Muffling Poems

Water Draws Near

Water Draws Near 

The rush of a wave in the ocean, the babble of a creek, the stillness in a pond and warm wet cords of relief in the shower, water draws near. It’s the Living Water that took me here today, to tell you all I wish I could have said back then.  To tell you how many of our moments I recall in the car, Kathryn with Catherine.  Treasures made of Gold.  As the water draws near rain frozen to snow thawed for in time of dew. It speaks to me in its muffling rushing way, in its silence in the still cool refreshment.  Water draws near my face, I think of you it washes over me when I swim, engulfing the entirety of my skin. There I stand as the spray hits my face in the wind, I can hear you calling. Much is my same voice, two we were but single as one in the Living Water.  As water draws near, I try to catch it in my hands but it pools and swirls, falling over the side’s dashes to the ground, me next in humble stance. I speak your name, you look back and wonderful water draws near I see you there floating on a cloud, water drawn around you, you smile and say my name back, I tilt my head back and there it is, the water draws near. 

Ernestine Dianetti 2022

Solitude, a friend 24-03-23

Solitude a reliable friend,
one that accompanies me
to the world's end.
He's quiet and shy,
hidden away from others
appearing only when I am alone,
in the depths of the night.

When I am left with just my thoughts,
it comes and finds me, to support
as i lay there on those silent evenings,
deep in contemplation.
He helps me clear my mind.

In his embrace I find my peace,
the time when I can truly relax and feel at ease.
By his side, there's no need to act,
no stress or need to impress,
or indeed put on a show of someone else,
no need to hide what is really me.

In his company,
I can be myself, be free,
without fear of any judgement or shame;
he's like a heavy warm blanket on a chilly winter day,
muffling the noise outside.

Solitude, the truest friend,
guiding me when the rough seas of the world see no end,
my brother in arms, as we enter
the vast arena that is the earth.
I am certain I will meet you again:
it's just a matter of time.

Alone is another word for sublime.

Steam and Stubborn Pages

To the boy who studied by the roadside resto’s dim flicker,  
muffling jeers with pages turned in stubborn hands—  
each “you’ll fail” dissolved into the steam  
of instant coffee, your only shield against the dark.  

They said your mind was a room with locked doors,  
but you wore down the keys with every sleepless night.  
The floor where you crouched to hide report cards  
now holds letters addressed to cities threaded with light.  

Your palms, cracked from scrubbing car windows clean,  
smooth invoices and keyboards, but still bear the stain  
of soap and sweat—quiet proof of the hours  
you traded for a future no one else could name.  

You don’t shout your wins. They hum in the calm  
of a rented flat where silence feels like peace.  
The child who clutched pencils like lifelines  
smiles, finally, at how far a stubborn heart can reach. 

-

Winter's Coming Kiss

A-rush
In a feather ruffling frenzy
cooling the flamboyant sunrise
muffling the warblers
with waffling winds

chilling the audience
in an ice-like stare
your shivery essence
ricochets through the canyon

startles the cliffs
bellows amid the echoes
of yesteryears challenge
stirs a red dust devil

they call you cold, December
for they are frail
and cannot bear the sting
of Winter’s hoary kiss

Fever Dream

In my fever dream, 
I’m united with you.
I sit by the wake
and grieve over something
that I could never
call my own.
Questions pound my head,
leaving me with dizzying thoughts,
muffling the screams of 
the demons in myself. 
Every breath I take
is haunted by your presence. 
Time goes on,
yet here I am,
by the grave grieving something,
I could never call my own.

Waiting Eyes

Wearing a veil
I revisit the past
Hiding from suitors
who hold to me fast

Muffling my words
as shadows befall
Their spirits indentured 
— old feelings recalled

(Deamsleep: July, 2024)

Penny Loafers

Penny loafers; muffling, shuffling, slipping, sliding symbols of a generation.
The rings of alarm clocks, sprints to an office, and evenings  in dance hall gyration.
Low, feminine shoes, a Post-War fad, that were prized for their disarming fabrication, 
And preferred instead of the high-top boots, worn by men during War's mobilization.

Slaves of the feet, piously worn, softly they entered the Church of the Reverent; 
Or briskly  moving on tired, leather soles down the long halls of the U.S.Government.
Hail! The shimmering, scintillating coins shining brightly with romantic sentiment.
Gaudy, nerdy pennny loafers. Comfy on the feet and ready for a compliment.

Clusters of Emptiness

Everywhere, clusters of clowns gathering about. 
Plotting behind painted smiles 
Dancing to the quickening of our demise.

They gather upon star spangled hill.
Behind giant mahogany desks.
Sharpening knives on middle class breasts.
The reddish howl of the globalist-echoing the fall.
Muffling the voices of we the feeble.
Hope bleeding out into the A hole of the Potomac.

Along the banks. clusters of pigs and clowns.
Green dripping from Saturn sized snouts.
Stomping their hooves- disrupting citizen heartbeats.

Everywhere you look. clusters of manic menace.
Void of substance.
Void of anything...really.

Held In Suspense

The morning fog obscures, ironic in a sense,
as water particles are likewise in suspense;
muffling all sound, they coalesce in self-defense,
uncertain of their fate when sunshine does commence.

—————

An Awit: 12a:12a:12a:12a

New Beginnings

I have forgotten how to feel; 
With each punch even more damage done;
The moments I should remember slowly fade; 
Defense mechanism for the ones 
who love too much; 
Possessing the heart of a champion
battle worn with emotional amnesia;

Emotions erupt with pain 
and become embers of an internal fire;
Gaping wounds delay my response; 
Muffling every instinct
numb to the warmth of sentiment;

Trying to give happiness
the benefit of the doubt
I enter the ring;
Beaten over and over 
barely making it out;  
Left bloody;
I have forgotten how to feel
breathing through the pain;
Still my champion’s heart beats;
Determined; 

Demanding I remember  
the giddy of happily ever after 
and the promise of new beginnings.

Moorland Ponies

There are wild horses in the heather;
their neighing follows the wake
of hewing wind-wraiths.
The ponies are hardy and stout, they go
in and out of the clouds, slip through
swale and dingle.

The moors are high. You don't feel the altitude
only the depth of the land. When the sky turns sullen
it tilts to smother the earth.
If the scything winds falter, the shallow sod
bogs into sumps and divots

Where trees cannot be, clouds spread
a muffling mizzle over gorse and grass,
a grazing tide carries a spume of chills.
The hills here are thigh deep, rills of dark water
loiter and seep.

The small ponies shake their matted manes,
mist-sprays pool in muddy hoofprints,
the warm brume of their snorts
leads you onward on a lonesome track
for they alone know the steps taken
to cross over each dim acres edge.

Travel with them to a gritstone ledge,
where the heath plunges dale deep,
there above the tall treetops
a bright sky will rise up to meet you.

A Mother Fades Goodbye

Sometime before I was old enough
to be this vessel of seawater reflections
          she began to dissolve.
Husband dead, son revolving
around one woman after another.

I did not notice
the ebb, how her eyes lost care
        or interest,
how her housecoat insulated her from
what she once loved in her slipshod way.

When she looked at me it was through a tunnel
she had dug for her mind,
her presence wrapped in muffling blankets
as if it were now
                        always too cold to surface.

I should have seen the signs,
seen the slow disappearance, the pale waning
        but by then I only visited
through the narrow gaps of my life.

I told her to join something,
do what other old people did...
        only now do I really know
what old people can do,

they recall and piece together,
reflect through a seawater haze
            those moments
when seams began to unravel,
falling quietly apart
                  before closed eyes.

Winter

His arrogance chills the room
muffling conversation
strutting
as he looks to see
who's looking.
His whiny tone
an endless wind
as his white tux
carpets the floor
in soulless silence.
His joy
an endless howl
of pressured wind
escaping
in a stinging sleet
of painful barbs.
His fear
the gentle warmth
of rising spirits.

12/13/2020

Winter Poetry Contest
sponsor - Emile Pinet

My Heart S C R E a M S

I can’t control the vision’s, racing in my mind
Uncontrollable memories
Escaping my eyes 
Deep sorrows racing, 
down from my eyes
Filling the puddles beneath my feat

Drifting away into the woods -
to S C R E A M
I lay swiftly on the wet forest floor 
Dirt beneath me, muffling my S C R E A M S
Rolling in agony - uncontrollably 
My heart S C R E A M S  
to be connected to her.......... 

In anguish from the silence of my lost soul
We were bound together -
To walk this path with hearts attached 
Connection to last - 
chemistry crafted out of a enticing brew, 
filled with passion

I am fully aware
My tears - drown me 
Silently devouring me
To my souls demise

Caesura

In lengthening slumberous reposes lies
Dickens' sterling pen under bluish skies; 
And through them gloats deathless sun,
Taunting all that under his embers burn. 

No more savoring of Oliver’s twisty trials
In doleful dints and extra-nuanced miles;
Nor shall of tested Nell all posterity hear,
Cooed in sweetly plaintive rhythms dear.

Nicholas Nickleby's adventures now 
Must halt and take a somnolent bow,
And leave us at Muse’s orphan gate,
Slow to hug our stark bereaving fate. 

Whence comes a defter pen to tell
Copperfield's youth and pupil spell,
By stingy virtue ridden through cry
And toil with dismal affection nigh?

Stung reader must content themselves
With ancient writs mute on dull shelves,
And with relish cherish and revive tales
Mid-voyage drowned by muffling gales.

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