Posts Tagged ‘nature’ poetry’

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


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


The earth wobbles from a shifted axis.

Today, a bird lost its sonar, crashed into

My windshield.

We pay for air, for space, for water.  Shouldn’t that be free?

~ we’re on edge.

Roaches have been here over a million years; they’ll out live us by millennia.

Stock markets fluctuate.

Cost of living spirals out of control.

Salaries stay the same.

 ~ we’re on edge.

Starvation is on the rise.  Why?

Yellowstonenational park is crumbling.

Antarctic glaciers are melting.

Rain forests are being butchered.

Natural catastrophes are becoming more frequent.

 ~ we’re on edge.

Animal cruelty is rampant.

Prejudice still exists.

I saw a kitten thrown from a speeding car.

I heard of a puppy drowned in the

River; he had been locked inside

The coffin of a suitcase with no way out.

Today, on prime time news, it was

Reported a young mother stuffed her

Newborn infant inside a draw-string

Trash bag in the city dumpster

Where it ended up at the local landfill.

 ~ there is no more edge.

                                                we fell off.


© 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

All rivers lead me back

All rivers lead me back to this one;

This one who’s song I heard first

And still feel its ache coating

Tangipahoa River, Ponchatoula, LA, my summer home

My bones with an ageless

Truth that a time comes to let things go

Just as passionate as when we held onto it

At the initial meeting, the love sounding

Like a drum in beating hearts.

All rivers lead me back to this one;

The Tangipahoa River, my childhood still

Left behind in the veins of her current

And the restless gurgle of her surf

Licking the willowed bank.

Here and there, a Loon, or a

Bullfrog, croaking the balance

Of dusk and dawn into innocent play,

Its sweet taste still lingering in my mouth,

Poking my soul to rip and tear,

And finally to stir with remembrance

That a river, any river, can lead us

Either away or towards the things that

Once mattered so dear.

It’s the unraveling sorrow that lies deep

In her shallows and hidden depths when

Your back is turned forever to whispers never

Before acknowledged, and, to this day,

When that river calls, its echo

Is the only sound that is left

                   to answer.


© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

Tangipahoa River, Ponchatoula, LA, my summer home

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


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


Posted: October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized



When summer would wake,

Would her dress still be adorned

In leafy, velvet corduroy

Slow to shed arduous slumber

From inertia beneath frozen time


Would her dance be steps of

A clumsy Ballerina,

Out of practice from a twirl ~

Would she fall,

Eyes stunned,

That grace could escape

So willingly, with not even

So much as a warning,


Leaving silhouettes in wounded air

in an unforgiving world . . .


When summer would wake,

Would she sing out like hoarse Songbirds

Voices cracking with splintered song

For having been silent music

Far too long . . .


Would her gemstone hues

Forget to glitter like diamond jewels

And be more a beacon in the darkness

Signaling out in a brilliant,

Yet deafened, emptiness?


When summer would wake,

Would she be as invisible as the wind,

Though fragrant it be, so sweet

In a breeze that touches gently,

Yet ever briefly,


And would she be

Lonely as the Winter . . .  


~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf