Short Muting Poems

Released from
the inferno
Tongue of Satan
to betray
Saving words
from his fury
Muting the serpent
—today

(Dreamsleep: June, 2022)...

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Where one could see
In articulate
His love
In mystery of smile
In infant eyes
As in muting speak
In glance
of stars
In a pair of tweet
In branch of trees
In the passion stem
As a murmur of wakeup
To in buds- alive...

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Der Nebel haengt in der Luft

It hangs in the air
like a wet blanket
muting the mystery
as if you could
clouding the reality
with vague images
your eyes strain to
make sense of the terrain 
as you navigate your way
to fetch this mornings
mail....

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Haunted by whispering calls ~ a torn leaf lifts its soul to the sad sky

snowflakes streak gazes…
infant endeavours are made~
muting icy words 
slipping in the honest frost…
sorrow seeps upon spirits

grieving 
ebony eyes~
wrath simmers a cold soul, 
mind stranded in a cyclone haze…
anguish

 Forms of poetry; 1 - Monoku 
2-Tanka 3-Cinquain ...

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Mysterious fog, rolling over
the hills and valleys. hiding
secrets and muting sound.
Out of the white mantle
comes the song of a bird,
seeming to enjoy his cool
morning hideaway..
Go into this magic..hold
out your hand , feel the wet
and wander like a blind man.
It won't last, but while it does,
play with the witchcraft
that is fog.......



For the Mysterious contest....

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Deep down this tricky thick forest,
Every tree with fearful leaves,
Teaching fruits how to taste bitter,
Eager I am to quench all.

Roaming bees in search of skins,
Muting Joy, playing pains,
In it will I sleep and snore,
Not now will I give up.

Am determined to bind my mind
Tossed to and fro by life's swing,
Intoxicating fear,
Overcoming all.

Never! Never will I give up....

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Sometimes, the pernicious
is just desserts like alveoli
losing pink to a ciggy devil
Love - an enterprise astral
yields to blemish: mockery

Garish sentry sneers, reflecting
on a visage muting its boo-hoo
on a traverse still willed in woo
Silly teeter-totters with serious
editing tears that dampen a life…

(10/31/2020: Gibson HB, DMS)...

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acorns fall, unfold  
on tall pines 
everything feels bare  

(Autumn has a way of muting colors of summer then coating them with 
mulched earthly tones.  It all happens overnight, or so it seems.) 

strokes of paint 
on canvass of old  
Autumn shades  

(When Autumn arrives I ready for art by muting the colors with a  
dip of my brush. Imagination never lacks when Autumn is around)   

Oct 28, 2021...

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It must feel good to say at last 
The ceiling is shattered 
And the door is open 
It must feel good 
But I looking at the ceiling 
Think of icy rains 
Monitors on my feet instead of chains 
Weevils dancing in the hoarded grains 
And blind men wiping at dark blood stains 
It must feel good at last to belong 
To see your face on the totem pole 
Hear the world sing your song 
Muting the lyrics meaning about the cold...

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Mysterious fog, rolling over
the hills and valleys, hiding
secrets and muting sound.
Out of the white mantle
comes the song of a bird,
seeming to enjoy his cool
morning hideaway..
Go into this magic..hold
out your hand , feel the wet
and wander like a blind man.
It won't last, but while it does,
play with the witchcraft
that is fog.......

written 7/19/13
for Broken Wings' Honorable Mention contest
Barbara Gorelick...

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A red-streaked panorama graced Washington's dawn
   Clear lake-blue skies there all day long 
Portland smoke-gray, from tear gas and pepper spray
   Antifa showed its true colors on Inauguration Day

Not a hint of outrage from the government or the press
   It's alright if the fascists are left-wing, I guess
At the Inaugural Ball, attendees donned their prettiest dress
   Masks muting their 'concern' over the Oregonian mess...

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Behind the strong trunks of evening gloom
endless leaves sifting at toes
away and beyond in the low light fog
universal laws lead us home
trios of students examine life
inversely inspecting ideas and worms
fall lives adrift in the warmth
unkindled by muting life to death
leaven for life bread.

Fluttering winds, hair, friends
all swirled like a muffler taken to air
let us climb high toward heaven
let us swan dive into mulch with flair....

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Mama philo

It was a sole group
Devoid of the arts and signs
Of communal frenzy
A blazing flame
Without a raging crowd 
A lone pail 
clanging a soulless beat 
Amidst the sorrowful fest
Clinging and hugging 
With boneless shoulders 
Blinking tearfully 
Wiping rubbing hopelessly 
Muting her wish/
To calm this impasse
As she drift into bliss
Waking up with a shudder 
As she makes a recollect 
Why she now lay 
face to face with mama philo....

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That stunningly beautiful day
(though through smog, the light really was grey)
In the mythic town
Where you live like a clown
In my hand the page finally lay

It was my dream for more than eight years
And down my face streamed muting tears
Vindication at last
But the outside seems vast
Paper's too thin to quash all my fears

Yet on this bright day in may
I ignore the words no one will say
My work's finally done
It is time to have fun
And for my home I will always pray...

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Wanting Love Is Certain Madness,
Seductive, Selfish, Ensnaring Ones Heart.
Always Needs You, But Makes You Less,
Hungry, Wanting, Unwilling To Not Part.
 
One's Obsessive Love Makes You Crazy,
Enticing Mutiny of The Heart From The Mind.
Imagination Knows No Lazy,
Craving Gluttony For the Desires of Your Kind.
 
Wanting Love Is Certain Madness,
Now Crippling, Muting the Seductive Dreams.
Desires Hungry For Forwardness,
Never Realizing What the Heart So Deems....

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A
dying
scarlet sun,
bleeds upon pink
cotton candy clouds
clustering at Earth's edge,
as though tethered to the night.
Twilight starts unveiling the stars
now twinkling-like faceted diamonds
and moonbeams gild indigo waters gold.
Muting all but one lonely cricket's chirp,
silence imbues each shifting shadow
with a growing feeling of dread.
And a dark curtain descends
until silhouettes merge
and ebony starts
slowly filling
in every
single
nook....

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