Archive for April, 2012

Author Susan Joyner-Stumpf

BEAUTIFUL DISASTER

Sullen path

I’ve tasted your dusty disaster

Contrived your tired lust

Gave up heels that swam in circles

Because destination did not exist

Save the winds from terrible laughter

It’s our eyes that suffer first

Vision turned like a reckless dial until

We find a view worth listening to.

Have we met yet

Sinkage where the road crumbles

To scattered shale and bone

Where, if we look real hard,

We might see ghosts

Of our ancestors’ footprints

Imbedded in grains of granite

Shadows mixed with an arroyo of sorrows

Fleeting thoughts of clay torn sweetly west

Across everfading and lofty meadows.

No chum here

For the starving road fork

No acoustic left to reverberate

Feed the silent whimper

Pick your poisons carefully

All that was narrow now widened

With bulimic planks

The soft has finally married its polar counterstone

And counts its blessings threefold.

It won’t be the first time

You found emptiness welcoming

Consider those days something

Lead you thicker into seductive evil

And there you settled nicely

Thinking to yourself, At least I’m breathing

And reading death quotes of a sadist

In a morning drenched with moth light

As you swallow last remnants

Of  beautiful disaster.

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

Advertisements
Poem about an Amusement Park
that shuts down
 over the
 death of one
 of its
young patrons.
***
Graphic Art by Susan Joyner-Stumpf (aka sonnetwolf designz)

THE QUIET OF A CAROUSEL

 

Even the air spun wrong

it felt the blow of leaves like circus bullets

two things that should never happen

a Fair should never run out of ice cream

and a Theater should never close.

 

Slice the breath with a kitchen knife

space is out sick today

having a hard time catching the sky

the cement paths of the park

emptier than the

the silence of footfalls

that only echo past loneliness.

 

An assembly of shadows

gather to mourn the loss of realism

swirling and screaming around with

spectral jealousy

why is it

we look at them as extensions of ourselves

but shadows look at us

as what they used to be

not remembering how to call us back

to them.

 

This can’t end good

statues feel the severance of

hands that molded them from

vats of liquid bronze

their likeness to austere form

feels the tendency to melt

beyond recognition of solid mass

now apertures having lost the

human-quality dream.

 

The rifts and shrills of laughter

weep in another dimension

cascades of grief slide down

walls of alien fortitude

we hear it on Earth

as the change in subtle wind

knocking at our tears

not reasoning why a sound

we cannot hear, only feel it

as the smile that will not

come.

 

“Something special will come of this,”

says the entrance Billboard with the

face of a scary clown, lips moving

in slow-motion, reinforcing the

petrifying cracking lines of an

exaggerated, painted face.

 

Why is it

somewhere in this nameless town

a little boy dies

and his memory shuts down

the flow of life and whispers here

he remembers the Cotton-Candy Man

and wonders where he is today. . .

 

And why for this little boy

do suddenly those wooden horses

on a quiet carousel

come alive with welcoming whinny’s

that only HE can hear?

 

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1II_tEqRH8s