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A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera slowly backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
patty m Nov 2018
Endless stars
guide me through night.
The older me
living on the streets
lies warm in a blanket of hope
alive in a dream

Bristling winds
blow disdain,
a discordant swirl bandies

In an expanse of tear-stained mind
truth well-seeded tries to grow,
the birds come closer now,
because I am still.
nja Jan 8
She’s highness, deaf but not muted.
Still dignified, past perfect, but still pushing.
Withering tea addict,
laughs at her own sophisticated and immature jokes.
Farts.
How the highness gracefully descend.

Relaxed, reclined,
hands placed still on abdomen, yet they’re itching.
Noisy breaths lift her sinking body,
till she’s plastered to the bed,
not quite motionless.
Can’t decline.
Sits up. Peering, active, but stunted.
This one's about my grandmother. She used to be this royal lady and she still is but with deteriorating hearing.
Shane Leigh Jul 4
There was something that I wanted to say,
but it was muted before I could utter the words.
Creeping, like vines, strangling a tree limb
it comes slowly,
over time,
unforgiving.

The bark cracks and falls to the ground,
flying acrobatics this way and that as the wind carries it,
gently it so lands.
Those are NOT the words I thought I'd say;
but they crept towards my mouth
and, like insects escaping that suffocating tree,
they were free.
Hello (: ENJOY !!
© Shane Leigh
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☪   ☭   ☮

Oh beautiful for specious lies
where Christless values reign;
for superficial battle cries
above the muted strain:
Diversity, diversity
God hides His face from thee –
and frown he should, while planethood
distracts humanity.

How sad it is when victim groups
monopolize the floor;
enabling the marginals
to agitate for more.
Diversity, diversity,
Your queer agenda rules –
with Balkanizing tendencies
imposed on witless tools.

Degenerate in decadence
the ailing eagle flies;
in spirals of irrelevance
through clouded toxic skies…
Diversity, diversity
the Left defines your terms –
the weakened body politic
grows sicker as it squirms.

Oh Lord we need a miracle
before the patient fails;
celestial intervention please
to purge us of what ails.
Diversity, diversity
We shall not overcome –
Unless the Lord reveal His word
twixt here and Kingdom Come…
♫♪ Sung to the tune of...PROGRESS !! ♪

I don't believe you even read this.

              ☪☭ ☮
A Simillacrum Dec 2018
flame in a dark pit
rain on a mountain
ice
   in the veins:
                          blockade
one of these days

techno nightmares will break
through
   analog purity,         of course
      they will but,         then
   you'll have it your way,
where dust becomes you more
than your electric
   dreams,         of course,
you would rather be muted

i won't
For ya, gibs. Gittin goot.
King Panda Apr 2016
I try to cry
but I can’t
I mute my tv
so I can hear
the pain reverberating
from my nostrils
like I am being
clamped together
in the fetal position
until blood squirts
out my ears

I try to cry
but I can’t
I mute the dog by
giving her a bone
I mute the sun by
drawing the shades

I try to cry
but I can’t
this muted pain
it’s locked in the attic
deteriorating
I mute my neck by
taping it to the fan
I mute my breath
with my belt

roll down my eye
to my lips
I want to taste
this ******* stupid world
for myself
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Impressionist colors rising out of chocolate brown,
stretching chartreuse necks upwards.
Intertwining vines clutching each other in a desperate rhapsody of life,
all waiting to display their Creators’ palette of pure color.

Orchid and yellow chalices hold the morning dew
as all are christened in jeweled morning light.
With blue and white snow you carpet the ground
blanketing hillsides with hope of Monet.

Orange tongues of fire licking up towards the sun
while jade blades battle as new growth crowds in.
Blossoms hang full with a living harvest of yellow,
awaiting transport to another.

Stalks of dried grasses stirred by the August wind,
dancing to the rhythm of the warm stirring breeze.  
Summer now ebbing away in aged colors muted with brown,
returning to the muddied ground once again.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
ryn Mar 2015
Wonder if when constellations do align
And universe would finally see.
Would it be presumptious of me
To claim that then, finally you'd be mine.

Wonder if my sense would triumph over
So that my heart would be muted.
With all its contents looted...
Would I only seem sillier?

Wonder if I walked away
In due course.
You'd then take my hand in yours
So that a minute longer I'd stay...

Wonder if you'd understand
When if these feet
Should choose to retreat...
That they had to... It wasn't planned.

Wonder if it'd make a difference
If I said that I had to...
Not for me but more for you.
Would we still be able to love in silence?

Wonder if you'd wish that you made it all clear.
Before the gravity of reality would crush us,
Before the vastness of uncertainty swallows us,
Before my presence would diminish and inevitably disappear.

Wonder if you find my pessimism exhausting.
The volatile nature of my moods...
Especially when I dive deep in solitude
And resurface with a trove of words that are no less than exasperating.

Wonder if you loved me enough
In a day...
To stop me from walking away...
Or loved me too much to plainly say

That...

Future's days would see us apart...
Future's moon would glow but not for us...
Future's stars would sing but not of us...
Future's sun would dry out the passion in our hearts.
Eric W Sep 2018
Burning pages sit heavy
on a bedside table
into the night -
their light the only,
and purposefully so.
You walk past without candor,
eyes aimed into the world
yet seen.
The light fades from the burning pages,
and you start.
What is that?
A shuffle in the room,
a twinkle in the stars.
A door slams in the distance,
echoing in the walls
surrounding.
You thumb the ashes,
how they still feel warm and silky,
and then brush your cheek.
Where have my words gone today?
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
SelinaSharday Aug 15
Muted..
I'm guessing its time for me..
To be on free.
Looking like its time..
I have no friends of crystal beauties.

Nothings Controlling this beauty.
Soulful MAHOGANY bouncing freely.
My dynasty holding back vocal assurances.
Some kind of circumstances.
The Blocking of chances.
No One speaks...
As I deny anything that'll excite me.
People are Muted.
Emotions are flowing so diluted..
I don't want to Mingle, If I'm muted.
I'll go hide my fences ..I'll go build more fences.
I'll get lost in starry far away skies..
Catch tears should they fail from eyes.
No messages, no replies, no mascara smearing my eyes.
water colored surprise..
Open wide these eyes...
Look for me.. she's this confused brown beauty.
UnMute me.
whispered Prayers for me.
No cavalry seeks.
Wells rushing at my feet, dry land separates me.
I'll turn to my praying wall.
I don't want to cause a downfall.
People I've set free, Heaven sooth me...
I'll turn to my praying wall.
I'll return to my praying wall.
Nothing here for me..
Nothing Here for me..
Mute Me from Misery...
Unmute me for my chosen destiny.
Hurry and come find.
Behind all I've been hiding.
Is this all naturally me..Growing rationality.
If Not release me, UnMute Me..Bless my destiny.
I have tried to protect me for so long.. and finally I feel so secluded..I've tried to reach out, but now I feel just muted..
Antino Art Aug 2018
maybe the buildings are hollow,
occupied only in facade on the first floor of storefronts

maybe this whole town is a hologram
of neon against puddles
on the pavement.

maybe the citizens are ghosts
floating by
in circles, or squares of city blocks,
around a routine,
or droning through on electric scooters
as if on muted theme park rides
to the next sensory diversion;
to the nearest gastronomical pleasure;
toward the weekend and its next party
celebrating the loss of time,
I see their tired faces

staring out from the glass
of coffeeshop windows
on every block.
I see their piles of beer cans
beside the trash chute.
I hear them singing
on *****-cruises to nowhere

What part of this cycle
that turns days into dust
moves us closer to heaven?

What feast from what new restaurant downtown
will feed our souls?

From which lonely night do we finally emerge
beside the one
whose presence fills
these hollow buildings
to the top-most floors?

Which of the empty lots
between us do we fill
with a conversation
about how this is all a dream,
or how we'll keep each other awake
on a bench
beneath a street lamp before dawn
waiting for the first bus to take us home.
GreenTrees Dec 2013
The small but ample cottage tucked in among the trees with large trees like bedposts.
A small hum of excitement stirs the air. The ocean kissed sea air moves past the cottage searching for just a peak at her.

But not tonight, the windows drawn tight, and still sweating from the  warmth there by the muted figures in the flames.
Just a glimpse of  her edges out from the corner of my eye.
And only she warms me in a way, that even now the figures in the flames seem less willing to speak her name.

With her heat comes a light, and with her light the words are more clear and the beauty of season more evident.
She is a muted flame edging out of the corner of my eye.
Kissing me quietly as she drifts off in to cozy corners of my mind.



COPYRIGHT 2013
Karl von Mecklenburg
Why in Baste Eyes my Form checks expect
Yet cast my Security for his Expense
Which, I suppose, that Report I prefect
Was a File un-welcomed for my Good Sense
Though, I assure, was all to contribute
For his Sweets added to his Nationed Chest
That, to chillax, take Tidbits absolute
And brisk the New Day for his Talent's Best
Now this, resolved to wax Slime and Conflict
Thus put my Loyalty to Terms reset
More fruitful, more pruned, from Pride's Tome inflict
Then this Orrery - strike Rocks to Sky's bet.
In turn perhaps recover from this Fling
On Muted Clouds do those Falcons still Sing.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Shimmering light bouncing and playing on liquid beauty.
Undulating blue slips around me like skin.
A pulsing blanket envelopes and surrounds me with brilliance beyond comprehension.
Time is but a memory; this world encompasses all.

Celebrating the palette of color gliding through its hands ,
millions of tiny jewels bob and float as this life takes a breath.
Treasures hide away, unwrapped with a stir,
while teams of blue swarm and dance about in warmth.

Blue green teams with reflected light, glistening as it darts about.
Fans wave to the song of the tide singing with muted tongue.
Surreal and captivating this world of the deep, leaving me wanting more.
Isolated and apart, I return to my monotone world.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
patty m Jan 2018
Through the Looking glass
Alice stands in all her splendor.
Her hair a curtain of silver rain,
her soft skin aglow in subliminal light.

A compelling fever rises
as Thomas tries different ways to pull
her up in memory
while writing himself into the tale.  
Poor Thomas delirious in his dilemma, he knows
this will be no easy seduction.  
How fiercely urgent his desire rises
as he longs to end our heroine's self-imposed abstinence.  

Hot April morning ambush,
and our intruder has beguiled our sweet Alice
with heated kisses sweeter than ripened fruit.  
A wildness stirs in the bloodstream.  
Now he slowly and lovingly explores her pristine body
as she shivers beneath his delicate strokes
until high trills rise to fevered pitch.

Pleated line of sky
muted corners softly come into focus.

Loathe to let her go,
passion stirs in his depths
slowly now he tastes her secrets,  shares her pleasure.

Tight buds of anticipation tenderly plucked,
his fingers find the stem, a measure of moisture;
Nimble fingered harmonies play pleasure symphonies
accompanied by soft echoes of youthful delight  
Warm and breathless, crystal rainbows paint the inside of her eyelids as she grows sleepy in afterglow.

Soon he's torn away, his pale poet's face conveying pain
received from this  now cool disconcerting beauty;
Though he touched folds and frills of every petal,
his chapter is immediately erased and the
original story reappears.  

She may have slipped down the rabbit hole,
but forever ladylike and pure is our sweet Alice.
Jerry Apr 2018
She’s a Poem
He’s an Invisible Ink

She’s a Love Ballad
He’s a Vocal Less Echo

She’s a Soothing Lullaby
He’s a Muted Lyric

She's a Warm Breeze
He's a Whimpered Wind

She’s a Wished Rain
He’s a Thirst in Desert

She’s a Flying Dream
He’s a Falling Demon

She’s Nourishing on Pages
He's Dissolving into Ink

As if, Final Chapter of His Book in a Making?
She May Breathe Forever in His Silent Echoes...
for you dearest 'Lady of the Sea'
L B Nov 2016
Susan
with her china-white skin
relaxed
down to lace bra and *******—

“Have you ever heard this?” she asks

… sets the album, drops the needle
in the groove
We wait till bass fills in the room
sending time and silence empty-handed
down a hallway

Susan lights a joint
settles on the bed
ample legs begging apart
She ***** in deeply
impounding clouds  
Head thrown back
Thick glossy hair—
loses gravity
Eyes half-closed, shadow-heavy
clear and blue like piano
The walls are muted trumpet
stutter-hush of cymbal and the snare
Crackling over scratches

We are barely there

Susan exhales
a swirl of fog to a frail moon
Only her sultry voice still holds me tethered

“Have you ever heard anything— like this?”

Miles flows 
around me
Smoking
On the floor of Susan’s room
lying clothed and drunk
Soaked
with chords and wonder

I never hear him coming

Miles takes his time
Clearly, Susan was not the ****** here.  The year was 1969; Lowell State College dormitory in Massachusetts.  I was 19, a music major and on my way to becoming "radical revolutionary" and a poet. The album, I think, was Kinda Blue with Miles Davis and John Coltrane et al

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqNTltOGh5c
Logan Cestare Jan 28
Sun
She looked at him like he was the sun,
In that she never looked at him,
Except out of frustration.

She complained when he was gone,
But she never looked.

On days he was stronger, she hid from him
On days he was muted, she complained.

She never looked at him until he was leaving,
And in the beauty of the sunset she wondered how,
She'd never seen him before
Found this on Tumblr a while ago, felt I’d share it
CK Baker Oct 2017
a slow walk up centennial
and i still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the turkish blend and dust pack

a novice mixed duet plays
brahms on broken strings
an erhu and overcoat
veiling the blue heeler and sphinx

maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home bedford falls;
the flavour and character and social circles

annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins

dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto

night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door
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