Quieter Poems | Examples

nitrogen hypoxia

they sit him down, strap the arms,
not the old chair, not the rope—
this is cleaner, scientific,
no blood, no sparks,
just the mask.

the lungs beg first,
pulling at nothing,
a vacuum of sky
swallowing itself.

the heart beats like a busted drum,
then quieter,
the eyes go wet, then far—
a man drowning on land
without water, without storm.

the state calls it mercy.
but death is still death,
and the body knows.

NIGHT WHISPERS

NIGHT WHISPERS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sun sets in the sky with a strong orange color similar to that of one of Aunt Maudie’s tangerine jellies. It remains visible above the horizon, overseeing the earth. Evening begins, a period marked by quieter thoughts and relaxation. I notice the arrival of the autumnal breeze, absorbing myself in the sounds of locusts and crickets and allowing nature to wash over me.
 
tangerine hues dance
in the sky, a fiery blaze
night whispers ‘hello’

MEANT TO BE

DARK EYES, FAIR GOLDEN HAIR,
I saw her shyly standing there.
Ignored by all around,
Bewildered by the disco’s sound.

LIKE ME, NOT OUR PLEASURE.
Quieter ways to spend our leisure.
Nervously caught her eye
And then got talking by and by.

CHAT DELIGHT, EACH FELT GOOD,
Exactly as I’d known we would.
Talked non-stop until late
And pencilled in another date.

JUST KNEW; LONG MARRIED NOW,
Always meant to be somehow.
Gold hair I saw that night,
Just as beautiful now it’s white.

A Triad of Tanka VI: Autumn Failing

A cracked, lone brown leaf

Spiralling quickly downwards

Knows only the ground;

But in that motion exalts 

As if a plunging falcon.
-------------------------------------

Fallen, wind-blown leaves

Huddling against grey kerbstones

In abject neglect.

Already parks quieter...

Their iron railings more stark.
-------------------------------------

The thick sap retreats

When gnarled bark tightens its grip

On inner heartwood;

Summer faded into nights...

Autumn, failing, covered all.

The missing posters that go missing

Streets littered with white paper sheets
Printed with the ink of black missing kids
Floating through the air desperate to find somebody who cares
Empty are the streets, just like their parents home
Awaiting the day they'll be reunited with their beloved children 

Authorities won't listen
Not one eye lid batted
They look the black parents in the eye feeling joy from their sadness 
And as cold as ice say their kids disappearance doesn't matter
They claim they've probably run away 
That attention is what they want 
So they won't feed into their kids 'temper tantrum'
Then to sprinkle salt into the wound 
They claim the town has been much quieter 
I didn't know that it was a crime for children to play
But then again when you're a black kid innocence doesn't really matter

Last week they stated BLACK LIVES MATTER 
Then again it would be naive to believe 
That a system built after slavery
Would care to 'serve and protect' black people
Maybe there is a reason to their indifference 
Their ability to lack sympathy
Maybe just maybe 
They're the reason the black kids went missing

Perfume

They spray perfume sometimes. 
It makes the screaming seem quieter. 
Everyone is reading a book or magazine. 
Until someone starts crying and bubbles of crying burst. 
They serve hot dogs, sometimes. 
I’m in the shower and it’s like I’m sitting down.
Eyes closed, chewing. 
Eating through memories. 
They wash the sheets if you ask them to. 
On laundry day, people are still restless. 
Because laundry means “trapped.”
Wash a shirt or pants and you’ll wear them in here. 
Until next week. 
They spray perfume sometimes. 
It’s not one I recognize. 
They’re trying to hurt me with a nice smell. 
Or maybe it’s the laundry detergent they use. 
They don’t really spray perfume. 
There’s no secret smell. 
There’s not much to do.

Growing Old

You’re only as old as you feel some say.
How will it feel on your eightieth birthday?

Everything’s quieter and harder to see.
Not everyone, just seems like it to me.

Portions are smaller as we sit and dine.
When we do drink it’s but one glass of wine.

No longer can we just turn on a dime.
And it gets harder to walk a straight line.

Your sleep is disruptive if it’s like mine.
Going to the bathroom time after time.

Get off your soap box, step onto my cloud.
Life is still better than wearing a shroud.

If you’ve reached your seventies as of late,
Thank your Creator for life can be great.

No timecards to punch, no bosses to please,
Life is to live as each moment you cease.

Extinct Eden

The skyline wheezes through gauze-thick breath,
its lungs ossified in scaffolded sighs,
where children etch constellations on smog,
and pigeons strut in soot-stained pride.

Dark as coal, and quieter than sleep,
the city dreams in monochrome,
its rivers choked with yesterday’s sins,
its gardens traded for silicone.
Traffic flows like veins in a dying beast,
pumping noise into the marrow of stillness.

We built this Eden out of exhaust
and liturgy of engines.
We now beg for the Adam's apple
to drop back down.

Genes And Aging

There is a hush inside the bone,
A silver thread the stars have known,
It winds within the blood’s slow stream
And carries time like drifting dream.

The lilacs bloom, then fade to dust,
The hands grow soft, then stiff with rust,
And all the while, the silent spark
Dims gently in the growing dark.

It is not sorrow, not regret,
But something deeper, quieter yet—
A lullaby the cells recite
To rock the soul from day to night.

The skin forgets the warmth of fire,
The lips lose hunger, heart desire,
And in the dusk, so faint and small,
The gene that sings—sings over all.

After a Writing Workshop About the Body

This is not my body.
Not the one that used to tell everything
to anyone—
I mean everything,
like I thought it might get me somewhere
closer to known.

I sat in a circle today,
some kind of writing thing—
you know the type.
Lots of deep breathing
and soft lighting.
Someone cried reading what they wrote
in the first eight minutes
and I—
well, I flinched.
Not because it wasn’t honest,
but because it was.

Too honest, maybe.
Or just familiar.

I used to be like that—
all exposure and no shape.
Just bleeding out
in lowercase.

And I caught myself thinking,
don’t do it—
as if I could save her
from what happens
when the adrenaline wears off
and all you’re left with
is the echo of your revelation.

But maybe she won’t feel that.
Maybe she’ll never know
what I mean.
And maybe I’m not better now—
just quieter.

Anyway.
This is not my body.
Not anymore.
But I still feel it sometimes,
rattling the old pipes.

Kundalini

They told me it coils, waiting—
some snake of light
at the root of all this flesh.
But what stirred in me
was quieter than myth.
Not fire, not ecstasy—
just a flicker behind the ribs
when I wasn’t asking
for anything at all.
It didn’t climb,
it drifted,
slow and unsure
like the memory of a song
you’re not sure you dreamed.
No chakras flared.
No visions came.
Only my breath paused—
and for a blink
I wasn’t sure it was mine.
I stood still in the hallway,
half-listening
for footsteps that never came.
Was that spirit?
Or just the mind
finding a shape
for its own ache?

I miss you-Still- Always

It’s been three years.?
And I can breathe again—
?most days.?
I smile without faking it,?
laugh without guilt.?
I’ve grown.?
I’ve lived.?
I’ve kept going.
But then,?a photo falls out of a drawer,
?or a song finds its way through the static,?
and suddenly I’m back—?
not broken,?
but bruised.?
Not drowning,
?but still feeling the weight?
of everything I can’t say to you.
It doesn’t hurt like it used to.?
It’s quieter now,?
softer somehow—?
but maybe that’s what grief becomes:?
a gentle ache?where the sharp edge used to be.
I miss you.?
Still.?
Always.?
But I’ve learned to carry that missing
?like a part of me—
?not a wound,?just a scar?
that reminds me?
you were here.?
And I was loved.

The Pride of Santa Monica, California

Robert Cabot Sherman, Jr. was an All-American boy.
To his parents, Robert Cabot Sr. and Juanita, he was their great joy.
Gifted with acting skills and a great voice, his career went far.
In no time at all, California's native son became a star.
On television in "Here Come the Brides", he played "Jeremy"
This role cemented his tremendous popularity.

His first recording of "Little Woman" soared up the charts.
Bobby won uncountable teenage girls' hearts.
His burgeoning popularity was totally unquestionable.
Other hits that followed made him a big teen idol.
With all the attention he was getting, there was some strife.
Bobby decided to back away to a quieter life.
Yes, Bobby certainly accomplished much in his day.
At the age of eighty-one, he silently passed away.

Bobby Sherman
(1943-2025)

I thank Wikipedia,org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.

Peter Periwinkle

“Peter Periwinkle had a car accident,”
my brother said,
as if reading it aloud 
from the back
of a cereal box.
It took me three full seconds
to realize
he meant our father.

We were on my grandma’s farm
where she had recently died,
leaving chickens scratching
unknowingly in the dust.
Our father was elsewhere—
broken, back bent like a paperclip,
drunk at the wheel
when the other car found him.

“Peter Periwinkle had a car accident.”
He'd meant it to be snide.
A small, spiny cartoon creature—
ridiculous, expendable—
the punchline in a story
where no one comes to help.
I didn’t laugh.
I just pictured a blue hedgehog
lying still at the edge
of some forgotten road.

I hear it now
in a different voice—
quieter, without the sneer.
Peter Periwinkle,
still small and lost,
still limping along the shoulder
of some long-forgotten highway.
I don’t excuse my brother
for laughing when he said it,
but he may have seen something
I was too young to name.

Watchtower

So we grow older it cannot be denied
and we grow to like this little life
this smaller, quieter style
less of this and none of that
and how does that suit you
with all your bits falling apart

Now look, there
on the outskirts
see the dust, rising
it's the future calling us in
our names are in its dirty mouth
our names are on its filthy list

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