Posts Tagged ‘Susan Joyner-Stumpf; Author; Writer’

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

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

 

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

Halted by the complexity of time
to wonder now where this moment
came from and why; and how long it

What matters is how you conquer Eternity

will last before the next.

Concepts seem to eternal their way
through the mind, a continuous flow
of meandering confusion.

Fears
fluid uneasiness, warm
frightened blood
passing vein to vein.

Where there can’t be time
there is no question
but life and even death
evolve that cycle

of numbed units….

that you eventually Die on a
Wednesday at noon makes no
difference.

From then on what matters is
how you conquer Eternity.

~ *•.¸♥♥¸.•*
© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

(One of my earliest poems, written at age 9. With this Poem, I won my first Writing Contest. The rest is history. I think even the Teachers were shocked.)

Fatal Oblivion

 

A morning

remembered only

for its damask entry

a velvet touch

along hemlined

quasi-dream.

 

This leisure waking state

nebulous of prism-light

golden-stillness enfolding

a noncommittal fog

of half-twilight, sinking.

 

Shadows flit then tease

broken, seeking form

from invisible placenta-thought

retinas thrust inside blindness

external visions impaired,

neatly aborted ~

fatal oblivion.

 

Memory, snow blanketed

with intermittent waves

of fire and cold

tug from quiescent core

weeping through

fabrics of mortal reluctance.

 

It’s at this moment

we are most vulnerable

abandoned even in love.

Your arms wrapped snugly

around me feel a distant

world away.

 

As you kiss the air between us,

all realism asunder,

bent in the coil of an

arctic caress,

my lips acknowledge

a measure of unspeakable hunger,

the first light rays

of unintended emptiness.

 

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© 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