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Sharkey Poems Apr 2016
Pretty Little Cup Cake Store:
I walk through the door.
Somehow I think it will
Cheer me up.
A white iced-pink sprinkled cupcake
Will help me forget.
While unwrapping the trendy black and  baby blue doted baking paper
Will bring back the past again.

But, even I know it is a ruse
A joke I play on myself.
You know the owners are some super hot soccer moms whose family invested in their latest project.
Those **** bakers with pretty white aprons
And size two retro-pink waitress uniforms;
Smiling and cooing at the lavender infused cake
That makes this treat go down so smooth.
A gluten-free icing with a garnish of kumquat.
This will land their pictures on the local news.

I am not a size two.
I will just as soon eat a nutty-buddy by Little Debbie
But, this trendy cupcake cafe, makes me feel I am one of those
Pretty ladies in the retro pink waitress uniform.
Kinda like a celebration, for a party of one.

I am not a hot pretty stick chick
I will buy four, five or six of those pretty cupcakes.
Pretending I am buying a hostess gift.
But, the truth.....
My husband forgot that we married
8 years ago this day.
I will pay too much for too little product: but the cake box is cute
I will sit in my car
Eating, till my teeth hurt.
I will rationalize; that I will cleanse tomorrow.

I will go home.
He will ask how I am, while staring at the TV.
"Shussh" he will say, "I'm trying to hear."
There is no use to remind him
He will play the tired "I'm-in-the-dog-house game."
I prefer stuffing four, five or six pretty little cupcakes
Into my mouth then listening
To his tired apologies, weak little lies and false promises of a planned
Surprise.
Instead; I will go to my room; then my private bath:
I will stick my fingers down my throat
And cough up my life.
Close your eyes, can you hear dulcet song?

Giant emerald palm trees creek in winds answer
As though an ocean is breaking over a thousand sea shells
── polishing, enfolding and caressing sun kissed shores
Shusssh as rasasvada ascends

You are peaceful now?

The skies above are painted cerulean-blue silk
Pleasantly, you are drunk on rhythmic wave sounds,
as you flow on cyan velvet ocean sun sheets
balanced on a Caribbean shore

Can you smell the salted bouquet?

Flawless turquoise sea flowers sway in warm seas──
as you think of soft ******* rising and falling to a gentle
lovers touch
White clams fan their smiles gently licking waters,
and Octopi’s purple-blue tentacles silently slide across clear
── silver ocean floors

Can you see the rainbow creatures dart into the light beams?
Azure waves roll into vibrations emanating in all directions
Conjured and rident in oceans magic── spheres oscillate around you,
from the veins below to the stratosphere above
You rise holding a chalice of sun gold, and
silvery worlds of mercury

Breathing in the sweet loves breeze,
as echoes of golden light in waves tingle along your face,
On the upper shores you see peridot buds and emerald leaves
──that linger on translucent blue-green Larimar days

The palm tree creeks and the wind answers,
Shussh, relax, listen to the rolling sea shells on
loves, silvery shores

© ──ASPAR (A Sol Poet by Arnay Rumens)160518
Zhavaed Haemaed Apr 2020
Breathless, dizzying. A pain there. Ouch ! Why do my feet hurt? Pebbles ! This climbing to the top. Narrow, could it be any worse? Oxygen, so abruptly scarce. Darkness, pierces the gleaming light. What's that sound? Shussh, merry people alight. Laughter? But a scared child cries. Melancholy? This ascent to the top. The views? Absurd and surreal torpor. The top. Finally, I have arrived. Yet, Desolate. Fearful. Impending doom. Sandals, where are my sandals? I feel unclad. This outrageous wind, cutting me up. Dissected, operated. An angst is born. Go away, not today. An escape ensues. Haste, a quick descent. As my sandals call. And I beckon, and I beckon. 👣
Leydis Jul 2017
Shshshsh mi amor,
Sé que es embarazoso,
que no te salen las palabras,
que tienes miedo,
que te aterra el mañana….
No te preocupes amor,
No digas más nada, quédate ahí,
te protegeré en mi nido.

He puesto el huevo de nuestro amor
en un nido que hospedara nuestra pasión,
que nos protegerá de aves rapiña
como lo son la desconfianza,
la monotonía, y unos brazos cubiertos en nieve.
Nuestro nido incubara todos nuestros sueños,
protegiéndonos de las desilusiones,
solo tenemos que cubrirnos en compasión uno al otro.

Shshsh mi amor, ya estoy aquí.
No mi amor, ya no tienes que sufrir.
Si, cobíjate en mí,
refugia tus penas en mis senos deseosos de ti.
Mis piernas como membrana de huevo,
tejerán las fibras que el cansancio te causo.
Amalgamare tu lasitud con mis espumosos besos,
germinando de ti un hombre vibrante y completo.

Shussh mi amor, si quédate ahí,
usare las yemas de mis dedos para emulsificar tus ilusiones
con los aceites que excreten de las membranas de mis furores.

Quédate ahí amor,
nuestro nido está rodeado de canarios, jilgueros y ruiseñores,
para que nos sirvan de alarma, recordándonos que ha llegado
el alba, que nuevamente nos toca hacer el amor.

En ese nido he colocado sutilmente nuestro huevo de amor,
mi cascara te protegerá hasta que te sientas listo
para con tus propia alas volar.

LeydisProse
7/10/2017
https://www.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Donall Dempsey Apr 2024
BIG SISTER

you were older than me
now I am older
than you

can ever be
(forever 18 &
forever dead) .

I felt so guilty
when I passed
that age

wishing
I could exchange
some of the life I had

so that you could
experience
the life you never knew

I used to talk to
your grave
as if it were you...

always
beginning:
“Hiya, kid...”

now I find you
everywhere
instead

the sunlight
on the garden
smiles like you did

the ladybird
stumbling
over the furrows of my fingerprint

has the same graceful
awkwardness
your body lent to every movement

you are younger
than me
& will always be

and I am older
than you
...will ever know


* * * * * *


The sound of my sister's voice.  We lived in a house not made of books.  The only  texts existed in the texture of the telling...my sister finecombing my hair and soothing the pain with...shussh...stories.

'The little toy soldier is covered with dust...'

...exists only in my mind and the vague trellised traces of Junie's voice.  It is here breath against my skin as I fall asleep. It has never entered my mind through print yet it is printed irredeemably...indelibly in my mind.

'What is it again? '

I am following my father...gogging my Dad doggedly for the words of a song.  I scrawl the words across the page of my mind as exasperated his patience explodes:

'As down the ****** glen one ****** Easter morn...how many times do I have to tell you! '

My sister Moira is slightly tipsy.  I glow with pleasure as the pattern unfolds.  When she is more that slightly tipsy she will softly and sadly sing.

'I know my love by his way of walking and I know my love by his way of talking and I know my love by his eyes so blue and if my love left me what would I do...? '

I am drunk with her words.  There is a slight smell of loneliness off her breath.  I hang   on   her   every    breath.

I have had four teeth pulled and my world fevers and frets. The smell of sausages sidles up the stairs and seduces me to the top of the stairs.  When I am safely ion danger the smelly magic no longer supports me.  I fall and float down the stairs.  Junie comforts  and croons.  I am lying in her arms in her bed.  Again she sings.  'Again! ' I plead.  She sings again.

'Black is the colour of my true love's hair...her lips are like...'

Her body vibrates with sound and the words echo through me and echo through the memory of me.  For a long long time
the only way these words were written down ws in the breath entering and leaving her body.

When I remember to write...

I write to remember I write to forget.

I write to recover what has never left me but exists in a someplace of my mind.  I write to find out who I am and if I ever was. I write to discover where I went when the wordl went away.

As the bus crashes the book is torn and burning.  The world dies.  A child cries.  I WRITE TO REMEMBER I WRITE TO FORGET.  The book leies strewn across the motorway.  It's spine is broken and its leaves flutter away in dismay.  The book is burning.  It is unreadable as it reads itself to the night's wind. It is an image torn from a dream that is really real.  Its spine is broken and pages turn themselves over and over in the night.

I write...to remember...I write...to forget.

Sunlight streams through the bedroom window...sculpts a sister.  Creates Junie.  She is telling me the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.  Every time I cry.  She says she will not tell me again because it always me makes me cry.  I promise not to cry if she promises to tell me again.  She tells me again.  I cry  every time.  She is not dead.  She is telling me the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.  She is created of sunlight.  Dust motes dance in attendance.  It can not be...more real than this. I write to remember...I write...to forget.  I write to recover the times of her not dying...when she is sunlight and breath.  When she was my book.  When the sound of her was all...around me.  Writing to remember...I forget so much.  I write because I am - lost.  I write to find an exit door in my mind.  The book is broken.  The book is burning.  Pages...fiery pages flutter like lost souls escaping into the darkness.  I write to reach the light.  I write to enter the darkness.  I write to escape the sound of the book burning. I write to forget...I...write to...not forget.                             Remember.

* * * * *

FALLING ASLEEP WITH MY BIG SISTER - TANKA
  
  5 half-moons rising
on the hand that strokes my hair
bracelets like music
whispering softly in my ear
“Shhhshhh...therethere...shush... shush...there! ”

— The End —