Posts Tagged ‘poetry; nature poems; nature; emotional’

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

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



Indignant death you suffered

across the bleeding grass

of my front pasture

my husband who dug his

shovel deep in your abdomen

possibly a broken spine

four spindly legs

reaching hooked claws

twisting upwards spasmodically

towards a tortured sky.


What did you do so wrong?


It spooked the mares my husband choked

an animal lover himself

forced to choose

compelled to protect one thing

while harming another.


It didn’t make it any easier

to know you might have babies

anticipating your return with

food for their starving bellies . . .


perhaps you were somebody’s mate

as he waits for you back at the den

never to see you again.


Even you knew

(as most wild things do)

survival is harsh

each moment endured

like it was your last

what will you succumb to first

the elements or a predator?

But you lived to the fullest

fought till the very end

and it didn’t make it any easier

my friend.


Sure you expected to die

but not like this

not today

the sun was shining

the snow was melting

you’re young

this sounds familiar

believe it or not

even to humans.


Was there ever a chance

you wouldn’t have gone in vain?


There was always the

wheels of a careless John-Deere

or the screech of a Semi

that couldn’t swerve.


And now it comes down

to this

so seemingly innocent

you were in the wrong place

at the wrong damn time

and it just so happened to

be ours.


I must ask myself,

the Universe, is

there ever, for anything,

a convenient time to

die or be killed?

We all know the answer.


Whatever the reason,

I begged my husband

to bury you where he

found you


not leave you there for

the buzzards to pick

your untimely bones.


That’s the last thing

I said that day to the

man I married

as I shuffled away, slumped,

in my bedroom slippers

back turned

no one to hear the tears.


Whether you flirted

with progress or disaster,


does it really matter,


nobody wins.



© Susan Joyner-Stumpf


There, a streak of dawn light

just glimpsing over the horizon

breaking into the first brink of life,

          and would lay across the

                             pond’s still surface,

a sheet of perfect, laser glass

gifted from a generous,

new-birth sun.

Expanse complimenting an

otherwise empty space

hovering above eerie mist

                   the type that hides our secrets

and our frozen hearts,

                   forming its vaporous body

                                      to compete with fluctuating

shadows seeking valid form, wafting like

athletics in electric air.

Am I apart of this, or merely a

spectator to nature’s dance;

and I’m clumsily aware that

I just happened here, to a concert

that started

                   long ago without

my being there.

Welcoming me, as it were,

now that I’m here.  I think

                   being mortal means

different things to different people.

To me, it means the stars,

          the concerto of breaking

day, doesn’t need me to

open beautifully into

          the song of a waking robin.

Where gymnastics of dark and light

intermingle like tamed fire.

And an ocean’s retreat or a tornado’s

          unwelcomed screams

doesn’t need us to perform

their rituals of eclipse

                                    and equinox;

Only reacts when we attempt to

re-direct its meaningful course,

                             twist its velvet message

or re-write its ancient story.

Why is it we want to interject

our infant babble,

                   our cruel interplays,

slice her painful bowels with curious,

                   insatiable fingers…

Is it we’re not ready to admit

we never were nature’s


                                      its catalyst.

It’s the other way around.

Were we ever its rightful Caretaker?

It wanted nothing in return but our

acceptance, our distant admiration,

                   to let it be as it always was

                             and always will be….

its own beautiful, dancing,

                             mysterious and

                                                lonely thing.


© Susan Joyner-Stumpf




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



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


            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



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


            the stories

            that will never be told

and refused to be written ~ ~

when even the skies serenade

above our weepless


and we wonder,

            how we humans pause and wonder,

why even stars

            drop out of love with us . . .

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf




From prehistoric piles

of dust, I awake

an emotion into

spheres of creation

before human was even

a thought.


Separated into timelessness

wrapped in fleshless despair

fragments bending into light

fracturing semi-darkness.


Smooth body evolves

from roughened concept

inviting slippery

delay across forming edges.


Rivers flow like hate

wash my shape in

naked tumble

and fed the feast of

untamed things.


Famine without rest

gentle winds that

applied their justice to

chills left for

hardening’s ache.


I am Stone.

A fortress of my fate

relentless weaving into

solid eons of molten grace.


Centuries left untouched

but then nor could I feel

multiple feet across my

polished surfaces


who stood upon me

as I held them up above

to worlds once unseen



still with their blinded visions,

hearts closed off to me,


not even realizing

that beneath them,

I do exist, indeed.

~ ~


© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf♫