Archive for November, 2011

FIRST TASTE OF

       DEATH

 

if only his eyes had not looked

back at me ~ so wild and shocked

the first fish I caught as a child

 

dragging him out from

his brackish river world

into the painful one of ours

as air burned through his heaving gills

spasmodically flipping in

the net interwoven with slabs

of raw bacon

 

I can still smell it now

the pungent odor of him

mixed with slime bait

the scent of his fear

once the jerking stopped

when he accepted his death

which he forgave me for

 

but for which I couldn’t forgive myself

for feeling the soft jelly of that dead

liquid eye with child-curious fingers….

 

my first taste of death

and I spun and limped away,

                    spitting out the sadness.

~

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

THE JOURNEY OF LOSS

 

The way loss would remember

          a morning welcomed only

for its Damask entry

          a Velvet lingering

along wounded hemlined dream

          satin-gentle waking state

blur of whimper come to life

          place of non-committal Diamond-light

fade beyond crimson curtains

          of rehearsed despair

half twilight whispers

JOURNEY OF LOSS

    finger along the edge of tears

sinking into numbness.

 

The way loss would forget

          an evening rejected only

for its shadow-teasing light

          broken angles strangled

inside dangling prisms

          promises spin their web

through a fine disguise of golden thread

          swinging their last distorted remains

through a pinhole of fatal oblivion.

 

The way loss could move on

          memory blanketed in cold bursts

of intermittent reality

          devoid of child-like curiosity

seeping through frayed fabrics

          of human reluctance

out of body, witnessing the carnage

          left behind

shattered glass drinking the rays

          of a nonchalant sun.

 

The way loss should accept

          snap back into screaming flesh

the sting of the Silver Chord

          weeps like a lonely Violin

return to mortal weight,

          sustenance,

and thus its inevitable neediness.

          Its pain.

 

~

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

A POET’S SACRIFICE

A ball of pandemonium

and yet you choose

(with pinprick decision)

to hear only the graphic

A POET'S SACRIFICE

echoes of goodbye

its delivery

as exact as deliberate cruelty

as fundamental as a climax.

One can only cheat

the system for so long

before injured repercussion

(scars and all)

add up

come to their raped senses

and bounce back three-fold

like an abused Tiger

cornered in his cage

pacing the perimeter of smallness

Topaz eyes ablaze

with golden sorrow

staring out to the

blistering disregard

for his animal needs

the same we possess

once confronted with

searing uncertainty

swiping us down like

a wingless fly ~

like a shiver

in water-proof boots

but not a bullet-proof

projectile of targeted

hate.

Soaring through atmospheres

no destination  in mind

merely this journey of

dimensional fear beaten

down to unfathomable madness.

One gauntlet of misconception

guiding ill-fated psyche

that normally would have

prayed for remorseful amnesia

if given the courtesy to mourn

but instead is left to remember

that sometimes,

love falls like fuselage

out of tortured sky

just as quickly

as evil catches us

off guard, at times,

rises to the peaks of Heaven

and they meet

but rarely

in cohesive unity

except in the

mind and Soul of Poets

born to cosmic rupture

and who survive just

long enough

to

            bleed

                        about

                                    it.

~

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

WHEN EVEN STARS

DROP OUT OF LOVE WITH US 

moments recorded in

                        The Book of Regrets

behind inhuman pens

pushed past their own resilient limits

a lone car spinning in the dead of night

Reaching for the Stars

along a seemingly endless, precarious mountain pass

not even fireflies can compete with

its blaring headlights

            stabbing the thickening fog

passing a hit deer along the road side

her frantic heart still beating

and this monster of glass and metal

abandons the outskirts of demi-light nowhere

            heading northbound into the

nameless township of

                        skyscraper somewhere

leaving nothing behind

anymore remarkable

            than the swirling dust it stirred

or the stones it kicked off to the wayside

between the white dividing lines

segregating a two-lane highway

trees that canopied the winding bends

sway not by wind

            but engine fuel spilling

            its toxic lung

across the gasping leaves

sharp eyes of a startled raccoon

narrowly missed

by the roar of hungry rubber

eating

            the distance of asphalt chips

a careless climb to the top

that will matter to nothing

not even to the open, empty space

that existed fine without its

cumbersome

                        intrusion

an owl looks on

imprinting his unrest

upon the frosty air

            with his sad, disenchanted hoot

the song of squealing brakes

barely dodging a homeless dog

terrified beyond

            the growls of its own

                                    starving belly

the following curse

from grumbling whiskey lips

that even embarrassed

                        the wind

oh

            the stories

            that will never be told

and refused to be written ~ ~

when even the skies serenade

above our weepless

                                    miles

and we wonder,

            how we humans pause and wonder,

why even stars

            drop out of love with us . . .

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

WHEN GOD TAKES BACK A HORSE

 

She died with angelic dignity

but with a loss I could never dismiss

miles of sweeping trails before us

shall forever reap their dust, untouched

Me and My Horse, Vanilla

acres of sky open to unseen emptiness

filtered frames of splintered moonlight

live to perhaps forgive another austere day

alone in melting shadows of tall weeping grass

no one hears the ruptured tears

they wouldn’t care anyway

sentiment was never a fashionable thing

so I walk the runways with benign, hidden sorrow

wearing it like silk from a third-world country

cherishing it as others would their homeless rags

that wore our bond like riches of ancient gold

never to agonize who blamed my wardrobe of gossamer despair

which I adorned quite well with diva model-ease

I was never born to caress nor intrinsically please

merely wanted the remains of a solitude day

to soften the blunt of my many tortured nights

where sleep begged for intimate foreplay

in fear of dreams that never fondled mortal empathy

always the opposite fever to my booming health

one moment in the outpost of serpentine pleasure

still never enough to call my own

only borrowed for a time from the Heavens

but given Vanilla

the horse of my dreams

for twelve blessed years

where did they go

but to a paradise

whose door I cannot knock

when God takes back a horse

regret is nothing less than divine sacrifice

and still I hear her hooves in thunder’s reckoning

distances I’ve learned to mirror as my reflective own

a silence rumbling far too long

allow the melody to die

so all will know

the singer once lived

inside my Soul

where the song never fades.

 

________

 

Author’s Note:

 

I lost my Soul-Mate Horse,

Vanilla, to Cancer,

April 10, 2010.

 

Goodbye Vanilla.  You

carried me across the

Earth and back home, always,

in safety.

 

I hope the Angels carried

you to Heaven just as well.

 

 

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

SUPERIMPOSITION

There was this dream inside itself
Where I got lost.
Felt responsible for closing walls
And invisible doors.

My eyes peered into emptiness
As though recognizable
And that made loneliness
Even more intolerable.

When a glimmer of what felt
Like love finally touched me
Brief like a shy feather,

I was afraid to cling too hard,
Reach back or sever.
Could its fragility break so easily
Like the last fading rays
Of sunlight’s tether?

The saddest moment of
All though, is when
I awoke and picked up
Where my waking life left off,

And there wasn’t a difference.

~ ~
© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf

WHEN THE HATERS COME

When the Haters come

They are adorned with the

Heaviest of corduroy

Not delicate satin

That drapes refined couture

At its most elegant debut.

And it barges through the door

An unwelcomed guest

The blunt wind of an otherwise

Indiscernible day

That never asked for clouds of gloom

Or slanted rays of Sun-filled doom.

Was it a Poem of yours that they hated

Or much closer?  The whiff of your

Perfume and you float through life

Unaware that at times,

The trail you left behind, there are

The few with no desire to follow

And instead, kick up the dust to

Annihilate the footprint proving

That you were even there,

So scattered, even the echo

Of defiance is left shocked and askew.

When the Haters come

It’s not like they announce their presence

Beforehand ~

Finding yourself in their death-grip

And the vice has no intention of

Letting go, only burrowing deeper

Until finally, you turn blue.

I’ve caught that sinister wave before

Its salt burning all the way down

Past the heaving lungs

Settling painfully into broken marrow.

When the Haters come ~

If I knew ahead of time,

I would hold up a mirror

And ask, “who do you hate more?”

Silence speaks a thousand words,

but reflections speak one single word

in a thousand silences.

~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf

***

 

To the outside world, her screams are horrendous, bone-chilling, a wretched thing.  In mine, it is music to my blood, which is dead without it.  It is in those dark, beautiful, unforgiving hours that my heart comes alive while yours goes peacefully, at first, to sleep.  It starts with the whirring of her gasps as she struggles and fights for the precious air denied her.  Her moan and writhe is a drug, my highest of highs.  What am I, you must ask?  Call me what you will:  Hitler’s demon seed; Satan’s protégé.  I could be your waiter at a five-star restaurant, the Valet attendant who drives your Lexus to a safe parking space, or the Insurance Adjustor sitting across from you in an classy high-rise office with your pathetic File in my lap.  But for the most part, I’m your neighbor next door, the one that waves to you and you wave back to with a blind smile as you head out to your 9-5.  I’m also your worst nightmare.  So nice to meet you.

***

 

 

This new Novel still in progress by Poet/Author Susan Joyner-Stumpf is going to be the fictional day to day account of a prolific, Prince Charming serial killer named Trace Pierce whose reign of terror eludes Law Enforcement for a solid decade.  He taunts their efforts over the course of his 10-year killing spree with letters to the press and police quarters to throw them off his trail, copy-catting the behavior ofLondon’s 19th century Jack the Ripper.

Trace, with his almost magical allure and movie star good looks, takes the cliché adage “tall, dark and handsome” to a whole new level of Evil.  With his “killer” looks, women find him irresistible and to DIE for, and all of them do.  Using his uncanny wiles and whimsy, he turns the table on every femme fatale who has the dire misfortune of crossing his stealth and clandestine path, allowing them the short-lived pleasure of assuming they have the upper hand  in the fickle game of seduction.  They couldn’t be more bloody wrong.  Like many predators, Trace craves nothing more than to initially play with his naïve and unsuspecting prey, wooing and wining them until their fragile resolve is finally broken down into rational pieces, melting like molten lava into his wicked embrace.  But finally, boredom at last drives Trace to discard the mask of undying love, to succumb to that insatiable, unstoppable hunger festering inside him to end the charade and move on to the next challenge.  The kill comes sweet and swift.  His victims have no time and no chance to realize they have just been loved to pieces.

Expected release date for Love You To Pieces  will be Fall of 2012.  For those of you new to this writer, Susan Joyner-Stumpf has the uncanny ability to write on subject matters which normally are out of most peoples’ comfort zones including her own; plotting twists and turns of events for which she either personally has never experienced nor has little knowledge of.  True to form and as is her unique signature and wicked style, in this horror/thriller written in first person, Mrs. Joyner-Stumpf literally jumps inside the head of and takes on the persona of the serial killer himself, Trace Pierce.  As you read along, you will swear you are reading the real life diary of the most horrific and sadistic serial killer of our Century as he relays, in gruesome, graphic detail, each sordid, vile escapade.  The least you will expect is that this body of work is written by a female writer who wouldn’t hurt a fly.  Her fictional unravelings will take you into the darkest, deepest recesses of a twisted and demonic psyche, literally shocking all your senses of gravity and sanity.  Come immerse yourself as Susan Joyner-Stumpf takes you on a journey through the outskirts of predatory seduction and murder, as though actually seeing through a killer’s haunting green eyes, acting upon his blood-hungry and driven heart.  Not for the faint-hearted.  Sweet dreams while you can still have them, readers, for after reading Love You To Pieces, you will begin to know what nightmares are all about.

Video for Love You to Pieces:

http://tripwow.tripadvisor.com/tripwow/ta-0349-853c-43b0?lb

~ ~

CHAPTER I

(Sept 1990)

My eyes scoured the familiarity of the smoke-perfumed confines of the Aqua Lung Club and Lounge.  I’d seen it all before: the 1980 disco strobes, the neon dance floor, the Botox Babes, the wallflowers, hags, the new blood making their debut, flaunting their dewy youth and virgin breasts as though they’ve been touched before.  Then other men, setting the course of action for their own prowl: will it be another night of sucking down drinks alone and on a hard or leaving with a whore to wake up with in the strange hours of the coming morning.  All in how you play this wretched game where everyone is in it to win it.  I could tell by the shoulder to shoulder rubbing, the gyrating to a rhythm all their own.  Friday nights at the Aqua were always packed, as live entertainment promised deafening sound and just as well to drown out the non-talent that usually performed up there on the rickety stage.

I looked back down into my near empty Whisky Sour, the scent of this God-forsaken place burning the fibers of my nostrils.  Why do I bother to come here?  I signaled Ellis the bartender.  Somehow, I caught his eye, even across the stench of semi-darkness.

“Another,” I motioned with a bent finger downward towards the glass, shoving it towards him.

“What’s up, Trace?”  Ellis drug a dirty rag across the bar in front of me, swiping the glass away.  I grabbed a cheap napkin in the little holder shaped like a seashell to finish the sloppy job he started.

“Not much, just out for a winter stroll,” I smiled.

Ellis chuckled.  “Yeah, in six inches of snow, got cha…”  He shook the blender of Whiskey Sour mix into a shot of Jack Daniels and splashed it into a tall, slender glass like I liked with an extraOrangeslice and a Cherry.  He knew what pleased me and I respected that.  “We got it early this year, in Bedlow.  Normally don’t start till round at least end of October.”

“I got four-wheel drive, I’m not worried.”  I laid down a five dollar bill with excess change for a tip.

“You come in alone a lot, Trace,” Ellis said as he laid the glass in front of me.  “How’s that, a striking looking guy like you?  You could have anyone in here, probably a man too if that’s the way you swung.”

I searched his face for a redeeming quality.  Poor Ellis, with his bulbous red nose and chimp monk cheeks.  Must have had acne real severe in his youth due to all the pot marks in his face that reminded me of moon craters.  And as if he wanted to bring more attention to his ugliness, he sported a nose ring that every time we spoke, that’s all I saw go up and down with every vowel and pronoun that spewed from his overly large mouth.  But I liked him.  He rarely questioned me, or judged me, accepted me for the silences I gave and the clues I took away without him even knowing about it.  I enjoyed messing with his bald head but too often he wasn’t intelligent enough to get it and I’d get bored and have to move on to something or someone else.

“It’s not who you walk in with but who walks out with you.”  And taking my own advice, I looked from left to right of me and realized I had both male and female company, all getting rather rowdy and loud and falling into me and I politely shook them away.  I don’t think any of them in their drunken state even felt my repugnant shrug.

“You’re so right,” Ellis nodded and disappeared into the bleakness to feed the addictions of other thirsty fools.

A brunette who was on my right suddenly shifted attention from her group and began to focus on the bowl of Cheese-Its I had to the side of me.  Her fingers started to play seductively with the cheesy squares, rolling them in-between ruby studded fingertips, then allowing her tongue to lick the salt in a malingering manner but not yet going for the full bite.  I found this interesting and yet continued not to give her what she obviously wanted.  Her mascara-brushed eyes burrowed into me, begging me to play back like a silly puppy; to acknowledge her invisibleness.  From a side glance, I discerned quickly that she was quite attractive and to my liking, doe-eyed behind straight long tresses, gold body glitter meshing with the rolling sweat down her long, swan-lean neck.  Her perfume was overwhelming but I was willing to suffer this slight downfall of her femininity for the Greater Good.

I continued to pretend to ignore her and she got more heated and flustered with determination.  I loved doing this because it absolutely drives a woman nuts, especially if she’s vying for your utmost attention.  She lowered her head so that from my sitting position, all I had to do was look down at her Chocolate lip gloss eclipsing my Whiskey Sour.

“Too bad they have these things instead of nuts….I like nuts, don’t you?”  She smiled a row of white, healthy teeth.   This time she let the Cheese-It go down and she swallowed purposefully so that I could hear the machines of her throat crunching the cracker to dust.

“Depends on your point of view,” and I pushed the bowl closer to her, finally looking into her face.  “If you’re talking about the hors d’oeu·vre, maybe so.  Otherwise, I’m on your side of the fence, if you know what I mean.”

She giggled that school-girl laugh that always turned me on because it meant she may not only be flirty, but not the brightest star in the sky.  “You like girls, then,” she muttered, knowing the answer before she even asked.

“Guess you could say that, what’s your preference?”

Her face came within inches of mine, her breath sweet from Chardonnay and lipstick.  “I think I like you.  If you don’t mind my saying, you’re really ho….hot…” and she spilled her damn drink all down my friggin crotch.

I sat up and reached for a couple of napkins, signaling for Ellis again.

“I’m so so sorry,” and she looked genuinely unhappy.

“It’s just wine, no big deal.”  I took the rag from Ellis and wiped my leather jacket and started down my lap.  I was really pissed, the black jeans were new, designer style, and expensive, but what the heck.  If she wasn’t pretty, she’d be in more trouble right about now.

“Let me get that, least I can do.”  She grabbed the rag out of my hand before I could protest and began rubbing it between my legs, stopping when she got close to the goods. 

“You don’t want to start something you can’t finish,” I warned her.

I looked down at her, her head hovering atop my zipper, as though she were listening for a heartbeat.  The irony of it made me laugh.  Heartbeat.  Hardbeat.  Stupid bitch.  What did she think she was going to do, give me a blowjob right here in the open, at the bar?

“Oh, I can finish,” and she kept staring, getting lost like so many others before her did in my searing glare back.  “I never met someone like you, are you an Actor that I don’t know of or something?  I’ve never seen anyone like you in here before.  My God you’re beautiful.”

I took the rag from her hands, gently moved her head back up into proper lady-like position.  “Behave yourself young lady, the night is young.”  I yelled over to Ellis, who was still nearby and laughing at me, to get her another drink, whatever the lady wanted.

She dug into her purse and reapplied some lip gloss, arranged her tousled bangs from a jeweled compact mirror.  “My name is Ashleigh.  What do your friends call you?”

“You mean besides bastard and asshole?”  I passed her a new glass of Chardonnay.

“You really have a sense of humor there buddy, why did you ignore me?”

“Would you have rather me pounced on you like a Panther?”

“Oooh, now we’re talking.  Like it rough, do ya?”

“Sounds like YOU do.”

“So do you have a name or what?”

I felt like I was in a fighting ring.  Round one.  Round two.  Ding-ding.  Ding-ding.  The banter was getting boring and I knew I had to take it to another level.

“Well, Ashleigh, what do you say we blow this joint?”

“Is that what you call it?”  And she slammed her compact shut.

“You’re asking for it.”  I stared at her rhinestone waist necklace underneath her maroon corduroy jacket.  The glitter was like lightning when dim lights from the ceiling reflected off them, almost painful to look at.  It was her trim waist that forced me to peer through the dancing shards of sparkle that emanated from her body.

“And you still never told me your damn name and until you do, I won’t go anywhere with you.”

I stood back to get a full scale image of her.  She couldn’t be older than 23, tops.  Smart Alec, probably a virgin on the Tease, either a drop out from high school or that’s all she graduated from because she wasn’t college material and so still smooched off mom and pops.  She’d probably never came on to a man before and this was her test trial.  Perhaps she had friends in the bandstand cheering her on, or maybe it was on a whim or dare.  Whatever it was, it was mine now, and like a dog with a rawhide bone, I wasn’t letting go.

“Are you sure about that?”

Again her eyes soldered into mine, as though hypnotized.  Happens every time whether their high or not.  Desperate women, needy women, lonely women, ugly hags, overweight girls, cheating-on–their-significant-other-to-make-them–jealous-women, depressed women, horny young hot chicks and horny middle-aged unsatisfied housewives; the shelves were always fully stocked, it just depended on what grocery store I decided to patronize.  I grabbed her arm and led her through the sea of people, out the door, into the crisp, cold Colorado winter night.

I like the Aqua Lung.  It has served me well in the past, and continues the tradition.  This is my town, and the Aqua Lung is just one of  my lucky hunting grounds.

(¸¸.♥➷♥•*¨)¸.•´¸.•*¨) ¸.•*¨)

(¸¸.♥➷♥•*¨)¸.•´¸.•*¨) ¸.•*¨)

 

Author Susan Joyner-Stumpf

(¸¸.♥➷♥•*¨)¸.•´¸.•*¨) ¸.•*¨)

ART OF LIFE

 

ART OF LIFE

Many times I’ve invited the Darkness

Blocking out any chance of Light to

Filter through.

Why I did this, I’ll never know,

For it went against the grain

Of everything I ever knew.

 

I turned up the frequency to receive

Ignoring the volume when it was

Time to give

And then I wondered why friendships

Fell through the porcelain cracks,

Leaking like a sieve. 

 

Now I listen hard to the lyrics and rhythm

of wavering love

great symphonies of sorrow

all silences of hate

and all that begs of a forgiving heart

to mend our broken marrow.

 

I feel the different colors of Soul

Riding waves of Nimbus clouds

Through to the other side of

a patient Rainbow

The dancing glitter across frozen snow.

 

Do we ever really know some actions

Are far-reaching, with no recover.

Hurting all those we ever claimed to

Love deeply, forever.

 

Not the first time I’ve started over

Facing the blank Canvas

Waiting to be re-drawn, re-written

Brush in hand quivering with fervor.

 

Once the shades and shadows

Finally blend and bleed anew

All makes sense to the

Art of my Life,  where new

Dreams make their shy debut.

~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf

SOUL JEWELS

SOUL JEWELS

I release the jewels of my Soul,

for they are not mine to keep.

Rubies I adorn from

blood I’ve spilled.

Though because of you,

the bleeding has mended.

May these Jades temper

humility you have instilled,

opening minds to vibrant visions

ascended.

Amber I gift thee,

as for this spirit

you have healed

the broken light

in me.

May your Sapphire emotions

be as pure as the serenity in

others so gracefully poured.

To Turquoise happiness bestowed

so shamelessly, healing

darkness once ignored.

Rub pain across Topaz,

calming seas of negativity

that once crashed and roared.

May moments reflect in Quartz,

pure as the day you visualized

goodness in others – their just reward.

Allow your Opal loyalty to always

luster through as you faithfully

distilled for others remedy.

May Emerald Memories always

be with you, not to forget loved

ones lost untimely.

My Onyx protection shall coat you

long after I’m gone; and keep

you forever strong.

Now you are not rich, but wealthy

in spirit with these gems I gift thee.

Take them and cherish Soul stones

you can only earn – and use them wisely.

Wear them as jewels of Kindness,

Forgiveness, and Morality–

qualities you have shown to others

besides me.

Now that I’m gone,

give them away when the time is right

for others to learn and live by:

in memory of both you and me.

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf