Archive for October, 2011

Painting God

Posted: October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized

Painting God


In my mind,

I have seen him many times,

an impregnable force

white like gossamer

wisps of intangible clouds

invisible as fractal wind.

Felt in the Soul of bones.

Always his face would elude

me ~ was it human, animal,

a fusion trace of both and

everything in-between?

So I would draw eyes that

penetrated beyond soft canvas light,

outside of chalk-hewn remains,

into a mortal world that he created

within a blink of his unparalleled own.

Staring back, something was terribly

wrong, captured incongruently,

and that hurt as long as the

brush trembled in my unforgiven hand;

is this something I could so easily forget?

He was the paper, the oozing paint,

the splash of glossy oil

in an azure asymmetry of amateur sky.

Painting God was remembering

he was as much the shades that

blended and separated

as he was and always would be

the colors that stood still,

            and waiting . . .






~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf


Posted: October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized
Tags: ,



I was jealous of

the guitar,

your fingers stroked the strings,

made beautiful sounds,

made others cry.


I was jealous of

your coffee,

your lips paused over the cup

dreamily, you swallowed so sexually,

delighted in each drop.


I was jealous of

your shower, beads

of water saturating each

inch of your steel body,

glistening in perfect solitude.


I was jealous of

your sheets, how they

wrapped you each night,

you left your scent there,

there you felt safe.


I could go on, the

silly musings of a young girl

with a stupid crush,

I’m too young for this.


I hand in my Essay after

class.  It’s about Moving On,

letting go of things we’ll never have.


Research taught me nothing.




~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf

From a Flower’s Perspective

Posted: October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized

From a Flower’s Perspective


Wind tossing.


  Evolved under Harvest Moon.

Dressed the virgin dawn

  with the petal spills

of my silent bloom,

  from such singular awakening . . .


I am soft-Fuchsia in my


  that ended its Song to

possessive Bees.


What looks upon me

  is a Child who

stops to study

the folds of velvet enwrapping

  me . . .


  He touches lightly, at first

then I am ripped from my roots

and see not his face


  wince at the Sweet fragrance of

my Death.



~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf

I wrote this poem at the tender age of 11 regarding a true encounter that happened in my childhood growing up in New Orleans. I wrote it during my first encounter with these two remarkable Souls that forever left an imprint in my life.  A friendship ensued from this, eventually, until they moved away, much to my young broken heart.  In looking back, I realize how truly blessed I was to have known this young German boy who spoke no English at all and his German Shepard seeing-eye dog, his constant companion. Over the long years, I have often thought about them both, and the impression they left imbedded in my shattered youth.  I wondered where they went, and if they were still alive.  I will never forget them, and I just wanted to share it with you, hoping you find it as interesting and hauntingly beautiful as I did then and still do.



I knew a Deaf dog once.

He was the eyes of a Blind boy.


And come the early morning mist,

before the ravages of children at play,

they would walk alone together,

one to tell the other how it Felt.


The boy would sing, no particular Song,

perhaps a Melody of Stillness bent Listening;

and the dog would howl sometimes, as though he saw

inside the strain of Darkness.


Life’s Irony:


The boy would nod to what the dog couldn’t hear;

The dog would whimper to what the boy failed to see.


Their pain was mutual; a bond created within the

existence of one another, like Soul Mates,

with inseparable Longings.


I followed them once, in curious awe.


The dog saw through me and sauntered on.

The boy stopped Singing.


So I let them go, shook-up with childish Loss.


Life’s Irony:


It was I, Blinded by selfish tears

who missed Hearing them Both

    tell me



~ ~ ~

To this boy and his great Dog, I thank you both for opening

my eyes and my ears so young in my Life.


~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf



This poem has never been altered since its original conception:  remember:  I wrote this poem at the age of 11.



Somewhere in a bed of hay, an Elephant weeps.


There’s the Keeper that raised her, but he’s deaf

to her existence other than

to expect her submission when he yells demands in the Ring.


Is it no wonder

the baby calf that lies inside is afraid to come out.


Over a thousand years, her Kind has been our Slave

trained to bend at our every fashion and whim

forced to dance with Chains and Fire and Ice.


This night he beat her and left without leaving water and food.


As she stood wondering what behavior had been perceived as wrong,

her hunger drove knives deeper in her sides than Winter’s pierce.


She’d done nothing wrong except be an Elephant that a human man

Who felt worthless thought he’d feel better if she was Hurt.


Somewhere in a nameless town, an Elephant Dreams

of thundering across tundras in Africa with a Herd

that protects her from nightmares of Men that whip Elephants.


As Dawn breaks in the early hungry hours,

at last a grateful Elephant sighs,

and draws one last breath in this gift of peace and knowing silence.


So opens a Floodgate to Humanity’s Loss

that  becomes an Elephant’s Triumph.


Somewhere in a bed of hay, an Elephant Smiles,

and joins the Herd she knew only in Dreams.   



Author’s Note:


This particular Poem was written at the

age of 10, back from a Circus with my

family.  I was fortunate to see many

Circus animals “behind the scenes”

because my father was s Prestiege Member

of Society, and had “friends in high and/or

low places.”  Therefore, I didn’t always

like what I saw.  This is one case, out

of many . . .



~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf

The picture below is the Indian Mound discovered with a friend of my family, who was a Geologist, in Ponchatoula, Louisiana, near the Tangipahoa River, where my parents had a summer place and I grew up along her banks.  The Poem is a true account of what transpired after this Geologist and I discovered the remains of an ancient Indian tribe called the “Acolapissa” who were of Muskogean stock and closely related to Choctaw and Chickasaw, once abundant in the area in the 1680’s before the French and Spanish settlers came and depleted their numbers drastically.  This memory is to keep alive what I encountered that day and has forever stayed with me.  I was only fifteen years old at the time.



I was fifteen

when Choctaw history

sifted through sensitive, youthful hands

gathered soiled remnants

of an old Indian Mound ~

silence never stands still in weeping sands

along with a Geologist, unearthed treasures

powers we could never understand

wondering if we disturbed

some great warrior’s sacred burial ground

near the banks of the Tangipahoa sound

waters of lost childhood never recede

no less a wounded, rippling stream

    of mournful dream

He told me of a tribe once“the corncob people,”

the Acolapissa Choctaw

Conqueror DeSoto “discovered” in 1680

reported back to Spain what he “saw”

nothing for peace offered to appease

bearing no gifts, merely foreign disease

the area soon wiped barren~ morbidly clean

nothing of primitive lives left ere’ more

now an ancestral existence breathed back to life

from artifacts entombed in a hilltop, earthen floor

yet sadly gone their numbers, scattered

(they were given no choice)

have we now lost the River’s calling

    of their ancient, torn voice?

I stood there in quivering shadow

a shaken lament of childish brokenness

laid the sand down, ever softly

sensed a searing moment of infinite emptiness

as though everything could possibly still recoil

from white man’s wield and bullet of swift,

unfathomable painfulness

beside clumps of clay pottery and stone arrowheads

dust doesn’t rest ~ stirs in footfalls where elders once tread

emotions swirling in misty oblivion

praying our race be now forgiven

wishing to secretly hear Chickasaw chants

tumble outward from infinity, and within

upon groans of once roaming herds

migrating the fields before their fateful circumstance

seeds of hate planted from needless, greedy wars

into a pocket of cosmic tears ~ evolution pours

rides again the spotted backs

    of distant, Seminole winds

Upon leaving

my heart beat many broken drums

shifting took place inside aching lungs

it was then, I knew, they spoke

through me in twisted, spirit tongues

lingering whispers of warped, crippled Souls

embedded in grievous, azure skies,

where imprints of humanity’s foils and fate

thunders ~ never dies; only repeats eternally

all that was left to sing, never sung

from dispersed sands of time

the grains I left behind,

and the ones I would always

    carry inside ~ was it a sign?

I believed

it was their final Great Spirit Dance decree

bursting through eonic-flames of enduring infamy

fragments I heard then (and hear still)

of ancient voices bordering Pleiades’ symphony

bleeding echoes keep alive this fragile memory

a prayer only they could answer

         that now follows, relentless,

scrapes my bones in remembrance of

    all mortality,

                  forever haunting me …

~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf


Posted: October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized



The desert has its weakness.


Hears moans of the remains

the dead stretch out their

voices between dry winds.


Months tumble forward ~

leave bleached mirages in

drought-stricken echoes.


Somewhere along a sea

of cactus-bed, the land dips

cautiously as though to pause


upon the vast emptiness

it finds itself a circle of:


teaming soil of sprouted thorn

reaches a sky the landscape merely

touches from a brief horizon.


Once long ago, an Indian Warrior

lost his battle here but won the War

for his people to save this land.


His cry is heard still, a choking chant

across thistle edge and tumbleweed blood,

ruptured songs across prickly air,

faintly lost between blades of

forgotten prairie grass.


The land dips forlornly here ~ ~

time has learned to stand still,

refusing to move on until all

listening is wept out in

Seminole rain.


One moves here like a poignant vapor

caught between time-warp

and cactus-ember solstice.


Modern man has not yet

learned this fragile Mourning.

His boots and engines drown out

remains that beat sad drums

from ages past.


Only nature hears its Mother weep.


What did I tell you?The desert has its weakness.





~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf