Posts Tagged ‘poetry; sad; dark; emotional’

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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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

 

Graphic Art by Susan Joyner-Stumpf

(aka sonnetwolf designz)

 

Autobiography

Born at the time

Of moon when all is yearning:

At the moment of equinox,

A primeval tap into deep deprival

Of stillborn longing.

Love and grief:  i ache the same.

A torture ignited

By the celestial sigh

Of tearful smile

And laughter unwept.

I am the mistress of sorrow:

Flesh to flesh, i don’t bond so easily.

Intimacy paves the path towards

Infinite loss.

I am approachable in dreams

Wavering between the thrust

Of dawn with twilight ~

(when most loneliness happens),

Where the fire of passion is sinister

Because it’s the spirit that reeks surrender

And ultimate seduction.

Born at the time

Of moon when all is yearning:

I was that shooting star you held in

Your stain-glassed eyes ~

yet you blinked,

never to see me fall.

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

NO CHANCE TO SAY GOODBYE

Nothing will ever compare

To that tremor,

That fragile, dripping quiver

Reluctantly from

Your shadowy lip,

Burning, for now,

Our goodbyes

Oh Darling!

The fragments of my weeping

Soul as I stood there,

Numb as sunlight

Caught trapped in the pulled

Shades, struggling despite

Incredible odds

To remain strong, steadfast,

And bright.

So I fall into you limp, a

Ragdoll, pleading,

Begging you,

Please don’t

Go.

“It’s only for a few days…”

The sweet breath

Of your whisper speaks

Into disheveled strands

Of my blonde hair.

The door~

That cursed door

Between us now,

Your suitcase and attaché

In either hand.

I hear the engine

Roar.  That last roar…

Tulips in snow have

Nothing on me.

Their wintry surprise at

Least will thaw.

I stand here frozen now,

A mummy, no

Place to

Go.

Oh Darling!

And then that fatal call,

Telling me you’ll never come home….

The

Horrible accident.

Oh Darling!

 

I still hear your

Words now,

“It’s only for a few days…”

…….And then days turn into a lifetime.

No one ever told me

Waiting for Eternity would

Be so slow…

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

Trajectory

What spoon of withered white

Cast its shadow high and still

Left with frozen regret

Merely invisibleness left to mourn

Stark the gifted glare

Trajectory of bleeding air

Satin spins its weathered tear

Kiss of infamy

Passion slips into sleep, re-thorned.

Oh how we tremble

When loneliness taps

That heartless door

Chaos hums with bruised light

Faint of darkness sweet

Eerie taste of sullen echoes

That weeps out stars tonight.

Spill out a new but crusted dawn

Eyes close to the brilliant hues

Yet what loins gave up their fiery fight

Its comet shackled in frozen flight

To speak your unloved name, alas

Not of an airy voice divine

That made you an orphan again!

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© 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

JUST FIVE MORE YEARS

In the Nursing home,

my father seemed so small,

not the towering burly figure

I remembered as a child,

the whiplash of his tongue

tall as Aspen Pines;

the crest of his anger

rising and falling

like the Man in the Moon.

Now he peered out from

behind glazed over eyes

barely recognizable except for their

surrendered blue

which was hard to accept.

Just five more years,” he said to me.

“All I want is to live five more years.”

He was 85.

I think three weeks passed when he

stated this.  Then the

dreaded pneumonia, which seems to

rob the elderly most

commonly,

well it found, and claimed,

him too.

One rough night of painful

breathing and never saw

the dawn of his 86th light.

He had never asked for much,

except, perhaps, that I be perfect,

which of course I wasn’t.

And if he came back alive today,

he surely

would have said,

that’s what killed him.

But despite the relationship

we never had,

the embrace that would never come,

the shadow of his voice,

(which is all an echo is),

won’t leave me.

The memory of his one

little wish

never leaves me.

Are we all to end up an

echo inside someone’s head?

Five more years…

                             Just …five…more…years

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf