Best Shushing Poems
Blindfolded, he takes me from the car through the humid air of August. He holds my hand, and then surrounds me with his arms, when small obstacles appear. He brushes the hair from my forehead, gentling me like a shy colt. The silk rectangular scarf, I had folded and tied about my breasts clings to me. My cutoffs ride up further exciting me, as he lifts me onto a wall. Shushing me, he says. “Sit still, honey.” I have no idea where we are but, his voice and footsteps have a slight echo.
the wail
of a harmonica:
moonlight serenade
Vibrations tingle across my skin, raising the down on my arms. A bead of sweat mixes with baby lotion and follows a shiver down, from cleavage to navel. Seconds become minutes, as the song caresses me. Oh, how I love him, this long tall drink of water with his huge hands and slow drawl. As the last note hangs in echo, I hear him approach. He lifts me high and traces the droplet down to the top of my hip-huggers with his tongue. I am still blindfolded when he places me on the ground. I feel his breathe upon my mouth. The tip of his tongue plays across my teeth. Ah, I remember him, his face, his hands, his taste, and that night at the empty skating rink…but, sadly, not his name.
the scarf
falls from my hands:
the drawer closes
First Published by Contemporary Haibun On-line Winter of 2013
I sometimes feel a unique vibration within
my own ears. My baby’s crying, calling from beneath his quilted,
baby-blues. His sobs rustle the warm sheath of home.
Before my mind reacts, my body is up, hastily tip-toeing
into the nightlight’s calming glow of a cow jumping over the moon.
Outside a soggy, spring night splatters under streetlights
like urban art. A steady rhythm of flowing rain
beats down on puddled pavements. My baby’s cries
reverberate as they reach that instinctual part of me,
somewhere deep within my diaphragm and through my heart.
A mother’s astute ears know the subtle variations of her own
children’s breath in sleep…I hurry to the shadows of my baby’s crib
to find him curled up, eyes still closed; little whimpers
and groans escape from his open lips…a bad dream, I realize.
I gently rub his back, shushing away all that disturbs his peace,
and I wonder about a child’s impressionable mind…
what intrusions of an innocent day could bring a bellowed anguish
to the sweet dreams of a carefree boy not yet two?
I listen to him tumble in and out of his fear until his breath is a tranquil hum…
only then, do I hear the music of an early morning’s falling rain.
Urges ushered Est’bel out of her abode –
a cottage cobbled together from cobwebs and clapboard –
and she scuttled forth,
her nesty hair tousled
by a leaf-laced breeze
In her bony hands she clutched
dregs of a nightmeg broth
in a porcelain jar stoppered
by a coffinwood shard
Her bare feet stepped on thorny twigs
but she felt them not,
for her soles had been hardened
by countless treks across hot coals
washed up from stygian shoals
Leftward she turned,
meandering down the narrowing, twisting path,
where uprooted mandrake tendrils
clutched at her anorexic ankles,
while ravens pecked at her frayed follicles,
until she snatched a leaf
from a passing philodendron,
folding it into a tri-cornered hat
and plunking it atop her pate,
rakishly askew
Dewey sap from twisty-trunked trees
dripped onto the nape of her gnarly neck
and a raven on a nearby branch
cawed his amusement,
earning him her owlish scowl
She spied a row of rotting poppies
and plucked a bunch,
sticking them into a crevice of her hat,
then stepped onto a walkway of cracked shale slabs,
which shunned her footprints,
replacing them with snail streaks
to mark her passing
She made her way to a listing tombstone
atop a gnarled knoll encased in gelid moonbeams
and fringed by shushing sawgrass
She took a small vial of indigo glass
from beneath her shabby shawl
and pulled out a stopper made
from a finger bone of an unfaithful lover
whose pickled tongue hung from a
silver chain around her neck
She poured the contents of the vile vial
into the porcelain jar and
listened to the fizz.
It subsided into sloshes,
reminding her of the sounds
issuing from demented shells
snatched from the forlorn shores
of stygian shoals
She gaped at the sky
as an owl flew past the moon,
stirring the dark craters,
which broke up into swirling spirals,
sucking lunar beasts beneath the surface,
where they dissolved in the ceaselessly sliding sands
And Est’bel raised the jar to her lips
and drank a toast to the moon,
and awaited the enshadowed shades
drifting down the snail-slimed pathway,
propelled by a leaf-laced breeze
Wild were-women roaming in the hills, cliff dwellers around
Avoiding banshee ghost riders, sniffing for them in earthy ground.
Shushing there were-pups lest their hidden unnatural selves be found.
Banshee ghost riders suddenly shush, listening to a baby were-wolf sound.
Heading toward a large crevice, which leads to a cave way down underground,
Were-women seal it up quickly after each banshee rider had ridden way down.
An instant banshee ghost rider graveyard, and these riders are never again found.
The prediction of the night hawks to whom the were-women were forever bound.
Is that when it comes to banshee ghost riders, and were-women, the cagiest are easily found.
And if there are caverns and cliffs that are the least big scary in or near your mountain town,
You had better stay safe in your bed, with the blankets pulled up, safe, and cozy and sound.
As wild were-women are more devious and dangerous than were-wolves, and totally honor bound.
They can also throw their voices, many hundreds of kilometers, and imitate a baby were-wolf sound.
Which is how they tricked the ghostly banshee riders, who are now trying to breathe in vain, underground.
And if you do not believe me, or you think you will survive it, you are the bravest man in town.
But if you choose to hunt for this kind of trouble, stand ready to never ever be found.
There is a were-woman right now peeking in your window; you would do best to not make a sound.
For if she notices you, and comes through that window, you will soon be lying underground.
I fell in love with the Sixteen Zero Three when I was eight.
I was fifty-eight before someone located the owners who had moved on
Thirty-nine years had passed since anyone had inquired.
I had coveted the idea of owning this monster for half a century!
“That old Jackson place?” “Are you crazy?” “Who would live there?”
“It’ll be a money pit.” “You’ll lose all of your savings.”
What did they think I had been saving money for anyway?
“It has ghosts.” This from a man who had never been inside.
Frankly, it made the idea more appealing.
The front door creaked with a loud eeeeeeeeeehhhhhhh
The prissy realtor in her red half heels looked too clean to be there.
I wanted to push past her but socialized, I waited.
The place was dark, even with the lights on. All of the lights on.
The realtor did not tell me about the rumors or the killing there.
She hoped that I did not know, but I did. I had been in touch
With my ghost hunting side for a long time. Three ghosts said “hi”.
I kept it to myself and signed the paper.
Sixteen Zero Three Huntington Court was mine at last and so were they!
“Not that one!” a fourth spirit said. The others were shushing him.
“I am not kidding, she is going to change everything!” He whined.
I turned and winked at him. Nearly causing him to fall off the staircase.
“It’s like you are already home,” one of the female ghosts said.
“Oh, honey,” I whispered to her telepathically, “If you only knew.”
I had lived in this house during the Civil War, and we had lost it.
I remembered that lifetime as well as my name.
“She’s TROUBLE!” the Rebel soldier hissed. I winked at him again.
We both knew I was bringing a whole new aspect to my new house.
Persuading October from her quiet lair
Shedding the pleasures of life’s fictional realms
Mouthwatering plunder, gathering to share
Swirling through the silence, round oaks, pines and elms
Secrets and shadows reflecting nature’s rush
Flames of ginger, shushing dark who overwhelms
Sweet dreams are splattered with hope by God’s paintbrush
Storm wrecking peace calms souls who reflect this time
Much like a coryphée, plied by a wood thrush
Closing those moments by the sea, maritime
Breathing in crisp air, whispering a prayer
Carrot colored leaves twirl in a soothing rhyme
Reflections so daring arrive on sun’s glare
Lifting the past’s tears with grace beyond compare
Pushing back the snow,
the barn door slowly opens
against the drifts.
Inside smells are rich and warm.
Hay and straw and animals mix
sparking memories of a long ago stable.
The tarp is heavy,
but uncovers a shiny red sleigh.
Runners honed to a keen shushing edge.
Sounding of hooves on wooden floor
Snorting his readiness to go.
Harness tight, bells in place
Isinglass heater under a buffalo robe,
cuddling close,
let’s go!
We disappeared into plumes of snow off galloping hooves,
with mane flying in the breath of nostrils flaring.
Sleigh bells singing their song in rhythm of beating hooves,
crisp air and joyful hearts cuddle under robes of excitement
racing, racing
Caps pulled down over ears,
cheeks chapping, hands clasping,
hearts racing,
faster ... faster ... faster ...
Blue moon lights the falls
cool vapors fill the night air
shushing me to sleep
I hear you calling me
whispering softly
blowing my hair gently
a featherlike touch on my face
I hear you calling me
in my dreams
silencing my screams
shushing my troubles away
I hear you calling me
in tranquil times
smiling benovently
revelling in my good moments
I hear you calling me
always
I hope I hear you
always
I miss you
always
I love you Grandad
always
ode to shadows
as i peer out the glassed portières
penumbral visitations mock me; dare they
deign to scare this parched crypt of
adrenaline and cortisol, usurped by unquiet
scourges over lifetimes' rebirth?
steps shifting in the dark, familiar and
beloved; the shushing and stirring, commit
to draw me near; umbral amici and i
provide a panoply o'bosky trappings f'thee
a joinin' we, or off to obscure pastures
to wee thee pants for eternity!
She softly sings, soothingly
to the serious and somber Samuel
who safely and sleepily slumbers
to her sweet shushing serenade.
ALesiach © 9/30/2015
Winter-spring canon
Incensed along Jacob's Creek
Like watery angels thought less from clouds above
Canopies of light make soft their entrance
In clucking-pig-progging-and-a-yip-yip-yipping
A shuft-and-shushing of large glass doors
Round about our ways of going
Slipping on the wet pages of our
Winter-spring canon
He asked the janitor if his life had some meaning
The small man replied, "Oh, yes, when I'm cleaning"
He wondered where the bodybuilder found his meaning
'Muscles' smiled and said, "Only when I'm preening"
Next he tapped a psychiatrist for something redeeming
Shushing him, Doc whispered, "Wait for my client to stop dreaming"
When he interrupted a movie director midst of a screening
He almost landed a part with lots of horrified screaming...
His search for meaning for the moment completed
The cobbler hoped his shoe-pile was no longer depleted
Black Friday is hovering over the wet alleys of Paris
Scratching its nails against the brick walls, holding in grimes
With his every breath, dies a red tulip on the pregnant terrace
Lovers shiver in their empty rooms, chocking on the echoes of innocents’ shrieks
Terror screams and birds scatter into the suffocating air above
Their feathers still wet, dipped in the blood
Pebbles shake as Fear steps on them, having a grin on his face
Rain can’t even wash what has marked peoples’ grieving hearts
The best Wine is now spoiled where music is standing still in the air
The hands of agony are digging the grounds of despair
I pray for Paris and for the great light to shine
For courage and love to be resurrected at once
I pray that His light will shine and overcome the terror
He is the true conqueror and the world’s only savior
He will come riding on the clouds, shushing the terror, making it crawl
He will restore love and will lay down peace
People of Paris will smile and listen to His tender music!
Lovers will fill the alleys once excruciatingly dark
They whisper I love you, beholding the Eiffel right at dusk
Rahy
November 16, 2015
Oncology
waffle-soled Nikes travel by at
a good pace and I think of chalky
lace-ups and starched white caps,
the apron-tied uniform
of benevolent angels so gently
shushing visitors.
a memory collection of sneaking up stairs
with no cardboard passes; two visitors at a time;
15 minutes; youthful breaking of the rules
settles in a smile incongruous to
my purpose of sitting here, waiting
outside his room.
The devil is behind this door. They
cannot be left alone. A pair
of nikes motions me in to keep
at moor his boat at river’s edge.
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins