Long Shushing Poems
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On comes a traveler from lands that I have not wandered only visited
Bringing with him memories of the pains I have borne through my life
Like the desert whose dunes I dared only once to climb when youth held me fast
A fleeting grasp, a tentative hold that was as it must be for us all I have come to see
In those valleys of sand where the sun drank from my body ravenously to crack my skin
I saw only once the whispering vision of life in the distance
Shimmering in the heat of the burning sands stood an oasis many miles deeper
So I set out with that vision hardly in my mind across the desert
Over mountainous dunes and into abyssal valleys with the sun raking my back
I walked and then I crawled when my feet became blistered stumps rubbed raw
I crawled until my hands and knees bled
I crawled until I held my head high no longer
Still I wandered, still I moved despite the sand choking my eyes closed
I crawled my body burned and my eyes blinded by sun and sand
Only to find my way back to this shack on the Desert’s edge
My journey had betrayed me I believed
My journey had twisted me all around I thought
Until today when came a wanderer through the desert forge
To sit down and rest with heavy sigh and cloud of slowly settling sands
On his shoulder sat a grey old owl watching me silently with eyes of tired wisdom
In his arms the man carried his second friend a satyr with ivory pipes to match his horns
I nodded in quiet solitude rocking back and forth in my old wooden chair
So it was that we listened to the gentle creaking of the wood
Listened to thunder rolling in off the great Blue Divide
Listened to wind shushing through the leaves of Heaven’s Gate
Felt the heat wafting over us from the Desert’s edge
Neither of we two speaking, only listening until at long last with the sun beginning to set
The satyr stirred just enough to lift the pipes to his lips and then to play
A hauntingly sweet song of blissful sorrow like age-old memories of lost youth
And we listened to him play his song long into the night
Until the stars failed to shine and the curtain of day touched the veil of dreams
“Time to leave, time to go, time to say farewell
For there are roads still to travel and I have yet much to see
And so long a way to go,” he said with a quiet voice of strength
The night
has a bluish tint tonight
from the exceptionally
brilliant
full moon,
sky,
cloudless
with a slightly brisk breeze
coming from
the direction
of where the last cemetery
I passed was,
“the breath of the dead”,
I think it might be an omen.
Barely a sound
is heard
in this still end of day
as I reside
under a large,
scraggly scrub pine.
I survey the store front
where I have located
my last two targets,
it seems like yesterday
when I took down the first
and now here I find
the last two
(deserving)
in a pool hall ,
well,
I could wait
for them to leave,
but since
this might be it
for awhile,
I’ll just go in
and turn it
from a pool hall
to a slaughterhouse.
I extend six tendrils
down my back
Like a cape
allowing them
to sway in the breeze
as I chew
on a hunk of flesh
I found in my pocket.
Surrounding myself in illusion
I leisurely
walk to the front,
go in,
then press my right palm
to the glass
sealing it with a black panel
then allow it
to expand,
blocking all the windows
so slowly no one notices.
I spot one by the bar,
the second
on the other side of the room
with someone,
I lick my lips in anticipation,
oh I’ve finally
come into
what I deserve,
tonight I shall
make the walls run red.
Casually,
I head to my closest prey
and stand directly behind her
with an evil grin
spreading across my face,
when she turns around,
she recognizes
the old face I’m wearing
and she goes white.
Raising my right index finger
to my lips
to make a shushing gesture
I bring my left hand
to her chest
and encase her
in a restraining band
and push her
into a stool,
she seems about to scream,
or cry,
neither will do………..
yet.
With a finger
I send a pin of blackness
through her lower jaw
and silence her.
Almost strutting
I go to the back door,
send a restraining band
through the handle
and bury it
in both sides of the frame.
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
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.
Acres and acres of barren land.
The dried tumbleweeds roll across the open field,
their roots dry and uprooted.
The quiet cotton field where slavery once beckoned,
the sounds of voices chanting,
the saloon where the taps flowed like blood through their veins,
the missuses with long skirts and huge hats—
a young miss sitting on the knee of some foolhardy lass.
The sheriff across the way,
a hand on his hip, meaning business.
The smell of warm bread lingers in the air from the bakery,
the blacksmith, hammer in hand,
striking the hot iron on the wood stove.
Memories of ancestors and fool’s gold remain in the dark.
The fine line that was drawn is still visible in the sand,
along with the bloodstain, now a faint shade of pink,
telling a story of the law against the outlaws.
The onslaught that ensued had turned the town into a war zone,
makeshift graves and wooden crosses everywhere,
a place where man no longer exists.
A battle of wills with no surrenders,
the legacy now silence,
marked in stones scribbled in red.
Years of neglect; now it feels like a ghost town,
the empty years and the signs that are left are part of the history.
In the distance, the sound of life; there’s the silhouette of a horse and buggy.
Inside, a little family—the new settlers.
The father jumps down at the line in the sand.
A boy of six, with dirty suspenders, squeals with delight
as his father, with sweat running down his face,
hammers the sign in the ground.
The hope of a new beginning is felt in the air.
You hear the faint sound of a baby crying,
the mother shushing
as she reads the simple wording:
In Marked Territory
1889
Population: 9
rain reflects the tears I’ve cried,
memories who’ve fought and died,
as this world continues in its pride,
forever unaware, will I always hide,
secrets who I’ll one day confide…
rain echoes the dew of the dawn,
after the night has finally gone,
revealing grace who takes a chance on,
reminding me of One to whom I’m drawn,
will I never silence the fear I often slip-on…
rain exposes the joy and the tears,
voicing the gentleness of the years,
remembering the beauty who endears,
inviting the soothing of One who cares,
angels are entertained, unawares…
rain ponders the moments of grace,
experiencing love for the human race,
like heaven, this joy will never erase,
music falls light across my face,
inspiring my heart to hear, just in case…
rain vibrates like the trembling kiss,
sweeter than it’s ever been, pure bliss,
freeing hearts to believe in this…
love from Him who we won’t dismiss –
He is the answer to prayers not amiss…
rain falls gentle, touching the soul,
lifting the heart to make it whole,
quieting every tear so we can extol,
praising the Creator, who is in control,
the One who gives grace, will always console…
rain pouring out its soothing poetry in verse,
with words and rhymes, my heart does converse,
shushing all the darkness with a heart not averse…
to the joy of knowing God who created the universe,
God who is light and love and who will disperse…
rain so peaceful it feels like His love being poured out
over the world, over the heart, over every doubt…
so that, believing completely, we’ll raise our voice with a shout!
Is it sanity or bravery that I come to you like this?
Wanting, no needing something to live for
Something to see
On the long marched across the sea of grass I wonder
What maddens possessed me?
What in sanity led me to this place?
Out here looking for friend
What have I done to myself?
I’m mining my own gold
Yet can I trust the value it will bring?
Can I trust myself?
Is it sanity or bravery that I came to you like this?
On the long dark nights I lay awake
Doubting my nightmare dreams
I’m standing at an alter
The women beside, my bride
Is weeping nothing tears
I keep whispering to her
It’s ok love
And she keeps
Shushing me
I close my eyes
When they open gold falls from the sky
I look up
There are my eyes
Weeping rain
Breathing thunders last game
I close my eyes
I’m not afraid of the darkness
I trust that the moon shall guyed me
So is it vanity or brave that I came to you like this?
Is it saintly last strand?
Madness in a brandy glass?
Or
Has the game of loneliness come to its end?
What do I do?
Shall I press forth into the unknown?
The unseen?
Mining my own gold
Or
Do I stay here?
Like a child hiding beneath my mother’s dress?
Is it sanity or bravery that I come to you like this?
With my heart out there to chow
I don’t know what else to do?
So I write and walk
Think and talk
Yet how can I be share
That I’m welcomed with open arms
Is it vanity or bravery that I’ve come to you like this?
Out here looking for a friend
Among the black sheep
The folks that no one needs
Except for me
So is it saintly or bravery that I stand before you
With my heart out there to chew
I didn’t know what else to do.
Wild were-women roaming in the hills, cliff dwellers around
Avoiding banshee ghost riders, sniffing for them in earthy ground.
Shushing there were-pups least 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.
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.
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