Long Mutters Poems
Long Mutters Poems. Below are the most popular long Mutters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mutters poems by poem length and keyword.
Sky blacks out, cosmic hits hard,
hope stomped flat in the dirt.
Fate snaps like cheap thread—
a flare rips the night, desperate why.
They show up anyway. Scattered, pissed, half-broke.
Never a neat lineup.
Thor crashes down, thunder and beard,
Mjolnir howling, offended.
Lightning stitches dark; he growls old Norse
about shielding these fragile dirt-world hearts.
Iron Man’s late—repulsors blue through smoke.
Tony mutters, half-joke, half-prayer:
“Built the suit so it wouldn’t bury me first.”
Cap steps quiet, shield up, eyes steady.
Still hauling 1940s weight like it’s nothing.
Doesn’t preach. Just won’t let hope die today.
Hulk arrives without warning—ground shakes, screams.
Banner’s lost under green rage, hating what he is
but coming back anyway. Inside the roar,
a guy who just wanted to help.
Widow slips in like smoke—no glow, no speech.
Knives, lies, red ledger that won’t wash clean.
Hawkeye looses an arrow splitting wind.
No powers, just good eyes and bad temper—
wrong place, right time. Again.
Wanda twists chaos like smoke she can’t quit.
Reality whimpers under her fingers—
fragile, grieving, one bad thought flips everything.
Vision floats calm, crystal mind, patched heart.
Speaks probabilities. Nobody listens.
They just need him there.
Then it cracks. Messy. Shields clang, words cut deep.
Egos, stubbornness, old blood. They yell, scatter.
Some don’t come back right. Family’s like that—
bent, bruised, still breathing.
Sky tears wider. Worse crawls through.
One hoarse voice cuts static:
“Avengers… assemble.”
Not a cheer. A plea.
Gods, spies, monsters, machines, soldiers—
flawed, half-broken—drag back.
Not noble. Alternative just sucks more.
Power’s not hammer or glow or gamma veins.
It’s showing up bleeding, hating each other,
when hope’s a bad joke.
Old comics curl at edges, decades of ink,
arguments, second chances—they stand.
Not perfect. Not forever.
Just long enough.
Cosmos notices. Remembers the mess.
The stubborn, stupid, beautiful mess.
One must imagine Sisyphus’s
boulder, marble-sized these days
And Ozymandias’ plaque,
spinning despair into praise
Look on, ye hypocrites,
and sneer at my undoing
Your universe is a giant sandpit,
entropy accruing
Their legacies long crumbled,
eroded by rust
Gods built the wrong way,
on scaffolds of dust
Virtue or vice register
equally the same
Except between stars,
there’s space for one more grain
Down here, we clock in daily,
stack hours like prayer
Worship strong Wi-Fi,
evangelize on thin air
Imagine heavenly echoes,
because the silence isn’t fair
Some develop connection,
others a thousand-yard stare
Our Earth splits naturally,
along seismic lines
Greenwich claims centre stage,
only for the meantime
Sisyphus, still aching,
gets an epidural at last
But only in hindsight,
for his hump blocks the past
Redrawn are our own lines,
watchtowers in the sand
Sketching new borders,
carving up the promised land
Exhume ancient treasure,
and black, viscous stuff
Addicted to all things buried,
as if our dead weren’t enough
Still we write blindly,
tracing glyphs already faded
Helps lift the mood
when depressed and jaded
Gods stand on shaky ground,
myth holds them together
In schisms that bind billions,
then sever forever
Oh, look on—ye poet
Sisyphus now rolls his eyes
He’s seen the apps, wars,
hoodies, and cable ties
His hamster wheel’s a meme
for gods who merely try
Small wonder he mutters,
at least Ozymandias gets to die
And sometimes I pray to gods,
or maybe their ghosts
About versions of me
I’ve been missing the most
They don’t directly answer,
but do leave this guess
In the end, to keep on rolling
may be my passing success
By David Kavanagh
How could he!?
How could he betray me and the kingdom like this!?
How could everything he taught me be a lie!?
And so it has come to this.
I had hoped the rumors of treason were false,
But, alas, they were true.
Very well, I will stand in his way.
My duty is to protect this kingdom,
And that is what I will do.
He mutters a few words
And an attack flashes my way.
I mutter my own and repel it.
This could go on forever.
Even though I am younger by over a hundred years,
I am just as strong as he.
He always told me I was gifted,
Told me that I was blessed with untold power.
Well, now is the time to find out.
Even above our magic and mutterings I hear the battle outside.
I don’t have much time.
The longer he’s alive, the more the kingdom is destroyed.
There is only one way I know to destroy him.
But am I strong enough?
Am I strong enough to hold the spell?
I’m not afraid of death.
I’m only afraid of dying
If I don’t take him with me.
The time has come.
It is now or never.
God, help me succeed.
“Actus eritos inspiritus!”
As soon as the words leave my mouth,
I feel the power loosed.
I did not know I had so much.
Yellow flames burst from my hands.
He knows what I have done
And now tries to stop it.
Yet I am too powerful.
I have become what he has told me I was.
My potential is revealed.
The magic engulfs him
And he releases a scream.
The sound tears in to my soul.
I feel myself growing weak.
The yellow magic surrounding him has turned white,
And I can no longer see him.
All of a sudden,
My power is gone.
I can’t even stand.
I fall to my knees.
As blackness falls over me,
I see the light dissipate and die.
I do not know if I was successful.
I do not know when or if I will awake.
All I can do is hope.
I saw you last week by the river, right?
Oh, I couldn't say.
It was you alright. You were staring up at the sky. You were muttering about the clouds.
Yes, that was me. The clouds trouble me.
Oh, right. They say the end is near.
Sure, sure. Nothing but flat screens from here on out.
What on Earth are flat screens?
No, I said rat screams.
Oh, right. I hate rats. Gnaw at your feet. Pester the off-spring.
(mutters) These clouds will be the death of us...
Say what now?
I'm sorry. I tend to get a little melodramatic in the late afternoon.
I tend to get a little hungry. Especially these days, when everything seems to be dying
around me. I miss the live catch!
I suppose they'll learn from all the left-over bones...
Sorry, who will learn what?
They will learn what happened here.
And what do you think is happening, Cloud Gazer?
Not sure. But whatever it is, it's happening now. Look over there. IPad, by the way.
You...pad?
My name is Pat, I mean.
Oh. I'm Henry. Nice to meet you.
The feeling's mutual.
Where are you headed Pat?
Into history books most likely.
May I join you?
Don't think you have a choice.
We're all dying off, aren't we? Ever since that beam of light in the night's sky last
month, and now this thing with the clouds...we're done for, aren't we?
We had our run, Henry. Now it's time to lay down.
Okay, then. What a shame this all is. (sigh) I'm laying down. Alright, I'm down.
That's it, Henry.
Aren't you gonna lay down with me, Pat?
Naw, I just got up from a nap about an hour ago.
Well, what else is there to do if all we got left is to lay around and wait to die?
I was thinking about going rollerskating.
Really? Me too.
Probably too cloudy though.
Yeah, definitely.
Should probably rest some more.
Probably.
Goodnight, Henry.
Goodnight, Pat.
See ya in a drawing on Facebook.
What?
Nothing. Go to sleep.
Sleep I am going.
The feeling is mutual.
What can my lips say when thought falls silent?
Strings of disconnected thoughts run over my forehead,
Night gathers within me, it's later than I believe,
And each idea, a frailty, they are all strange and unexpected.
I confess, with the tremble of a leaf, my share of guilt,
Above me, the sky wears mourning, a saddened testimony,
When the path of life was opened to me, light from light,
From the cup of time I drank, the nectar, without tasting it all.
A voice shyly detaches itself from the fabric of the word,
To murmur poetry to me, an art both near and distant,
On the path of my fate, a procession of unfulfilled promises ensues,
Absent both the sharpness of pain and the soothing touch of joy, missed.
The night is a thread of magic until the premises of dawn make their way,
Time flows from dawn to dawn, it trickles subtly with a cruel smile,
All that we gather in time, in the order of life, slips away without care,
Departing without an owner, the treasures wander into the unknown.
In the ephemeral passage of existence, the voice of the echo dares not to rise,
It does not query why your heart throbs or why time mutters in vain.
Oh time, you hurry with the steps of the wind, counting the seconds of my life,
Leaving me with furrowed memories and years that carry autumn toward its setting.
In anticipation of an unfulfilled sleep, the altar of a new day opens,
A day that awakens with timid rays and kisses the pretending eyelids of night.
There still hang leaves of joy on branches, even on this mortal ground,
Let us raise from the walls born of pain, a monument to a love that never perishes.
Some love too little, some love too long,
some they answer the riddle but fail to move on
some laugh and others cry
when truest feelings have been denied
Some do the act with a show of tears,
surrendering everything showing their fears
And some without a sigh;
they just let their pride die
For some men kill the things they love,
power given from up above
Yet each man does deny.
power from heaven they devise
Some kill love when in their youth,
some kill with abuse
And some when they grow old;
in the end the scam unfolds
Some smother with the hand of greed,
turning away from the hand of need
Because of lust for gold;
the way of love had turned old
The evil use their tongue because,
of vengence to discover
It takes love where it’s cold
and evil thought it mutters
But men who kill the girl they love,
and claim a passion from heaven above
have a story to be heard;
lets not listen to one word
Some do it with a callous look
with a wisdom from the good book
Some with a bitter word;
and with some with passion never heard,
The tyrant does it with his fist,
and serial killer with his list
The weak man with a sword.
a genious that was bored
(A collaboration by Elizabeth Wesley and John H Loving III)
Form:
*Image of Accountability.
It's More Than "A" Habit
In an early eve, an errant truck parks neath the glow of a neon light that reads 'OPEN'.
A hefty man in his truck blows out a steady stream of cigarette smoke,
it drifts in puffed breaths that linger, while a family waits for an early eve of a mouth-watering meal indoors.
He opens the truck door and ere exiting he mutters,
"You know,
(as a crushed cigarette butt, douses in a truck ashtray),
that I had always planned to cut back."
While a truck door closes, a large man postures and takes a deep breath,
inhaling the crisp fresh evening air then exhaling it all-out, all the while he tugs at his already tight belt.
He pulls out another cigarette, lighting it while a family exits a truck door, and gathers in front of a smoking man, tugging at his pants.
Another interrupts saying, "Planning to cut back at what?"
"I ...,
(inhales then puffs out the smoke),
planned to cut back ...,
(inhales puffing smoke out again),
my habit of ...
too much ...
eating!"
A man nears a restaurant door,
tugging and puffing
away.
2022 March 01: Revised Date
2020 January 10: Original Date
*Originally written 'Not For Contest' Free Verse poem, titled, 'Habits'.
My souls mutters in the muteness;
"Is my melancholy more melancholic than yours?"
I gaze across a bridge,
wondering which stream flows to you,
as nobody understands how
in the definition of lament,
I am a piano without a pianist
and you a harp without strings.
My heart is a weeping willow
within a godforsaken garden.
As the last blossom decays,
the image of you is fading,
resembling fallen leaves on soggy ground.
I don't belong in this numbness,
nor know how to explain why
my voice is lost in the vastness
of valleys without endless echoes.
I've forgotten what I wanted to say,
attempting to escape this maze of sorrow -
yet your words reverberate without resistance.
Pondering if your spirit will guide
me from this uncertain terrain,
I'm distracted by the silent hum of grief.
It hurts like an eerie lullaby,
unable to soothe the stillness of your ghost.
As silhouettes disappear in the dimming light,
I protect a fragile flame in your remembrance,
before withered leaves fade into ash.
Hi dear friends, I’m back after a bad shingles attack and straight after that bronchitis verging on pneumonia.
Little Robin red breast bobbing up and down,
Would take away with glee, anybody’s frown
And friendly buzzing Mr Bumble bee delights,
Us one and all, he does not sting, it’s not his thing.
He visits flowers , red, yellow purple , pink and blue,
Which attract him, loves their pollen and alluring hue.
One day bumble bee and little robin decided to be human,
So prepared for tea and pancakes, without the gluten,
They saw Katy the caterpillar crawling on the lawn,
And invited her to join them, the following morn at dawn,
They all met for this fun occasion by the nearby river,
But an uninvited visitor arrived with shiny wings, such a diva.
A Hadeda elegant and loud of call thought she was an opera
Singer, had one thing on her mind, which was Katy Caterpillar,
She slowly walked on her stalk like legs towards this prickly
Little insect, wanting to swallow Katy who was so wiggly,
Down her gullet, but Robin red breast said no no, no,
And Bumble bee agreed and said, I think you ‘d better go
So with his wide spread wings the Hadeda flew away,
Leaving Bumble bee and little Robin to enjoy their day,
How wonderful was their idea for pancakes and tea.
Another visitor arrives, so famous, known to you and me,
Can you guess who.
He wears a top hat, mutters crazy sayings,
And carry’s a full tea pot , ‘do you want a cup of tea,
Oh dear, oh dear, my or me, he or she or maybe you.
He takes his watch out of his waist coat pocket and says,
‘I’m late, I’m late for a a very important date, no time to
Say hello goodbye I’m late I’m late I’m late’
‘It’s time for me to go,
Au revoir from your dizzy beau.’
It was the Mad Hatter, of course,
An Alice in Wonderland source.
What happened to Katy caterpillar, well fearing
For her life, Katy crawled under a nearby bush,
Did not intend to be a snack, or mealtime mush.
NB – THE WORDS UTTERED BY THE MAD HATTER – are both from the book Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll and some of my own.
HADEDA IBIS - referred to in South Africa as only Hadeda.
Heart racing, his mind struggles
This is now, not then.
Whispers of childhood
Haunt his every step.
This is now, not then.
Flashes of memory roll through his mind
As a gurney oft rolled him through these halls
Or halls just like these, he reminds himself
That was then, not now.
His chest tightened, he strains for each step
Awash in vintage anxiety
He focuses his thousand yard stare.
This is now.
That was then.
The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol
Nurses and surgeons in their scrubs induce
Childhood fear.
He acknowledges the fear
But keeps his eyes ahead.
God this is hard.
His head is swimming now
Nought but his sight
Keeps his balance.
The world is spinning
He can taste the aseptic air.
That was then, this is now.
And the fear remains.
Choking him, stabbing at him
Begging him to run, scream, cry…
Do something.
Again he mutters,
That was then, not now.
General Surgery… check in.
He walks in…
To the recovery room.
A wrong turn, and his knees nearly buckle before he catches himself.
His voice… no…
His father's voice
Sprouts from his throat
Asking directions.
He finds the reception office
Gives his information
Weight. Height. Blood pressure.
(That was then, this is now.)
The terror in his bones ignores the mantra.
He listens to the doctors, the nurses,
Unbelieving.
Walking in a day?
Full recovery in 6 weeks.
He's sure they said that forty years ago
To his parents
And the boy's wounds still haven't healed.