Long Shushed Poems
Long Shushed Poems. Below are the most popular long Shushed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shushed poems by poem length and keyword.
...One night I asked who it was,
she said,”Just a man I used to know.”
She would never say more than that,
so I decided wisely to let it go.
But that night, like every other,
when midnight rolled around,
she walked along to the pier’s end
and stood staring without a sound.
I figured it was an old grief,
and did not want to interfere,
but one evening after many drinks
I stumbled, mindless, to the pier.
There I saw old Meredith
wrapped up in a tall man’s arms,
something about him just seemed off,
my drunken mind feared harm.
As I moved she turned and said,
“He does not like company.”
She shushed me and the two walked
onwards towards a quiet sea.
I thought I’d seen the tall man,
but from where, I couldn’t say,
and as I though I watched the two
walk off the end of the quay!
Rushing out, I looked below,
but no bodies could I see.
they did not lay upon the rocks,
or against pilings worn and slippery.
I raced back to the Walrus,
soon all the cops came out.
They dredged the short for three days,
but no bodies were ever found.
Some even suspected it was me,
but no charges came my way,
they combed the shore but found nothing
that indicated any foul play.
It was only later that I understood
just what I had seen that night,
the dead man in the old picture
had been on the pier in plain sight!
For so long she had gone out there,
hoping for the impossible,
it seems that in the end she got
her one wish granted in full.
She’d had no husband of lover
in the many years since his death,
but he’d come back to claim her
when she’d faced her dying breath.
Well, that was thirty years ago,
the tale has become folklore,
a thing whispered to tourist folk
all up and down the shore.
I took over the Wailing Walrus,
and have kept it much the same.
The tall, young man still hangs up high,
and there he shall remain.
But I did go to Meredith’s family,
and asked for a picture of her youth,
next to her lover it now hangs,
for all who would know the truth
Every so often some come here,
and say they saw in evening’s dim,
two figures walking on the pier,
who never seem to come in.
They say the figures just seemed off,
kind of wispy and quite pale,
so I sit them down, fix them a drink
and tell them this tragic tale.
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.
The Shed
...was Granddad's before he died.
And now its loneliness reached out to the boy
from the shaded, shuffling shadows
that shushed the sheltered garden.
They pulled, they tugged at his guilt-filled absence
until he slink-slunked through the greenery,
standing to attention outside its wooded frame.
It had been Grandad’s domain, his citadel,
built from leftover bits of wood and insulation
collected, or purloined, from…wherever.. whenever.
Slowly, respectively, the boy sneak-peaked the door ajar,
slipping inside, stepping into the window’s filtered light
but he was unprepared for the shock that shook him!
Memories of Grandad unfolded themselves everywhere
his tools: ruler, chisel, plane, saw and his Swedish workbench,
the unfinished projects and most of all…..Grandad’s flat cap;
it angled from a hook like an ageing photograph.
The boy sensed his skin tighten, his breath narrow
as precious memories skipped into his head;
the alchemy of playfulness, tomfoolery, inventiveness
that forged and built those ‘togetherness’ wooden creations.
Then Grandad’s voice resounded inside the boy’s head,
“Aye well I’m a little bit different lad.
I like to imagine left-handed bars of chocolate
and he’d touch his nose and add, “The nose knows, you know!”
The boy folded up with emotion as he remembered
how his words were shy around others … never Grandad.
He encouraged, praised, sparkled a smile that polished you up
like a warming pat on the back, adding a phrase like,
“We’re two forks sharing the same plate, mate!”
And then all was well.
The boy now left the shed with a rucksack of renewed memories
and a resolve to undertake a new project in Grandad’s shed.
He touched his nose whispering, “The nose knows, you know!”
then remembered Grandad’s favourite saying,
“What do great minds do?” He could hear Grandad ask.
And this time the boy replied, “They think…… for themselves!”
And he smiled himself all the way down the garden;
Grandad’s creative essence would live forever in his thoughts.
Ian Souter April, 25
Second, third, fourth... stimulus check(s)...
ah... the stuff a dream come true would be made!
Such would constitute,
the closest phenomena
approximating winning the lottery
cuz yours truly never blessed
winning sizable, nor
minuscule amount of money
beset with one after another setback
token scapegoat (no kidding),
plus puny size linkedin
with spindle shank legs
always bullied and
derided as laughingstock.
