Long Voiceless Poems
Long Voiceless Poems. Below are the most popular long Voiceless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Voiceless poems by poem length and keyword.
We’re not just poets.
We’re reality speakers.
We take raw truth and carve it into words the world can’t ignore.
Voice to the voiceless.
We amplify whispers into roars.
We speak for the silenced, the jailed, the forgotten,
and give their pain a microphone.
Educators without classrooms.
We teach with metaphors.
We teach history with heartbeats,
teach children their worth,
teach nations how to unlearn hate one verse at a time.
Storytellers.
We keep the fire lit.
We rescue yesterday from being deleted
and stitch it into tomorrow.
In our poems, ancestors speak.
In our poems, lost homes still stand.
History researchers.
We dig where textbooks fear to go.
We find truth in lullabies, in protest chants, in scars.
We archive joy. We document the war.
We make sure the future cannot lie about the past.
Healers.
We take shattered pieces and make art from them.
We name the grief so it shrinks.
We name the hope so it grows.
We sit in the 3am dark
and turn it into morning medicine.
Prophets without pulpits.
We see the cracks before they break.
We warn with beauty.
We call out injustice with rhythm.
We call in humanity with courage.
Warriors with pens.
We fight battles without weapons.
We dismantle lies, expose corruption,
and defend dignity with a single line.
Builders.
We build bridges with syllables.
Between rich and poor. Between languages. Between enemies.
One poem can make a stranger feel like home.
We start movements with a stanza.
We change minds with a metaphor.
We refuse to let the world go numb.
So to every poet with ink on their fingers,
typing at midnight, performing to 3 or 3000
Stand tall.
Your words are not extra.
Your voice is not loud.
It’s required
Because when laws fail,
when leaders lie,
when silence gets too heavy. Poetry is what keeps us human.
We’re not just poets.
We’re necessary.
We’re undeniable.
We’re the conscience of the world.
I was not in the mood for fishing
though i brought all the gear and
Settled into my comfortable mode
Of tranquil bliss by the edge of the pool
But you being the older wiser trout
Stirred the stillness of the pool
Your proud fin cutting the surface
Like a sharpened tool waning and listing
Your tail following as you flung yourself
Like a trapeze artist with an invisible swing
The tree branches hung low overhead
Like a circus tent and i with a front rose seats
Watched in awe and surprise
As if every fish scale glittering in the sun
Was a diamond and with your final splash
As you arched your torso and disappeared
Beneath the blanket of water I cried
Tears of joy of love tears of joy of loss
And tears of joy of being serenaded by
A voiceless wise old trout
Beauty-words languish in my soul, mute,
a million misty drops suspended,
trembling, in the atmosphere
not yet spoken into rain.
They lie captive within the barred cage,
innocent prisoners condemned
to voiceless wonder,
only an inaudible cry strikes the barred breast,
a silent beating against the cell.
We would speak;
We are pierced with beauty's burning sword!
We see the stars sweep trailing skirts in explosive splendor;
we warm ourselves beside the opal's captive fire;
we are the pearl forming within the darkened shell,
the silken crepe tightly wound around the worm,
the captive butterfly bound in insular cocoon.
Copyright, September 2, 2015
THE PEN, THE POET & THE POEM
Perfect picture painting a Poets palava,
And divisible dimensional dilemma:
Like a child surrounded by teddys & toys
To make a confusing costly choice;
Loose the pen & play the pipper,
Or choose between the pen & paper.
My pen I choose, though words reside in me,
The inks temporal ambition is to be
the being inside, on hand to always akin
to superfluity the universe blows in.
I'd write all my emotions all over my skin.
The Poem is the Poets next of kin,
No matter what you think,
in the world's ear his words will sink.
I am a bleeding poet with gush of ink,
words cascading from fountains of imaginations.
With no paper, I'd cloth myself with my muse.
Paint me a poet with a voiceless voice,
words would still speak than world's noise.
The Pen might be mightier than The Poet but then,
The Poet is the life and breath of The Pen.
Let The Pen breath to marinate The Poem.
Reserve a thought for these threesome at the helm.
I'm not just The Poet whose works lies on your shelf
but I am the emotions you feel, The Poem itself.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© February, 2021.
I am a broken-winged dove
Held in a soft, black bag
Tied round with a velvet noose.
Reasoning with my sensibilities
He seeks to assure me
All will be well
If I simply stop struggling
And allow him to feed me
Soft, warm food
From his caring hand.
I am a rudderless vessel
Adrift on a river
Filled with sharpened rocks of worry
Holding the anchor,
He fastens it calmly
‘Round the mainmast
Of my shredded sail
And speaks quietly
Of landlocked shipyards
And safe harbors.
I am a voiceless singer
Reading silent music
Written with pens of invisible ink.
Softly approaching
He closes the door
On my singing heart
And tears the score
Of unheard symphonies:
The music is gone;
It exists no more.
In this World....
In this world...
There are many deaf people walking around....
Deaf to the singing of the stars
Deaf to the voiceless words
Deaf to the whispers of the heart
Deaf to the plaintive moans
Deaf!
In this world....
There are many blind people walking around...
Blind to the kaleidoscope of rainbow colors
Blind to the graceful charm of a smile
Blind to the beauty of the soul
Blind to the twinkle in the eye
Blind!
In this world...
There are many dead people walking around...
Dead to desire
Dead to courage
Dead to self
Dead to the world
Dead to love
There are stone cold dead people walking around...
In this World!
( Nothing will be yours, no need to invoke your voiceless deity)
Many are the gods we can appease
with our lust, greed, and thievery;
there's one God who won't accept any or all of these:
let's invoke Him when faithfulness contests this falsity.
We are pathetic and unreliable humans
calling upon God whenever dark days
bring shadows to make us languish in agony,
in useless invocation to repair lost
amenities, not redeeming our guilt
with Him who can strengthen our weaknesses
and make of us the valorous soldiers
who pursue truth, faith, honor, and loyalty.
Human behavior is very bizarre and strange,
it seeks pleasure in banal things to avenge
absurd are the restrictions imposed upon us;
Satan is ready to attack us and bend our wills,
and should we obey him: he'll hand us all the riches,
all the pleasures except for the calamities that they cause...
why live under a satanic spell and not choose holiness?
Keep your body clean and make it a temple,
don't decorate it with tattoos and faces of horrifying creatures:
don't live life your way and drink bitter wine to a faceless muse.
Nothing will be yours, no need to invoke your voiceless deity:
no answer will be given, deafness was given to stones of man-made imagery;
they are at a standstill when a distraught soul questions their mystic theory:
use your shrewdness, it's a powerful tool to fight treachery.
You can be the voice for the voiceless
You can be the beating of a soundless drum
You can be the comfort for those in need
But deep down you know
You are you
In the quietness of a hurried day
In the moments of being on your own
Whose heart do you hear?
That echo
The contrite pulling in your chest
You can't breathe for your neighbour
You can't walk in your friend's shoes
You can walk a mile with them
You can even help them carry their load
But be conscious of your worth
Don't become a stranger to yourself
In your aim to assist
Don't lose your core
In your quest to do good
You have to go home at times
You have to look in the mirror at times
Be in love with you
You will add more value to life
In that way
©134702062016
An army in green
fields,
ever vigilant, ever
silent, ever still.
Their honor ever
their shields,
falter, they never
will.
They've fought their
fight,
served how and when
they were needed.
They've earned their
reprieve from the
harsh, glaring
light,
but their post,
after all this time,
they still haven't
ceded.
Stones, shaped to
stand and dressed in
white,
mark where they lie,
mute through the
years.
Not voiceless,
though, for there
are those who
remember their
fight;
when called on by
one such in need,
their steadfastness
appears.
Carrying on their
legacy, are those
who continue to add
to their venerated
ranks.
Some call them
soldiers, some fools
and some heroes;
some see the endless
marble formation and
give thanks.
Down the somber rows
reflective feet
tread,
seeking friends,
family, or simply to
respect those who
gave all.
Regardless of race,
gender, creed,
religion, or
homestead,
ever onward, kin
they are; ever
together they stand
tall.
Never forget why
they're in those
green fields; the
battlefields they
crossed,
the kin they left
behind, to grieve
and remember.
Regret young and old
gone too soon,
innocence and family
forever lost,
but don't begrudge
their sacrifice -
with our lives burns
their eternal ember.
Three faceless Misses
amble amidst vagarious March rains
under parasols / veiled in the anonymity of death/burial
Three / shifting between tangible lives
breathless bellies barely acclimated to first-life
Brown girls who were shadows before second death
Voiceless / ambassadors of disordered paradigms moved
past dangerous minds weaponizing skin/genitals/unlikeness
criminalizing the Creator who made all things well
Unnoticed whispers/ persistently noiseless as in their lifetime
holding umbrellas humbly against the falling judgments
of the colour-blinded masses - Why rains of sticks/stones/saliva
nooses to delete tar bodies
Yet hapless muses stumbled onto canvas
into dance/parlance
where they will become unabandoned
Savage Chronos buries memories in forgetting / turning them disremembered erased
Still / Three impossible princesses forge through moss
gray haze / dark puddles
swallowing uneasily their backbreaking grief over race relations
Daily / silently pissing peppers / hoisting parapluies
raiment raking wet roads
so saturated hems won't slap ankles
Three from carnal cages flew
haunting effigies rambling
seeking their paradise visions
Above Earth’s murky ways / umbrellas rise as masted ships
sailing the slender triumvirate to Elsewhere's ardent sun
cyan skies / immaculate time
when fretful flesh is shed / purified souls will travel in light
Three ancestral sisters became memory/myth/justice
bursting through Chronos’ forgetful fog
Lifeless / yet enduring / Three whispers:
“Justice will rain where it had condemned
the God of Creation is vengeful / He alone who’d seen us in a sightless world
humanity’s cheap lenses / unprofitable paradigms beg amends.”