Posts Tagged ‘death; sad; poetry; emotional’

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

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

 

There you would have me

Bone silent

Seed of your love

A heart tapered

For fitting

Its delicacy wrapped

Between ivory incisors

Can we compromise

Or I am to be hushed

Like one of your slaves

Your eyes devouring

My many gowns

You have dreams of dismembering

Them layer by layer

As you hold gemstones and

Persian silk above my

Idle perusal

Thinking that’s sure to

Persuade me to feel

Something that was

Never there nor ever

Will be.

 

You think that

Would make the difference?

Like shown a landmark onColumbus’

Map, this is the spot to die for

But I look forlornly away

Outside that window ledge

Where you left your rival

(The real man I loved)

Dead and still hung in the courtyard

While I still smell his lingering blood

Stowed in this prisoned room

You’ve stolen everything

But it’s you left with

All you cannot have nor

Ever will; everything and everyone

That never wanted you.

 

You haul me away to

Meet other fates that

Even Darkness will

Live long enough to fear;

I pass by your white stallion, Apollo ~ ~

The wild of his eyes catch mine

Something for us both is tamed there,

Because it too, was forced to

Choose, and it wasn’t you it

Chose.

 

So we both ride into a vicious storm

We’ll never regret.

 

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

Graphic Art by Susan Joyner-Stumpf (© SonnetWolf Designz)

HOOF AND WING

Simple slight of hoof

Beats hard the dust

And carves through

Space with invisible wing

His manner of weeping

To keep me in longing

Parade of brilliance

Fine Ivory horse

Of silken unbridled power

You corral intangible wind

As though your mighty

Royal seed

Nostrils drink of stolen rain

Frightening storms your children

I ache beneath the thunder

Of them that rage beyond

My grasp ~ I sit

Here fused to stone

Tears made of blown glass

Shorn of secrets

The millennia has whispered

With galloping lust

Outside the deafened

Aura of our bloodsouls

Oh ~ cursed are we for

Once to be a mere Human!!!

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

A LIFE FOR A LIFE

Lay down your infinite fears;

I hold you.

And I feel the rumblings inside,

a chasm of unspoken tears

            never before this day cried.

So I weep them all for you.

I see all the living that stayed

lifeless,

great moments you wanted to run but instead fell,

when you reached out for the sweetness of Heaven

but ended up tasting bitter Hell,

worry not, I breathe it all for you.

Let go of the pain,

I’ll drain the bleed

of your wounds from you.

I’ll take the knives that carved your heart,

and mend back the pieces torn and ripped apart – –

yes:

as sure as I found paradise behind broken eyes,

soared with your tortured Soul inside rain-drenched skies,

keep on going when the Grim Reaper knocks, too,

for

you’ll never know

that I Died for you.

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

Beautiful Death

Shower of acorns

airborne tumble

of the Ladybug

fall knocks hello

on the spine of summer

to announce its debut

move over green lushness

hues of russet and gold

are about to blanket the

landscape as skillfully

as an artist with his

acrylics and pastels

the concert begins

of the symphony of

ash and sycamore seeds

in this eternal ritual

as life takes front stage

in its dance with beautiful death

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

STRANGER AT THE

          FUNERAL

 

I should be used to burying

People, I thought to myself.

And now, at my father’s service,

Grief reminded me without fail

That I had outlived them

All, my entire family.

Survivor’s guilt is

Alive and well.

Mother and brother and now

Father, ashes to the nonchalant wind

And now even laughing stars

forget their Mortal names.

During the Eulogy I didn’t

Even remember speaking,

And after everyone had

Already been settled in their

Pews,

That’s when she slipped in,

Stayed hunched in the back row,

dressed in black finery and

adorned with a vintage

Hat of netted lace veil

Hiding her mysterious face.

She left before I could reach her,

Before the service was

Finished and after I’d already

spoken.

Others prodded, who was she?

I didn’t know.

They joked, she must have been

Your father’s concubine, who

          Else could she be?

I didn’t see the humor until

I realized no one was laughing.

My husband and I were last

To leave with Pastor Paul,

Laden with flowers and cards.

We finally made

It to our car.

Rain started.

I looked back at the brick façade

Of the Leitz-Eagan Funeral Home

Knowing I’d never see it again,

Carrying what little remained

Of father in my hands, then

placing it gently on the backseat.

That life,

That anger, torment,

Successes and failures,

Ice words and

smoldering fires of passion

He left behind for us to

Swallow.

It’s the secrets

He took with him,

Remnants perhaps

Sealed in this porcelain vase,

Or in that dark pool of sky,

Trapped somewhere in

An ebony coiffed bonnet

Of some stranger that whisked in like

A terrible, but small hurricane to pay

Respects to someone she

Knew.

I feel a draft as like a door, left ajar

Where you can’t see in from standing

Outside as hard as you try to

Peer in.

Oh Winter, so on this sweltering

New Orleans July  Saturday,

You have arrived early!

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf