Posts Tagged ‘poetry; sad; emotional’

The Day I Died 

Seek radical in

phase of filtered moon

irreplaceable this effect

you have on me

too fearful to ask

why the wounded mask

though I understood

all what your painful

words have methodically

shown:

the size of dismembered sorrow

its distorted sides, twisted-angled lines

crossed over and frozen in-between

roads that burned its fragile skin to dust

help that appeared bled-over, in blotted rust

erasing all the tell-tale signs.

Show me shadows straight and tall

in beautiful, yet crippled twilight

sharp as tumbleweed

sped through holes of infinity

reaching avenues of unforgiving sanity

through cob-webbed, golden flight.

Knowing fathomable fright

anxiety humble against every angry seed

the mumble of wolves tortured

their grey outline fading sadly against

the dying stream of primeval light.

I’ve kept secrets known to no other

only wind to whisper my maiden name

pure sonic rain to weep my war

who to blame for demeanor insane

I was never the same again.

Your words that whispered

whimpered at every abused,

bruised side

so took me with them in Soul-lit stream

the day I died,

your words were there

clinging to strands of strangled blonde hair

something heard calling yet no one was there

but your words that dared to answer somewhere

the day I died.

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf

I wrote this poem at the tender age of 11 regarding a true encounter that happened in my childhood growing up in New Orleans. I wrote it during my first encounter with these two remarkable Souls that forever left an imprint in my life.  A friendship ensued from this, eventually, until they moved away, much to my young broken heart.  In looking back, I realize how truly blessed I was to have known this young German boy who spoke no English at all and his German Shepard seeing-eye dog, his constant companion. Over the long years, I have often thought about them both, and the impression they left imbedded in my shattered youth.  I wondered where they went, and if they were still alive.  I will never forget them, and I just wanted to share it with you, hoping you find it as interesting and hauntingly beautiful as I did then and still do.

LIFE’S IRONY

 

I knew a Deaf dog once.

He was the eyes of a Blind boy.

 

And come the early morning mist,

before the ravages of children at play,

they would walk alone together,

one to tell the other how it Felt.

 

The boy would sing, no particular Song,

perhaps a Melody of Stillness bent Listening;

and the dog would howl sometimes, as though he saw

inside the strain of Darkness.

 

Life’s Irony:

 

The boy would nod to what the dog couldn’t hear;

The dog would whimper to what the boy failed to see.

 

Their pain was mutual; a bond created within the

existence of one another, like Soul Mates,

with inseparable Longings.

 

I followed them once, in curious awe.

 

The dog saw through me and sauntered on.

The boy stopped Singing.

 

So I let them go, shook-up with childish Loss.

 

Life’s Irony:

 

It was I, Blinded by selfish tears

who missed Hearing them Both

    tell me

        Goodbye.

 

~ ~ ~

To this boy and his great Dog, I thank you both for opening

my eyes and my ears so young in my Life.

 

~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf

 

 

This poem has never been altered since its original conception:  remember:  I wrote this poem at the age of 11.

INSOLUBLE

 

Sometimes in

The night,

As we lay side-by-side,

 

I weep insolubly

Like an infant

 

And you turn

To hug me

Like a woman

 

How can I tell you

That is not enough

 

How can I make you

Understand

 

That there are times

All I want is for you

 

To meet me somewhere,

Down the middle,

 

And hold me, like

I was a lost child .

 

 

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf

DIM SKY

Posted: October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized
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DIM SKY

 

I could not sleep

and so walked the shadowy path

lined with purple, drooping hyacinths

stirred by lust-scented lilacs

as chills of unwantedness

wafted through the thickness

of midnight air

draping me in foliaged cashmere

adrift as though in a dream-like mist

of garden-deep secrets

ones bees told me about

during impossible days

when memories were once

thick as blooming Gardenias

and lay like Jasmine ghosts in-between

shattered rose petals after

unexpected storms.

 

Beneath a dim sky

one finds revelation

in the dank smell of earth

raw, musty dirt that reeks

like sex-filled autumn

or fear’s wet sting

and all that lives beneath, contentedly

fears our ever-exploring fingers

because of what we might indiscriminately

crush in mortal curiosity.

 

An Owl’s concerto ~

a cruel reminder that

private symphonies exist

take place under cosseted moonlight

where the restless are instantly forgiven,

and become a welcomed audience

to songs of performing cicadas

purporting the nightly gists

of their triumphs or defeats

from left-over foraged day.

 

When I return to

bed, and clutch you

like a lost child

back from a strange

world, I weep in the dark

mountain peaks of your back,

 

and pretend that you console me

like wildflowers swaying

at the base of foothills,

their silence screamed

only to wind in a dim sky,

where too, perhaps,

they are mourned.

 

 ~ ~ ~

 

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf♫

MISSISSIPPI ACHING (a lost innocence)

 

 

I still ache for a time

when there was nothing

but the memory . . .

 

         When I was just a

girl on a dusty afternoon

 

                   on a Mississippi porch ~ ~

your hand on my leg

the sun setting in a

virgin sky.

 

I was young,

you knew that ~

careful you were not

 

                   to place that gaze

beyond the summer

straps of a muslin

blouse . . .

 

The warning call of

a Raven I heeded not ~ ~

 

his blackness against

the sky the color of

your eyes.

 

And I fell inside

my weakness devoured

by the greater gifts of

God ~ ~

 

                   that lust could not

forgive a young lady

of sixteen

 

         on a sultry evening

in Mississippi

on a lazy

lemonade porch.

 

         Innocence laughed ~

your hand rising

up my leg stronger than

my will,

 

         pale flesh beneath

that gave in

 

to a Mississippi night

and heeded not

the warning of a

 

                   Raven, the last

thing I heard ~ ~

 

                   before I lost

the dusty memory

of just a girl.

 

 

 

 

 

 ~ ~

 © Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf♫

THE ANATOMY OF GRIEF

Posted: October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized
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THE ANATOMY OF GRIEF

 

You take a great grief

and you hang with it,

each dangling tendril

a wounded vestibule

of its own.

 

Wisps of knowledge of

each bleed an imprint

in the curl

 

and ringlets of the

bruise become the

aura of the day.

 

If one checked microscopically,

stems of rooted thoracic pain

would seep from bony edges

miniscule as pores

 

breaking with the sweat

in crystal beaded tears

across shivering

skin.

 

Cavities of pleural angst

plank sternum walls

leaving great details

of a vestige heart

 

for what is left pumps

venom within each breathing

shallow rise instilled by

fangs from those it loved.

 

Tufts of throbbing muscle

sensitive now to alien touch

knew of blades that pierced

beyond multi-layers

 

where stitches did their best

to weave through lesions left

irreparable from within.

 

Oblique recalls of terror-filled

torture spill from quivering tongue

now left to wine-ingrained injured

conversations

 

as waves of nightmares rock

the coiled and fetal-positioned

sleep of body bent.

 

Since early umbilical moment,

the twists and strands of hurt

wrapped brutal fingers

perpendicular to the spine

 

making upright stance near

unfeasible in order to deflect

further wield of inflictor deed.

 

You take a great grief

and you hang with it,

and the Coroner’s Note

is filled with vacant journal –

 

for how does one theorize

the subject died from

an overdose of an invisible

chafed Soul?

 

~ © Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf♫~

WHEN EVEN STARS

DROP OUT OF LOVE WITH US

 

 

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

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

eating

            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

cumbersome

                        intrusion

 

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

 

oh

            the stories

            that will never be told

and refused to be written ~ ~

 

when even the skies serenade

above our weepless

                                    miles

 

and we wonder,

            how we humans pause and wonder,

 

why even stars

            drop out of love with us . . .

~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf