Best Shushed Poems
emptying of the mind into the ether
contained reverberations
sent suddenly skywards
firmly rejected by gravity
bounce back for the haunting
we live on with the fallout
truth ruins the illusion of necessity
spittle ruins the illusion of beauty
you can't rewrite ripples caused by history
only bury the dead on loop
then repeat the mantra of moving on
there is beauty still
in the bright light before nothing
that lingers on the retina
becoming layers
light that needs slivers of insanity
to fill the gaps
but gaps to separate the insanity
nothing is new
as evidenced by what is etched in stone
coffee cup stains
create self made crowns
in those faraway hideouts
the uncut planners
never lose a drop
or burn their tongue
their hum murmurs on
in the perfect world they build
everyone else gives their all
to fulfil whatever dream
they need to be sold
in the inner workings of every dome
rest the chorus of lives that built it
silently watching on
mouths agape
bridges shatter between downcast eyes
everything wriggles
finds its way
once again to a finish line
for a fresh wave
as inevitable as the first
in this thirst for glory
in every direction lay the fallen
leaving spaces
for the glorious mourners
to preach their refrains
eventually no fight or song will be left
only moistened air descending
kissing your cheek
light and sound fade
atop mountains
thoughts of mortality are shushed
legacy leaving its mark
to echo into a final slowed motion silence
UNWANTED VIOLIN SOLO
She wrested notes from unwilling
And resisting rosined string.
The rhythm struggled to assert control
Over her strained and anxious soul.
Mother shushed her resisting offspring,
Father struggled with his watch’s mainspring.
Children twisted hair and faces :
All wished to be in other places.
Gifts are nothing but a parcel of love
with or without expectations.
When one gives -another receives.
I have been bestowed with wonderful gifts by God..
And those are my parents!
And my parents in turn have given me
the most precious gift ..
which was wrapped in a soft creamy towel
that lay in the incubator,eyes closed tight,
tiny fingers grabbing its shiny black hair,
cord clamp stuck at the navel,pearly toes curling,
cute belly raising high & low ..with each breath.
When I peeped through the glass clearly..
I could sight the skin that was pinkish red,
i lifted my feet to reach the box and touch
the soft palm, but a blue dressed nurse
shushed me with a wave..
The tiny ones lips were like strawberry that
carried a divine smile :My eyes filled with light
receiving the sunshine warmth whilst glancing
at the bright neonates face.
And that was a" he"
My little brother.
As they took him away from me he screeched..
I grew emotional being an 4 year old.
Then I eagerly waited for five long days for my mum
to bring him home safe and healthy.
He is a living gift that I received
whom I love unconditionally..now and forever.
20-6-2020
Note:Gifts poetry contest
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
Premier Contest Winner~Second place:-)
Contest Judged: 6/21/2020
Hiding Under My 3rd Grade Desk
David J Walker
Mrs. Pollards smile
Was enough to reassure every member
Of her third-grade class
That their world was secure
As the crass voice in the
Crackling PA speaker announced
An End of the World Drill in the
Middle of the day
Usually, a call to quietly line up
And make an orderly march to
The hallway where we would
Stay crouched in a fetal position
Until the voice returned to sound
The all-clear
But this time was different
This time it was
Duck & Cover under your desk
Was the end really that near?
Were the bombs about to fall
On Thatcher Elementary in
Pueblo, Colorado?
Did the commies hate us so much
They would rain down missiles
On our playground?
Not today!
Not when It was my turn
To pick sides for Kickball
A girl named Diane with blonde curls
Beside me talk about a sack lunch
And tetherball
And a game of Jax if the
Hopscotch courts were full
Would the bombs blast the whole
Building away
Leaving us huddled under our desks
Before recess?
Would we walk home among craters
Created by Commie planes coming
Over the artic just to find us while
Reciting the rhythm
Of the Times table
The Social Studies lesson was
About the Pilgrims and how we
Should be thankful for freedom
In science we were learning
About the moon and how soon
Someday we would get there
If they drop the bomb could we
Still watch cartoons at 4 in the afternoon
Would there be anything left of the
Playground at Mineral Palace Park
And what about the swans that
Make their home on the park lake
How long are we supposed to
Stay under these desks I whispered
To Mark
I don’t know he said
As Mrs. Pollard shushed us
As we hid and waited for
The all-clear
They came to me for Jewish names
A Russian-Jewish couple, not to blame
Where they were from, Hebrew was banned
As it had been throughout Communist lands
His name was Boris; hers was Bronya...
In a twinkle I said: "Greetings, Boruch and Bracha
Your new names are special; they each mean 'blessing'
No longer will either of you be guessing---"
They shushed me and smiled two wonderful smiles
As if they had just walked down the wedding aisle---
"We understand, Reb Gershon," Bracha joyfully said
"From all of our striving were these two names bred"
Boruch was blessed to have such a fine wife
His Bracha! ~ They together shared life
I’m happiest when the weather
is gloomy and threatening rain.
Its tendency, this low pressure,
forces most people to remain
inside comfortable houses.
Outside becomes much quieter
assuming a shushed quietus
that wouldn’t normally occur
if the day were a sunny one;
so I pray that this low holds fast
concealing the intrusive sun
behind the looming overcast
while I revel in its stillness
and its lugubrious bleakness.
The feather beds are a string of mountains near where I live, famous for its raised bog lands, where my father and his brothers cut turf for many years. In spring / summer a wild cotton flower blooms giving the mountains their name.
In youths embrace I walked in mountains,
My father’s steps I tried to follow.
He led the way from town to wilderness
And there it was my soul he freed.
Windswept hills of raised bog and peregrine,
Swooped winds flared the will of the wisp.
Cotton top flowers waved their white clouds,
Beckoning me, to loose myself in awe.
Slain and sod, man and muscle worked as one,
Bright Heather draped the hills a regal hue.
Bracken fronds greened the soil of spring.
Larks and curlew cries hung upon the air.
As my father shushed us to silence and embrace,
His wonderland of peace.
At seasons turn and Bracken colours fade,
Gorse and heather flair their restful hues.
Sheep saunter through with heads bowed,
They slowly leave the mountain once again.
The feather beds dim as clouds dip low and veil.
And silence flees before winter wind and rain
In adults disgrace I left the mountains,
My father’s steps hard to follow.
Still longing to find the way of wilderness
To free my soul once again and be with him.
Where will they go, those creatures of the wild;
their territory lost through human cause.
Confused, they enter private yards; exiled,
they're waved or shushed away without a pause.
Wealth traded for the end of forest laws,
when once those animals with nature sought
their happiness in roaming land because
this was their home before destroyed and bought
for building mega-mansions with no afterthought.
My friend had a Christmas gift
He wanted to give me;
He shushed it was a secret
And I couldn't see.
It's awful not knowing
What a present is:
It's like getting stuck
In a cryptogrammic quiz.
He laughed
When I begged for a hint,
With an evil snicker
At my hapless predicament.
But as I steamed,
I looked about:
A light snow was falling,
And it was so very peaceful out.
The year had its struggles,
We nearly lost the place,
But that sudden promotion
Put me at a more amiable pace.
Janell gave me an awful scare
When she found a lump on her breast;
We prayed pretty hard,
But she aced every test.
Sadie and Jeff
Gave a grandchild last spring:
The sweetest, dark-haired girl
That life could bring.
I felt a little misty
As I stood there,
But he hadn't told me about the gift
And it just wasn't fair!
I thought of the fancy paper,
And I saw my grandbaby stand;
I thought of the lacy ribbon,
And I felt my wife's hand.
Something was happening to me,
I couldn't tell,
But it dawned
As clear as a bell.
There were gifts
That I had gotten,
Not in boxes and paper,
How could I have forgotten?
Saving our home
Was a gift, indeed,
And my wife's health,
What more did I need?
The grandbaby, in my arms,
Made me feel alive;
You know, I heard angels
Right there in the drive.
I wanted a gift,
But what gifts I'd received;
"Merry Christmas," my friend grinned,
"Now do you believe?"
We were taught
that to be qu**r
means to be strange,
to be unlike the rest,
to be different,
but not in a way that would raise surprised brows
or taint eyes green with jealousy.
We were taught
that to be qu**r
means to be different
in a way that would produce uneasy “oh”s
or disapproving “how could that be”s.
To be qu**r was
a rising sea of loneliness drowning us
but later it became comforting furry blankets
we’d pull up to the tips of our heads at night—
there was safety in keeping our lips shushed.
You call it hiding in the closet
we call it an embroiling conflict with ourselves
of loving and hating,
of pretending to be not so different,
of letting your homophobic jokes slide,
of knowing that we’re silent because we’re also afraid to hear the truth—
that we’re also sometimes disconcerted by this part of ourselves,
for that’s just the way we do it.
We learn, over time,
as we find out that that kid in our Chemistry class
likes painting his nails,
and that girl in our neighbourhood
scribbles hearts over the Cara Delevingne posters on her bedroom wall,
we learn that maybe
we’re not so different.
We teach ourselves
to give to ourselves
the love we want to give to people who make our hearts flutter,
to accept ourselves
the way want to be by our mothers and fathers,
to embrace ourselves
the way we embraced that friend who came out to us.
We teach ourselves to take off the blanket and sleep in the open instead.
We teach ourselves to keep swimming and swimming no matter how ferocious the currents grow.
We teach ourselves to love all the seven hues in our skies
and to let go of the people who don’t find rainbows beautiful.
We teach ourselves to battle the ridicule and dismissals and bullying,
to no more despise the way our hearts beat.
We teach ourselves to no more pretend to be ’normal’
for we already are normal.
We no longer subdue our voices to the pits of our anxious stomachs
Instead, we sing in a chorus of the hues in our skies,
for we are here
and we are qu**r
and that’s just the way we do it.
SMALL TOWN LIBRARY - OCTOBER
Sleepy with silent words , soundless print
Outside a world of school bells and traffic hum.
Cant keep my focus, glasses need renewing.
Read same line seven times, I’m losing
My place - losing my grip. I am
Held in a place where speech ends and
Time stops - quiet, silence, hush , no noise.
Afternoon long pale crimson sun oozes
Into gloomy room, lone sunbeam edging
Into the forbidden roomy gloom.
Silent stealthy steps like a yellow cat with
Dust motes held in its claws.
Snoozing over yesterday’s newspapers
Old man agreeing, nodding, mutters,
Nodding at the 1968 UN yearbook.
Studying and skimming thru files for a look
Imperceptible earphones in students head.
Kids being shushed for fairy tales being read
Smell of polished tables and newly-printed paper gloss,
Books on shelves by the dusty dozen to choose,
Quotes and poems by Zola, Balzac and Moses,
Flies buzz lazily by, old librarian checks books out,
Buzz, flicker, and plink-plonk from the faulty tube light.
Doze, lose consciousness,
Soon be November - winter approaching….
Got to save energy = mc squared = MC2…..
CO2 + H2O is acid rain = droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven…..and
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night, ****
And so to sleep , perchance to………….wake
In a place where speech ends,
Time stops………………….
**** Langston Hughes (1902-1967), U.S. poet. April Rain Song (l. 4-6)
I have spilled all of it out, it seems
Shushed it away
Now I stare at it like you would some black-and-white photo
I’m soldiering on
I can’t find the field
I don’t want this weapon
I’ve lost myself
But holding onto me wasn’t in the plans
I’ve blanched my dreams
When I speak marshmallows fall out of my mouth
I’m dimmed, muted
Placed in a different world again
I’m okay, though
I’m in-through a wondering sky
I’ll find you again
As my feet drift by
And tap you on the forehead
You snap my strings
And I may tackle you to the ground
Good for the both of us
I am the black falling light rushing out of tomorrow’s dream
I am your favorite sorcerer who forced the mirror upon you
Revealing you as the great one
With what wounds we are
Cascading, cascading
I know you, my love
My heart runs wild at the thought of your return
She had a stroke six weeks before
and slept downstairs
'So they could keep an eye on her
- my lovely grandmother, Elizabeth.
I would whisper
'Granny, are you alright?'
and be shushed out of the room.
On December 12th, 1961
she was dying. They knelt around the bed
and said the Rosary.
May and Lizzie, their husbands and children,
cousins and neighbours, droning their prayers.
As she struggled to breathe: loud then slow and slowing,
the candle flickered shadows on the wall.
Sad faces, some old and lined, anticipating
the arrival of the Monsignor - to give her Unction.
They hoped that she would live until he arrived.
'She had a good life - a long life' they said
'Eighty-Seven years'.
'But some people live to be a hundred!'
my thirteen year old self shouted back -
My mother and the nurse laid her out
on her big mahogany bed.
'The ritual gave me comfort'
Mam said later -
Best linens, starched and waiting
for this time - her habit - a dress especially made for death
Beads entwined in her dear fingers.
These preparations a ceremony of love and care
I wouldn't, couldn't look at her
They did -
I hated them for that.
s/he turns to her/his
significant other whilst
sitting amidst others at
some kind of social function
that for all intent & purpose
has absolutely no intent or
purpose, but to only give
grown adults the sense that
there is some meaning in
life when deep down they
all know there isn’t---
when s/he turns, s/he makes
a physical movement unique
to the both of them,
a bit of sullen code derived from
their secret little idiosyncratic
prison, of which they have
both pledged up till’ now a
few years of their young lives &
when it happens, the
“shushed” individual
who has been signaled not so
subtly, finds this to be uncalled
for & maybe it was the fact that
the train took so long to get
them to where they wanted to
be or maybe it was the fact that
the dinner wasn’t worth the
scratch or maybe, just maybe,
said individual has grown fed
up with their present partner in
crime’s attempt to silence them
as if they were a dog in the
midst of a whisperer.
what follows is an exchange
which though they both may
regret later, though it may actually
destroy the connection between
both of them (for it reveals the
true nature of the deadened bond
between them---as its weight has
increased due to the public witness
of the event), it just might be the
most honest that they have been
with each other in a long time.
In a state of half a dream and half awake
I await I await you and anticipate
tantra trinkets glitter across old crone skies
scattered stars the litter of our synchronized wishes
broken symbols of our disenchanted rune
cosmic poets cursed lutestring-verse rhymed for us
I’m lost astray a pearl loosed from a fractured string
lost in ashes of embers our fire that fed the sun
will you search a cosmos of starving stars
their shimmer growing dimmer til light withers
will you search a famished universe to find me
a spec of earthly widow-dust settled ..stilled
sweet Venus intercede before dark recedes
listen a nightingale’s sonnet song rides night air
melody’s flame melts ice-blonde moonbeams
a buttery pool the smitten singer’s spotlight
—his rhapsody brims his beloved to swoon
oh Venus let lyric-desire be my angel’s glide path
in a state of half a dream and half awake
my sensual soulmate I anticipate
invite for my griever-skin to frost-bite-tingle in thaw
touch me warm my angel touch me warm
billow tender breeze through window’s yawn
pale cheeks brushed lips shushed a lover’s rush
a rush as light as a silk scarf’s skim on skin
I tremble like a sonata cello string
soft breaths move curtains and swell my sighs
wind spirit croons my name I close my eyes
your ethereal presence glides on wind song
your physical absence abides in our bed
how poetic this dual ache
throbbing the same passion space
in a state of half a dream and half awake
I’m a pearl knotted yet unstrung