Long Shushing Poems
Long Shushing Poems. Below are the most popular long Shushing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shushing poems by poem length and keyword.
A nurse takes time
To hang a DNA rainbow strain
Of Christmas bulbs
Along my gray window ledge
He plugged them in
Bringing a campfire glow of embers
Under my lids
And to the shirking corners
And the inflating machines shushing the room
Below
In the cobblestone valley of downtown
Ballerinas of steam
Spin
From paper-pushed vents in the empty streets
Window shopping on Washington Square
Laces of faces and hands
Pressed to glass
Longing for suits at Kositcheks
Or gold and silver from Linn & Owen
Mists jaywalking
And flagging a cold evening of vacated taxis
I dream
Of taking my wife’s hand
Pirouetting her across a crowded floor
At the Green Door
To a band bellowing the flutes of Canned Heat
Flinging sweat again like bathers in an ocean
Kissing and hugging and ass grabbing
Elbows bent with Fireball shots
High-fiving
Imploring return to our basic instinct
The perfect gift
Of lust and love marked by our fingerprints.
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.
She has never seen such a wildness
She laughs so loudly that people are looking
She had never laughed this loudly before
Her relatives began shushing her
But she is eighty-six years young
And this silliness tickled her funny bone
She cannot stop laughing at the craziness
Her husband is dead, so he can no longer silence her
She settles down after awhile but the feeling is still there
The joyful, happy feeling she has not had for a long time
She is not a hundred percent understanding the feeling
Words do not come as easily now with the Alzheimers
She stares into the abyss of the moment
Not speaking at all but there is a tinge of hope now
A tiny sliver of optimism that maybe she is not in a coma
Her relatives begin to kiss her
They are making their way out of her life
As she has made her way out of theirs
Not on purpose but due to aging
And a disease that is holding her hostage right now
She stares into the mist watching the angels dance
They are doing acrobatics.
One sticks out his tongue.
She begins to laugh, more loudly and exuberantly.
DROPBOX
brushing off dust and dirt
the dirge of one
the scourge of silent face
courage?
...she wailed
as many had done
wrapped in an old towel
...back to work
after her deposit,
in the cradle of a wall
sealed envelope of fate
hands retrieve
the unwanted matter
shushing the orphaned child,
adopted by systematic embrace
without a paper trail
heaven’s sentry guards the forgotten
saved by the dropbox.
1/8/2018
http://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/parenting/babies/unwanted-hundreds-of-babies-abandoned-in-drop-box-amid-wealthy-countrys-adoption-woes/news-story/38ce38698bdf89025b7a192c1b356d84
Purr-fect feelings fall like shadows, down,
Casting hope into life’s greatest yearnings,
Purr-fect silence rains promises all around,
Shushing the extravagance of frisky earnings.
Purr-fect wonders exclude the restless meow,
From the promise of agility beyond compare.
Purr-fect stillness calms the most anxious brow,
Fantasizing about the mouse caught in a snare.
Pur-fect poise, dignified she abides the night,
Softly stirring the haunted nightmares of her stalked,
Purr-fect grace, begging for that first tender bite,
From the frozen heart she has assuredly shocked.
Purr-fect joy fills her heart and soul with hope,
When she remembers the cuddling of her human,
Purr-fect composure reminds her she can cope,
Unlike those careless canines, she can see - acumen
Sunday was patent leather shoes, white anklets with lace
Starchy petticoats, flouncy lavender dresses with huge bows in the back.
Sunday was Sunday School, where everyone in the church knew us.
Singing so loudly in the pew during church our mother was shushing us.
Sunday was roast beef and potatoes with chocolate or lemon meringue pie.
Sunday was a day for Daddy to stay home all day, show us his sense of humor.
We looked forward to this day all week long; it was almost our favorite day.
It would have been our very favorite if Saturday had not been cartoon day.
Sunday was singing along with The Lennon Sisters,
Sunday was singing along with Mitch Miller
Sunday was eating homemade donuts and popcorn for supper.
Childhood Sunday memories make me smile to this day,
Fifty years since I had one of those childhood Sundays.
Fiery sun's endeavors to scorch the buds and blossoms fail
As pre-monsoon drizzles cool and caress the environs
Maia and Laxmi, goddesses of spring, slowly sail
Optimism and adventure spread wings, shushing storm's sirens.
My human form moulded to be born in May merriment
My conscience and consciousness cascade from the divine source.
With the leaven of truth, each word and deed of mine ferment
As the breeze gives breath to this month, love becomes my life force.
Adele, Will Arnett, Megan Fox, and Lenny the Kravitz
How sweet, Rabindranath Tagore too, bloomed in this season!
The labourers, who still are suffering for their birthrights
If He's made me a Mayborn, doesn't God have his reason?
As graces of fruitfulness reach the zenith of goodness
May the almighty, day by day, lead me towards fullness!
Never were you an ally
Walking the halls of home
Chaos erupting
Leaving babies all alone
We learned early to be busy
Keeping the energy flying
Shushing the evils
That blood was buying
So many secrets in disguise
Operating the huge machine
Presenting pretty pictures
Showing out golden seams
You are not welcome, my friend
In a home full of fear
You must always keep your distance
Though LOVE draws you near
There must always be noise
Dying thoughts lie in silence
No one wants to face the truth
Of what family secrets bought through violence
...move along little doggie...move along
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06-09-2026
the horizon is motionless in its red and purple hues
snow-topped mountains are shushing us with silent lips
the immobility of this presence does not hesitate to bring stillness
I look into the water’s depths; all the wildlife must be sleeping
there is not one tiny splash; this well-worn dock placates me
this is a place for eagles, but no bird is flying; the air is soundless
a meditative place, a Zen place where I could sit and emote
so I do, crossing my legs on the edge of the dock, stilling my soul
a tiny breeze barely whispers her secrets onto my face; I smile
feeling all-powerful in this sacred place, loaned to me by the Master
thoughts I could have never conjured anywhere else come to me
I begin to solve my tiny problems as the world embraces me with silence.
Is there anything as silent as fog in a forest?
I doubt it.
As I venture deeper into it, I think bobcat.
When you hear one the hair on your neck rises.
Its scream sounds like a woman being raped and killed.
There is nothing but nothingness in this beauty of a day.
The leaves are off the trees, but no longer crunchy.
So even my boot steps are silent.
I feel God watching me.
Are there deer? A fox? Raccoons? A rabbit?
There is a smear in the corner of my eye.
A glimmer of a wisp of something.
Gone when I turn.
I commune with the forest
Aware the trees are shushing each other
With silent voices.
The echo of quiet is inspiring.
I sit on a wet felled log and wish I had not.
Now my jeans are wet and I am uncomfortable.
I hear the bobcat’s scream.
It is time to quietly return to the house
As I turn, I hope nothing will jump on my back, breaking it
So a large cat can begin devouring me at my head.