Whether rich or dirt poor...
since being young unemployed adult
(yupper, poverty mine bane and,
red badge of courage) the end result...
thus, aye cannot imagine state of euphoria
(yea right Matthew Scott), so just halt
such fantastical thinking,
before being totally shushed up,
nevertheless such luck
would invariably catapult
me into doing a sommersault,
pulling my weak back,
(I got a week back) out in the process,
how mine lovely bones would exult
similarly and/or hypothetically
if lottery numbers I chose matched,
more likely greater chance me getting struck
while inside courtesy lightning bolt,
or got automatically generated did score
winning ticket - suddenly this dolt,
would find himself mobbed by strangers
worse case scenario lured
by paranormal and/or occult,
perhaps stunned with
tranquilizing gun subsequently kidnapped
courtesy sinister satanic cult
comprised of rainbow goblins
trumpeting moral turpitude,
hence words of wisdom
occurred best not to insult.
When awakened hours, days, weeks later
parents (if still living at home)
would spring into action
renting out my former bedroom
to another heavily tattooed and pierced
long haired pencil necked geek
sporting dreadlocks
the late Bob Marley would envy
if still alive.
Castles in the air
suckers' poor me,
thought cha might care
to dangle false promises
and deliberately ensnare
buzzfeeding gussied up
glittering essentially bupkis
that doth blindingly glare
finding meek geezer passively submitting
theme of mein kampf -
never ask for grandeur,
which outcome would interfere
with grist crafting poems.
Pain shows no stain.
The only stain that is there,
Is one of his blood.
It all started a sad day in
July.
He saved my life.
Now, I'm nothing but a simple
Hunter. It's not animals I hunt,
but People...
I knew that there was a bounty,
somewhere there always is. I put
that all aside to speak to him.
I thanked him and turned to leave,
He pleaded with me to give my name,
Fear spiked my thoughts.
Slowly I whispered my name to him.
He asked if he could see me again.
What could it hurt? Whom could it hurt?
Me
I saw him that day
my hunting had stalled.
I saw no fear in living
Should have known that it couldn't be
The man was a trick.
A terrifying trick.
He attacked me when my guard was down.
His knife sliced deep into my arm.
My own knife held steady in his leg.
Pain filled my thoughts.
He attacked again,
leaving a long cut across my back.
I lost the first battle to him,
but I refuse to loose
the war!
When I awoke, I was tied down,
Chains surrounded my wrists.
I was seething.
Once I began to rattle the chains,
He heard me and pulled a knife.
The cut dragged across my stomach.
Blood dripped from it.
I screamed.
He shushed me, trying not alerting anyone.
I wouldn't have it,
I pushed at my chains, snarling like an
animal.
There was a dull thudding noise from the main hall.
He moved towards the noise.
I pulled my wrists free from the chains.
Blood coated my hands.
I moved towards him.
He saw my reflection in a mirror.
He turned to me,
but that's what I wanted him to do.
I launched myself at him.
The knife found its home,
right in his throat.
He simply gurgled before falling.
His body shook slightly, but soon was still.
I threw down the knife and called in my
Kill.
He saved my life,
He hunted me,
I was his undoing.
I am Death.
It beats in me.
Watch for me.
I might be coming after you next...
Form:
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
We were sent on an errand
My sister Faith and I
But it ended up being a mission
Because there were bunnies to love
And geese to chase and a baby bunny to save
We had a little basket full of eggs
To bring back from our grandmother's house
Just over the hill.
Grandma had fresh hot pancakes waiting
So like her!
We were on time, singing our Frere Jaques song
The one that is also called Are you Sleeping
Since we speak French and English
We were getting too loud, and Old Man E.E. shushed us
We looked sharply to see him more closely.
He was Grandma's beau,
And only kidding us.
We gave him quick hugs and continued
Strange that he was going to Grandma's
After we left, huh? He was a weird man.
The mommy bunny was hopping around in an unusual hop
So we stopped to take a peek. She had five babies
At first we thought they were rats, ugly like that
Hairless, with closed slits where eyes should be
But they were hers, and she wanted us to do something
We thought maybe they were uncomfortable
We took the eggs out of the basket
And gently picked up the bunnies,
Putting them into the basket.
Now what?
It looked like rain, so we moved them to shelter
Under a huge oak. Mommy bunny hopped next to us.
She seemed grateful. We kind of needed the basket back
But this was not to be; they looked so comfy and stuff.
We held the eggs in our aprons.
Breaking only three of them.
We would explain to grandma about her basket later
An animal lover too, she would fully understand.
BAM! CRASH! When we heard the first two thunderclaps
We hugged each other over our mutual complicit caper
Our secret kept us giggling at each other all day long.
Our mother suspected it was something grandma did.
In the cradle of our candle light last night...
We settled and sizzled in the moonlight.
We danced through the dense of the darkest night.
Like a cutest couple we cuddled in the bubble of bonded bouquets.
Dined with wine to shine out our night last night.
How dare can we forget last night.
We were shrined and shrinked into one sheet we shared
Shampooed with shampagne and shushed like sheeps
We craved in the caves of each other's shaved arms.
Swallowed and hallowed between the wallowed pillowed night.
Sweat so sweet on the suede of our whispered swear.
We were swamped and swept in the mid night of our night
I'd die to witness last night.
Like ducks we dived in a divine division of last night.
Sang so soft to sooth and smoothen our song.
Wowed and wooed each other so well
We chanted and changed every word for our night.
Wordless and wierdless we became to each other
So swollen into a stolen moment of our solemn night
Chandeliers chased all the chances of loneliness away.
And far away we were taken and got waken the next morning.
Moaning in sweetest till morning I mourned to face.
Last night is the night I won't forget.
I won't forget being undressed by the address of the night
Tortured, traumatized and trembled by your touch.
Both cascaded back to the decades of our dedicated love.
We memorised back the memories of best moments last night.
Slumbered and murmured in each other's ears all night long
The stars twinkled out our wrikled love to new life again.
We got new voucher to renew our vows last night.
Aroused by roses that formed rope-like shape.
The rope of love we got robbed to be strangled in love last night.
A night I am living to cherish forever...
Corky moon
You only see me in the night
During the day I look for you and not find you
I’ve been screepling around life the whole noon
And you hid from me yet pop-up uninvited in the night
And blind me with your zeal
You know I won’t wish you away
Always wanting your taste
You then stay instilling all kinds of dreams in my head
And reassuring me that they’ll happen .
You calm me to sleep and when I wake up you’re gone again
You had your way with me in the night
You kept me up, tossing and turning me
For a while I enjoyed being intoxicated by your presence
After you were done with me ,you gave me a beautiful stare
And I gazed upon you and you shushed me to sleep
Knowing that you’ll disappear in the morning.
I went looking for you but your brother burned me
And I ran from his scorch straight under a tree
The shade wanted to have me but you’ve already taken up the whole space
But he did managed to make me forget about you a while,
He wasn’t quiet like you.
You came again in the night,
You said nothing about the shade because you know it has nothing on you
I laid by my back, knees ups, exposing my whole being to you
Thinking how are you gonna screw me today
And whether you want me to moan or scream
Which one satisfies you? Which sound tells you that you’re doing me good right now
I turned and laid by my stomach the penetration of thoughts intensified
But you held me tighter not letting go
And kept whispering the things I need to hear.
But I know you’ll be gone in the morning
And I’ll be left to fix after myself
And try to bring down doors to catch the dreams you sold to me in the night.
bloated girth deceased,
not surprisingly packed orotund
size appetite conveniently weighted
gravity helped fell
giant gourmand chowhound
demise linkedin automatically tightened
neckerchief doubled as noose clothbound
neck, the luckless bard dead -
poets society he didst cofound
oh captain my captain compound
suffering no more, departure doth not confound
those familiar with ravages of pennilessness
although glum spouse doggone bewailing
analogous to melancholy coonhound
inescapable woebegone travails decompound
constituted complex challenges
doom also depressed petsmart deerhound
four footed friend invisibly yoked, where
writings witnessed scrivener
daily voluntarily deskbound
unsuccessful chicken scratch disbound
dispersed newpages feted
German, Oriental and American cockroaches
courtesy proffered grubhub,
wet precipitation courted mildew,
and mold beheld fancy feast dumbfound
ding maggoty parasites riddled
treasure trove discovered earthbound
corpse hungry flocking carrion
heralded all points of compass - eastbound
most popular, hence route crow did house,
cutthroat beasty boys
aided, devoured, gorged...,
among which canine corps elkhound
leader of pack tacking course enwound
roundabout path barking commands
ruff lee didst expound
slinked sly as foxes -
shushed kindred brothers
up ahead wolf gang,
thence took faux minute paws
aware fresh meat fairground
survival of fittest edict woof lee decreed,
when sudden thick terrain fogbound
not impossible mission, though
totally opaque foreground
keen sense of smell and hearing aid found
dead reckoning, i.e. ground zero.