I know.
For some of you people, it's hard.
You have no choice.
Your parents didn't teach you any better.
If at all.
If you had any parents to speak of.
And the crowd you run with is worse than you.
So, in conclusion...where would you go to know.
Where would you learn to grasp the courtesy, the decorum.
The bourgeois sense of civility somehow afforded to the rest of mankind.
You wouldn't.
You didn't.
And there you are.
Flapping.
Flapping that big-ass mouth of yours.
Into your spittle-loving smart phone.
Spewing and flailing.
Mewing and assailing.
With everyone within earshot (read: a thousand nautical miles) absorbing your golden renderings.
Renderings filled with more primal, guttural nonsense than a naked mute, set on fire, playing charades.
More monologue than dialogue.
A demagogue with a catalog.
And then you finish your call.
And start another.
More nonsense about someone else we don't give a **** about.
And then you finish.
You go silent.
There's hope for us.
When all of a sudden.
The earbuds go in.
And the singing begins.
In tune, then out.
(Insert meaningless rap dribble and delicious mcnuggets of profanity HERE)
I guess naked mutes like karaoke.
The train arrives.
We all depart.
There is a G-d.
(5/6/14)
A self-whispered battle cry
An uplifting quote for another try
With a burdened mind behind a straight face
I have a sense of self like I’m in a dark place
Inconspicuous at the battlefront
Drawn on every single day I confront
A past to escape and a future to nose
I am always one threat away from a lost cause
Regrets and fears dimension each day
Dead ends and blind curves map my way
Picking broken pieces of myself and mopping spills
I have learnt to front chills and thrills
You won’t see me rolling up sleeves
Or lurking in a thicket with rustling leaves
You won’t see me in a belligerent pose
My war is waged against inner wounds and flaws
I am heated but never bubble over with anger
I am insulted but never stumble over due to slander
I absorb the inevitability of sorrow and pain
I turn to verities to diffuse the intrusion of hate
The silence of violence is what I dread
Like the wordless cry of the mutes with a fright
An internal fray so isolated and unheard
In the depth of my heart is where I will win the quiet fight
See these tiny things
Filled with thought profound;
Cute miniatures spring
From creative grounds.
In a format small,
Craft miniature books;
Haiku moments call:
Browse and take a look.
One and a half inch,
The book height is short;
Words squeezed just to lynch
Warm poetry is wrought.
A sure design feeds
Steady hand-skill mints;
This collage craft seeds
Finesse that now tints.
A paper stock craft
Comes forth from ideas;
Design a rough draft,
Mental image steers.
Visuals now take shape,
With thought focus here;
Measure out or drape
What impulse sparks clear.
A tiny book page
Via plain prototype;
Step by step each stage
Styles wonder not hype.
Imagine the route
From a plain blank sheet:
Until success shouts
With product you meet.
This crafty craft fits
The collage art flow;
Poise flavours sure wit
To let tact now show.
Print the outline page,
Trim, cut and align;
Patience works each stage,
Keep eyes on design.
Arrange each page right,
Guide the lines of fold;
Set rule to guide sight,
Keep pulp sculpture bold.
Fold each page well,
Now back-to-back;
Frame by frame tells,
Allow some slack.
Press the stack stage,
Glide steel rule straight;
Sharp blade trims edge,
Both sides look great.
Fit hard cover,
Like a sandwich;
Forge maneuvers,
Paste each to each.
Surely and truly,
The book sculpture grows;
Practice works surely
When rough edges show.
And then, finally:
A tiny book sums
The effort nicely
With a fine outcome.
Mini book that forms
A miniature whole;
A focus sets norm
In dealing with soul.
So crafty craft shows
In body mass cute;
Feel a certain glow
In silence that mutes.
Little treasures here
In miniature books;
To spread ease and cheer
In satisfied looks.
Start again now
To make one more;
Watch skills endow
A fine rapport.
Leon Enriquez
12 December 2014
Singapore
Caress my weary soul
with threads of muted sound
meander through the meadow grass
ring from the barren branch of ancient time
shriek, shrill, trill with the murder of crows
or the jock-stepped lock of mocking bird
and native drummers, lick the wind~
extend the pointed poignant tip of tongue
to pursed lips and fleet fingers
Caress my weary soul
with threads of morning light
ray born effervescence of reed of dawn
reborn with each heart whose life is formed
trill through the caverns, the canyons of time
each depressed fingertip mutes
all…all that sublime~
Poet: D Guzzi
Instrument Flute