"susurration" poems
tenderness leaves
my eyes in capillary ribbons.
your diamond lips are chalked,
released from rock.
your head, a knot of angel pine—
a dark-brown blooming
sticky and lucked to the back
of my throat.
it is in this moment that
I hear a wisp of rapture
blowing through the oak overhead.
my heart’s motor cranked
like October’s last churning
bumble bee.
*pollination
susurration
be gone…*
you kept looking past me,
your hand on my shoulder.
the precious gauze of your profile
mixed porcelain doll and found a
chisel to perfect your nose.
I feel the love of everything and
you—so unaware of your
beautiful.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
In this mist I can't quite see my edges properly
I'm coping on the level of
both rational and almost raving
and I want to shine
which isn't much, just a firefly light
but I'm in the midst of susurration
and they're not gentle, and there's no calming breeze to carry me
because my wings have been closed for a long time
and I can only beg
but to whom?
It doesn't feel sincere
when I'm not even sure
But I promise that I mean it
because these tears aren't for my own benefit
they are to show you that I've still a little fight left
enough to wrap myself in
Because now, I'm only fighting for myself
Although I was always told to upraise the ones reaching
and I'm not content, I am trying
and I need
a transformation
but I can't croak out "Save me".
Even as I dangle over this puddle, and I work up courage
courage to find your ears
in hopes that you'll hear me,
I also know I'm losing strength
becoming heavier
I am certain that I'm now too heavy for you, I will pull you with me
so I will wait longer
searching the mist
for someone with superhuman strength
and I will grow more tired
until that hand comes
and discovers
that my weight it otherworldly, now
and they will have to choose
if I am worth the struggle.
The devil will hope to cheat
but God's Will decides.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
How do you sleep, eyes opened or closed? Ears listening or ignoring? Senses awoken or dreaming?
I have slept many times, and I've slept many ways. Dreams can be humorous, distant, terrifying, long, short; even beautiful.
Laying on grass, I can feel every single blade of it and the moist dew, I assume it's morning. I feel a gentle wind roll over my soft skin and hear the susurration of the wind, caressing my ear lobes tenderly in passing. I've yet to open my eyes, yet, I see countless possibilities in the vastness I Feel Surround Me.
Slowly, I stir from what must have been a deep sleep, my eyes open and I squint to assuage the pain caused by blinding sunlight.
It's too much to take in. A beautiful landscape. Mountain ranges that cover miles, rivers that flow with elegance yet viciousness, animals of every kind. It all lays before me. I'm humbled by the pulchritude of every little detail in front of these eyes...
I drift effortlessly to the nearest tree and softly place my palm on it, feeling the rough bark against my supple skin, taking note of the fragrance of fresh trees: the boon of mother nature.
Walking slowly down a steep slope and to the edge of a rather large drop, I think to myself, "I feel close," without warning, feeling the wind whip my face as the ground draws closer in an instant. The earth is hurtling towards me, I'm not scared. Impact is made and I bounce, the softness of my mattress telling me I've arrived, back in the real world; the comforting disappointment envelops me, as I realise....Yet another dream short-lived.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:25 PM UTC
How is it that I am now so softly awakened,
My leaves shaken down with music?--
Darling, I love you.
It is not your mouth, for I have known mouths before,--
Though your mouth is more alive than roses,
Roses singing softly
To green leaves after rain.
It is not your eyes, for I have dived often in eyes,--
Though your eyes, even in the yellow glare of footlights,
Are windows into eternal dusk.
Nor is it the live white flashing of your feet,
Nor your gay hands, catching at motes in the spotlight;
Nor the abrupt thick music of your laughter,
When, against the hideous backdrop,
With all its crudities brilliantly lighted,
Suddenly you catch sight of your alarming shadow,
Whirling and contracting.
How is it, then, that I am so keenly aware,
So sensitive to the surges of the wind, or the light,
Heaving silently under blue seas of air?--
Darling, I love you, I am immersed in you.
It is not the unraveled night-time of your hair,--
Though I grow drunk when you press it upon my face:
And though when you gloss its length with a golden brush
I am strings that tremble under a bow.
It was that night I saw you dancing,
The whirl and impalpable float of your garment,
Your throat lifted, your face aglow
(Like waterlilies in moonlight were your knees).
It was that night I heard you singing
In the green-room after your dance was over,
Faint and uneven through the thickness of walls.
(How shall I come to you through the dullness of walls,
Thrusting aside the hands of bitter opinion?)
It was that afternoon, early in June,
When, tired with a sleepless night, and my act performed,
Feeling as stale as streets,
We met under dropping boughs, and you smiled to me:
And we sat by a watery surface of clouds and sky.
I hear only the susurration of intimate leaves;
The stealthy gliding of branches upon slow air.
I see only the point of your chin in sunlight;
And the sinister blue of sunlight on your hair.
The sunlight settles downward upon us in silence.
Now we ****** up through grass blades and encounter,
Pushing white hands amid the green.
Your face flowers whitely among cold leaves.
Soil clings to you, bark falls from you,
You rouse and stretch upward, exhaling earth, inhaling sky,
I touch you, and we drift off together like moons.
Earth dips from under.
We are alone in an immensity of sunlight,
Specks in an infinite golden radiance,
Whirled and tossed upon silent cataracts and torrents.
Give me your hand darling! We float downward.
2.4k
In wilted droves they shuffle weary
Denizens of concrete plains
The brutal truth of Darwin’s theory
Striving grim for jealous gains
Hungry wallets snap at pockets
Morning thick with susurration
Eyeballs sunk in heavy sockets
Darting wild in consternation
Fleeting bursts of mock affection
Melt away as summer frost
Vague, the gaze of recollection
Quick to mind, the current cost
Clad in suits of gloomy weather
Human traces still remain
Shackles wrought in gold and leather
Wireless is the ball and chain
Winter stains the sunrise bitter
Drizzle darkened pavements wet
A fearless sun, the rain clouds litter
Lemon yellow suffragette
Incarcerated under skies
A bubble never fit to burst
As from the ape we reckless rise
And by the fallen angel cursed
To toil about the in-between
Loose of foot and fancy free
Creators of the never seen
Joyous bleak humanity
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
the morning is beautiful
it screams of you
greyish clouds stretched
thin across the sky
with patches of blue
showing through
light susurration of rain
little droplets tapping on my window
faint rumbles echo outside
against the walls of
the petrichor approaching
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
This object from high followed me
all evening. Sometimes, hiding behind
giant reeds shooting from the earth,
sometimes behind mist sprays.
The sea surging in the firmament
conceals it in her tresses now,
She who weeps her agony out
late every season in bereavement.
Her tears have filled up the valleys
on earth, with brackish waters.
Tonight the grilles that paint
the distance grey are wet by them.
I took a secret look, turning away
blushing on sudden reciprocation.
In the broken mirrors strewn
all over my lawn, it dunks winking:
ripples on the mirror, awash abashed:
light playing with shades of
delight, dejection, elation, suspension,
pulsation, susurration, salvation.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
A lone owl calls into the darkness;
Tonight there is no answering cry,
Only the soft susurration of leaves that have yet to fall,
and the murmur of two nearby trees embracing.
The water is inky and dark,
It envelops me like oil and I glide within it, foetal, like a newborn mermaid,
Her ivory skin weightless beneath the mirrored surface.
The woods rustle with life, awakened by the setting of the sun
and made audible by lack of human sound.
The wind wisps around branches, carving feathers in dark air
And I lose myself in the liquid, unsure where my edges are,
uncertain of my boundaries and my meaning.
I wish you were here with me,
Tenderly enclosing my soul with your softness, your hardness and your wet mouth.
I would glide then, and merge with you,
Two pale astronauts lost in the sea,
Lost to the world,
Lost to the unknowable shortness of life and love.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC
The tree beings are beckoning me
To listen to the song
You whisper on this gentle day
Through their Indian summer leaves
I hear your voice
In the susurration of the stream
And see your colors
In the dewdrops at dawn
You’re the wind and the earth
You’re the bird in the sky
The flame of the candle on my desk
You smile at me through drifting clouds,
Through the wild flowers along my path
And we paint rainbows together
You are the infinite sparkles,
Diamonds on a timeless sea
The dance of sunlight and water
Is radiating your love
As you tickle my nostrils
With the smoke of Holy Wood
And emanate peace through Buddha eyes
I see and feel your presence
So tangible all around
You are the true peace warrior
A beacon for us all
Your shining light is guiding us
Through dark nights of the soul
And I hear your message,
Loud and clear, that
All is full of love
© Jasmine, September 2012
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
She was accused of
Many unstable unsatisfactory emotions
All of which amalgamated her hurricane soul
That so breathlessly changed pace
With every maleficent or peaceful encounter
That fed the storm of her pith
A hollow quintessential girl
Hidden beneath eyes of tragic twinkle and
An amorphous disposition
That so whispered her visceral uncertainty
With which
She placed her demons in plethora
Upon all who obstreperously disturbed
The susurration of her own self-cataclysm
This decrepit distorted typhoon
Of the thundering lullaby she once embraced
Dissatisfied with the resonant rhapsodic scintilla
She so carelessly went from sonorous to somnolent
Once her nature echoed a sanguineous symphony
Of intimate honesty’s to now
Only as discreetly murmur callous contempt
Until this once magnificent hurricane soul
Did crumble like the walls her efficacy once
Tore down to whimper into the dust that is
Now her soul’s riven zephyr.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
The brides have passed all of the sentence tests
that Polyhymnia wanted. She asked
them to teach us how the earth became
a sullen crib. She thought the brides should sing
of nightmares and miracles, not freedoms.
If we have come to know our strengths, she said,
then perhaps we have come to love our failures
too much. Write it. This is a test.
*If Polyhymnia, then nothing is transitory,
just the vast ebbing out of what always flows away.
As Polyhymnia is, there is no sentence here,
just the quiet susurration in her lips.
Of Polyhymnia, her stone lips breathe silence,
for espousal has always been a poem to awake to.
For ancient, aimless, almost airless Polyhymnia,
the courtier of our language,
the world is made up for us. Always.*
© Jim Kleinhenz
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
You didn’t just break a mirror today.
Go Ask the shards of broken dreams .
Which lie ebbing away on the marble floor ,
Painted crimson by your hands ;
And you will hear them whisper,
The susurration of the fallen .
The susurration of truth .
Heart them narrate
A tale of the vanquished .
For that is all I am ,
Vanquished .
Spent.
And Quashed .
Like the demons of desire,
Living a life of Denial,
In your hooded eyes .
You didn’t just break a mirror today,
You shattered the only abstract left in my shallow world.
You shattered my occult hope ;
An abstract alien to cynics ,
Of life , love and all that once made us celebrate our kind.
But the reviving spirit ,
For someone who has everything to lose.
You didn’t just break a mirror today .
You broke my silent mistress,
A lover who witnessed more than you ever did.
A mate who knew more than you ever will.
And yet ,
Who Never did judge .
And know these love ,
Its death will not wipe the slates of memory clean .
For the bitter wine spilt last night;
Has stained us .
But also ,
Has reminded us .
Of what we could be , but never will be.
You didn’t just break a mirror today .
Ask the pieces of your broken image,
That beg clemency from your shrine .
A Shrine of solitude you have built for yourself.
You didn’t just break a mirror today ,
You broke yourself.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
I stare at those dark markings above,
Knowing how tired I am.
There's a fetid vibration humming
Through my bones,
Through my blood,
Through my every thought.
I'm so exhausted,
Yet I can't sleep.
I'm so exhausted
That the only pill
That could put me to sleep
Is a stray bullet.
There's a rancid susurration chiming
Through my flesh,
Through my bones,
Through the very essence of my coil.
I'm so tired
And in need of sleep.
I'm so tired
That even the cold steel
Of the train tracks
Welcomes me
As the only pillow
I can see myself able
To rest my head upon.
There's a rotten pulsation howling
Through my blood,
Through my bones,
Throughout.
I'm so drained
That an eternity of sleep
Just wouldn't do
Anything...
My only solace
Are the minute finger prints
That echo a memory of starlight
On a darkened ceiling.
Feb 15, 2024
Feb 15, 2024 at 5:26 AM UTC
such-a-deep-and-comely-thing
so-fleshless-moments-are-going
sharing-something-the-silence
and-the-quick-quiverings-of-flutings
when-nothing-becomes-the-heart
like-a-jungle-stripping-the-panache
of-the-viridian-softer-it-is-the-truth
of-the-navel’s-blue-pursuit
in-the-caterwaul-of-bodies-to-a-spry
plaything-summon-a-laughter-blacker
than-ravens-in-the-thrall-of-the-beset-moon
and-the-homes-fat-always-with-such-tender-beatings
it-is-the-time-of-the-heron
it-is-the-end-of-the-susurration
when-the-unswift-hands-of-alloys
sojourn-and-still-something-a-dagger-in-the-mire
of-the-cloud-that-egregiously-whispers
a-long-possiblity-of-dreams-and-their-palpable-weight
(say-it-will-perhaps-contention-of-pulseless-awakenings
when-it-was-such-truthfulness-that-when-the-heart-sings
the-mind-stirs-and-the-hands-dance-to-roundtables-of-mirth
twitching-such-belittled-locomotions-when-it-was-fashionable
to-have-adorned-you-the-love-and-not-firm-obstreperous-meanderings)
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
conversations in my head
words I've spoken
words left unsaid
monologue, dialogue
susurration through my mind
doubt and inaction
curiosity about reactions
if I said, or if I didn't
would your answers
be much different
echoing voices
through my skull
is reality real at all
questioning my motives
if I should fly or fall
voices and music
no quiet moments
silence unwelcome
moments of song
entwined by their voices
thoughts of doing
held back by fear
bickering voices, offering choices
do this thing or that one
still no clear winner
back to the beginning
or is it the middle
life spins around
we all live in riddles
May 17, 2010
May 17, 2010 at 10:47 AM UTC
That first, frosty, autumn morn
I ventured out into the woods.
It was crisp and cold,
My breath hung momentarily in the air.
The trees had shed their leaves In the windy days
And were now carpeting the forest floor.
My first step onto the russet and gold carpet
Crunched so satisfyingly and each step the same.
I set off at a brisk pace,
Leaves crackling and rustling underfoot; so pleasing to the ear.
I continued my walk across this golden carpet
Accompanied by the leaves’ susurration
And remembrances of childhood,
Playing amongst the fallen leaves.
Sep 16, 2024
Sep 16, 2024 at 6:29 AM UTC
In a pure world
music and birdsong
spinning
the lingering
melancholy
no more sadness
only memories
and longings
prostrating on the trails
of yellow leaves
counting the rhythms
of loneliness
the handsomeness of the island
the dreaminess of
the susurration of the beach
the elegance of the sails
the water as always
beating the stippled quietness
awaiting the next dawn
a ketch drifting on the ocean
shining a turquoise light
portraying the poetry
of the predawn
or the predawn hilarity of
the fish and shrimps
in the ocean
this is a pure world
and there is music
and running water in it
and the samisen of moods
and the psaltery
of the nature
whats more
the happy pixies shuttling
in the forest
of purity.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
We sit in your car
With the sun shining through
And take a moment
To just
Breathe.
Through the peach-fuzz pink
Of the interior of my eyelids
I can feel you watching me,
Your gaze as warm and lingering
As the rays of sunlight softly caressing my skin,
I imagine you tracing a pattern in your mind,
Following the gentle flutterings of my eyelids
Exploring the soft shape of my face
Watching the gentle susurration of my breath pooling from just-parted lips
Tracking the ridges of my collarbones
On marble white skin.
I can feel you watching me
And it makes me so overjoyed
Because I missed this
This thing that is not quite yet but a little akin
to love.
A moment of self doubt
Flickers in my field of vision-
What if I am wrong?
What if you do not feel this way
And I am stuck
In this idyllic peach-pink cherry-blossom fantasy of my own creation?
So I unshut my eyelids
Unstop time
And through the bluish haze
Of the suns rays
I find
Your eyes
On mine.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
Mediterranean flowers perfumed the air.
The morning sun rising showed little care,
for the dew on the grass that it ushered away.
Another bliss morning for another bliss day.
The sound of the sea gently kissing the shore.
I love where I came from, but I needed this more.
High wispy clouds said hello to the sun,
then melted away until there were none.
Gold coloured sand ran down to the sea,
and played with the ripples, tumbling free.
A lone little dog with no hesitation,
went bounding on in through the wave’s susurration.
I sat on the wall, I could sit here for life.
Away from the stresses devoid of all strife.
But soon I must leave and return to the grind.
With a tear in my eye I’ll leave all this behind.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 3:33 PM UTC
i have been with you
a long time in my head
Once
you are near
my mind is clear
Blast!
Your look is assurance
i sense your gaze
i am old enough
to not be careless
i fall back into place
i must hit the road
to play ignorance
You are good
You are good
(eye to eye)
inner susurration:
i would trouble your path
i would turbid your reason
You were forward to notice
the best possible situation
Separation
Sep 1, 2024
Sep 1, 2024 at 9:25 PM UTC
I am the bleeding lungs of a scream sustained
for far too long
I am the white knuckles of inconsiderate rage
gripping to strong
I am the splitting ripple echo of a migraine
too big to contain
I am the pummeling assault of spewed words
seething disdain
I am the clenching compressing tension of teeth
ground to dust
I am the derailed rabid raging lunatic
about to combust
I am the catastrophe of inferred innuendos
nothing to lose
I am oppression's obsession convulsing chartreuse
color of lifes bruise
I am the cantankerous susurration
of your sneering disgust
I am the brazen defiance of inferiority
influence unjust
I am the uprising insurgence of misery
you crudely bestow
I am the phantasm succubus of your abyss
I will overthrow
I am
more than my gender
more than my station
I am
here to render
your future frustration
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 6:34 PM UTC
Let there be light,
there be light
light,
the flowers, snow, the colours,
fragrance, the dawn,
moon and the sun and stars,
poetry, you -
all light;
You are poetry: your
dimpled smile is poetry;
But isn't poetry sound?
The sparkling of the thunder,
crackling of fire,
susurration of the river -
in the end, sound is light;
the poetry of truth is light;
Birth of a star, volcanoes,
supernovae,
all -
sound, poetry, light:
you are light;
Nov 16, 2024
Nov 16, 2024 at 11:51 AM UTC
It’s Wednesday.
Some ungodly hour between
4:00 and 6:00. Maybe. I’m not sure.
My mind is soft, unfocused,
sleep-heavy.
Dawn’s greeting is gentle, loving.
A mother’s smile. A susurration, interrupted
by David Wolfe promoting the NutriBullet on an LED screen.
Avocado, kale, blueberries.
Pseudo-science babble stems from wild,
bright eyes, overflowing into bohemian curls. Overgrown and unruly.
Enthusiasm and conviction have
never been more entertaining.
Billy Mays and his dynamic personality pitch.
Stubborn stains shiver before the power of OxiClean.
In a parallel world, I have bought out
every kitchen appliance, every menial utensil
that will revolutionize my quotidian life.
Those ped eggs, the George Foreman grills, Shamwows.
And I am content,
as I sit on my throne of ShamWows,
draped in an oversized Snuggie.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC
God, this stupid thing
language! and what of it
anyway? What pleading sounds
can it make, as
no one listens
to poetry anymore...
no, though it turns
letters into cities
and cities into salt
and salt into
oceans and gold.
And from them:
what dumb sounds
do they make?
but a susurration, a murmur
that everyone knows:
one spiraled shell
on a beach like all spindly shells, same
thrumming thrush, rush
of blood in the ears echoed
from the heart —some string
of the loveliest of sounds—
yet one
is enough.
One is enough, so
of course,
no one listens to poetry
anymore.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
This is a hieroglyph in the middle of the ocean,
a message to the center of space,
it is Stravinsky in a metal box;
a prayer in the grave.
It is not to be heard, read, or felt,
but is sent out into the darkness
like the wheezing breath from my last cigarette ,
the chill of the last river I altered with my step,
the forever in the space between our eyes,
and the time machine of you and I.
There is a snap of electricity that moves you from here to there
and there is our world in the hollow spaces of your brain.
You are the blood, you are the marrow,
you are in my depths and in my narrows.
There was a little boy who saw a tail on the sun,
wandered into the wrong back door
and stumbled out the front
with a pocket full of kisses,
and there was a girl who was far from home,
tiny hands and full of wishes.
Close your eyes.
Do not read this next part.
It's a secret I cannot share.
There is a picture that I look at often and it is of a ridge of mountains,
snow on top, jagged edges like a page ripped from a magazine
and I know now what I didn't know then
that after I snapped that shot everything would change,
that I would go home and become something I never could be again,
that I would discard gods like tissue
and drive my car as fast as it would go in the rain,
that I would share this picture on a tilting Saturday night
with a sigh and the subtle rustling of metal and cloth,
a susurration settling over us like a shroud,
and that I would surrender myself to the chaos,
lose everything within our delicious destruction
and spend the rest of my life wondering where all the pieces of me landed.
This is a riddle you are not meant to understand.
This is a Celtic Cross spread by a dead man's hand.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC