SWEET IGNORANCE

Could I be Lord Byron’s Daughter

Caught up in the perfume of poetry

The kind that permeates the pearled core

Author Susan Joyner-Stumpf

 

 

 

The antebellum of whisked dreams

How our anarchy comes out to play

Among the willows when darkness

Resorts to its open dance and does

The nah-na in dusk’s face

I see an animal

A raccoon, perhaps,

Needle her way to my garbage can

For what crumbs lay rotting in the mesh

And I feel sorry for her

Even though I know an approach

Would warrant a sufficient hiss or

Show of ragged teeth

Oh is madness not a curse

But a blessing instead

An anesthesia against the world

As we know it

And perhaps I’m Emily Dickinson’s

Lost long heir, or some other entity

Of importance

For that’s what I tell my ego

When the perfume fades to stale memory

Though I still have all this inside to

Release like molten lava to an audience

Not fond of Poetry as we share it

Yet tolerant of me, so they listen

I become that bubble

Floating high where hurtness can’t reach

And force me to crawl into myself

That bubble any moment to disperse

In those waves of sun glare

But I’m totally unaware

Death reeks on the horizon.

Madness is bliss.

   ♥

      *•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

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Comments
  1. debbiebrooks37 says:

    hello sweet Susan.. what a wonderful poem.. I would say yes you are as closed to be Lord’s Byron’s daughter as they come with your Beautiful poetry.. Happy Thanksgiving my sweet sister.
    Debbie

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