"shoosh" poems
You shouldnt write off just me
but everything-
the scraps of paper in the street
the grit & sand blowing in the wind
the dust cloud smudge on windshield
kitten prints
the dried husk of a squashed frog
the broken necklace on the ground
the toy forgotten until its found.
Nail in the coffin
shut closed buried and forgotten
no crack of light just a shoosh and thump of dirt
hollow booms in heart
burying in settling
deep inside cold descends
silence between the ears
between the years
silence the soft thump of still beating heart on auto thump
thump thump
no thought to live or breathe
no thought to live but there continues life
shut up inside
Write me off dont pull me out
leave me silent as stone freezing my bones
nail in the coffin
to rise or not time will tell to live or…
to be remembered or forgotten.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 3:37 AM UTC
The class echos disturbance,
The teacher Tries to shoosh,
The class Screams,
The teacher cries, And runs out of the Room.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
No matinee today
from my blackbird,
the robin too, is off sick
and the rain is so insistent,
that the shoosh of the wind
in the birch tree is just a whisper.
On days like this,
lonely people in lonely lives
give over and give up;
here in this gun free country
the gas oven, the dressing gown cord
and stored up sleeping pills,
are enough and enable the tired
to leave without saying goodbye.
The dead do not read obituaries,
are not here to unravel confusions,
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?
Now there is one less setting at table
a bedroom door stays shut and
in the bathroom
the toothbrush goes dry in the mug.
The clean shirts at the dry cleaners
are picked up and on their hangers
with the new heeled shoes in their bag
are fresh goods for the charity shop.
And in this big city village
no one cares
no one really cares
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
We’re going on a duck hunt; just granny and me!
We’re going on a duck hunt, let me tell you what we see.
We are going to the river, with a bag of stale bread.
Fighting off seagulls and pigeons as they hover above our heads.
We will pass by the riverbanks where grasses and trees grow tall.
Watching and listening to the river as it tumbles, rolls, and roars.
We will see flowers of different colours. White daisies, yellow buttercups, blue cornflowers, covering the parklands in a dazzling display.
My Granny says seeing the kaleidoscope of colours makes her day!
We will pass by rabbits hopping about their homes of grassy mounds.
Every now and then pricking up their ears; listening to every sound.
We will pass by geese gathered in a gaggle.
Big bottomed geese walking with a waggle.
We will pass by swans gliding with their necks held high.
Several young cygnets tucked in and swimming by their mums side.
We will pass all these wonders of nature as we make our way to the ducks.
Listening for every quack and cluck.
We reach our goal with a bag of bread in-hand.
Throwing the bread to the ducks who say thank you with a “quack” and a “cluck.”
Before you know it, the swans are there too. Then the seagulls and pigeons “shoosh, go away you!”
Ducks are the best of the lot you see. They make me laugh; I think they are funny.
No particular reason but my granny says, “It is because I am only three.”
We’re going on a duck hunt; just granny and me!
We’re going on a duck hunt, to feed the ducks their tea.
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 6:35 AM UTC
sitting on a lazy chair,
bones locked in place.
as rain randomly falls
through a breeze like
scattered seed.
wholly intent on the green
sway it compels, i reach out
my hands to absorb the stir.
imprint the latest turning, and
run them across my face.
seeing what sees through me so much
better now, wet all over with the
shoosh of passing cars.
raising the goblet that wets the beak
of a black bird, hailed king of my ghost town.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
in the quiet and in the dark
everything is amplified
everything amplified
is amplified again
the depth of a breath
the beat of a heart
the shoosh-shoosh blood
rushing through veins in fits and starts
electrical pulses race back and forth
synapses fire at the slightest provocation
hurry up, wait
hurry up, wait
the endless bustle of an internal subway
delivering weary passengers to every destination
alone, in the dark
I hear their whispers
whispers drowned out
with white noise by day
slipping through the tiniest of cracks
running circles in my mind
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC