Tuesday, May 1, 2018




When the overhead
Is beyond our
Timid imaginations
And touch
Too real of latent
Dream to rise
From reluctant birth ~ ~
We must peer inside
The unfathomableness
Of ourselves . . .
Tiny integers in the swirling
Soft glimmer of vacuumed space
Alas drag the wounded fears from
Their swollen pools,
Believe that we are as real
As the passions that
Define us,
The catalysts that
Embellish life forms of their own
From singular, lonely vision
Resting inert beneath
Self-conscious tunnels
Of undulation.

A place and time when Silence was safer
Action more centered In its framework of minimal tears.
We’re only as close to Stars
As what brightness we
Allow to drape Our hidden darknessnes,
Silhouette forms     milky monograms
Of grayscale remnants
Of everything we ever tried to be but didn’t
And all we tried to feel
And yet were left empty Instead.

How harmony is
Or connections sealed
Is not merely the blend and scope
Of what once lay screaming, unearthed,
But how we finally step outside of cosmic boundaries,
The gulf of what we perceived
As limitations….
And realize
~ ~ Oh and realize . . .
That deep within the crevasses of
Us all,
Therein lies an infinite
And waiting
Element of
Copyright ©Susan Joyner-Stumpf®


There exist pieces of remnant, lost twilight forgettable echelons of ancient stars
where voices unfurled inside silvery wolves mysteries left hidden never ours to find.
We reached out, not out of basic need,
but more from wanton greed; dreamt what we knew
we could never hold onto; still never to grasp the language of moon.
How can you pride on this dance living forever flowers suspended in uninterrupted bloom
poems written by themselves across parchments of heart;
songs sung without passion’s lips, or chords bleeding without
Violins casting tenor croon still never to hear the language of moon.
Do you crash yourself against a garden of stones spill sedimentary sadness
silt-deep with granular tones listen to erosion turning beyond mortal bones
return to dust at death’s marble door still never breaking through the language of moon.
Man is jealous of this world how it evolved long before us
and shall go on, long after we’re gone even for one moment in utter stillness it just is; and doesn’t need us, what our dreams can’t forget
is what it chose not to remember.
Never were we the aching flow of a river’s wounded current,
nor could we predict the storm
in a prairie wind’s restless eye.
All we ever were was tiny seedlings caught in throats of ivory seagulls
warped cries fading on salty gulf breezes seeking distances never meant to reach;
vines growing wild, out of control from motherless roots;
shells shimmering like pearled-jewels
the ocean gave up and spit back upon an orphaned beach~
A silent cloud passed by once, long ago, in a sonnet rain, in the cry of a loon,
inside buffalo echoes, tried to explain
to passing deaf shadows to blind eyes of hearts
that closed all too soon~ and no one, nothing, heard the language of moon.
Copyright ©Susan Joyner-Stumpf®


I feel this nameless dread in the neon after-glow
tantrum trail of perseverance
like a side-line prism refusing inertia
in the myriad gleam from melting snow-light.
What a cost to late Summer caught unaware
her wardrobe dressed in
lingering fuchsia and golds resisting the corduroy drape of heavy cold.
In the ravine’s wide breath of day
what will you do
with the soft breakage
of the world
as an ancient tree goes sadly limp swans float
across an inky toxic pond.
Now hear the grinding the constant stamping of twisted vine
and mutilated root
from the underbelly of hungry earth
her bowels too wounded to even give up what’s left of
stunned worms.
Fear cataracted in a wild stallion’s darting eyes sensing your every unspoken hatred
each and every
swing at mad air assuaged only by temporary displacement from sunken twilight.
Are modern minds so lobotomized
like an infant ripped too soon from
its shocked womb that even hearts have bled out kindness with
numb tendrils?
Ringlets of tears needled into
a vacuum of pity
torn from neglected edges down
the slope of extinction riding high an horizon sucked dry and
devoid of spectrum
There’s an arctic hare deceived into thinking the fox
is not as cunning as told
until it finds itself squeezed between
the meaningful fangs
death swift and sweet.
Mahogany seeks the austere silhouette of birch, aspen
in their regal prime
grasping that its
one shade shorter from acceptance and now weeps in vibrant disarray.
Where does one draw the invisible line
between placidity
and pain thirst or
monsoon rain?
Does oblivion live incognito reliving stolen memories from depleted dreams?
Tongue of meandering streams carve their vision
through the mountain’s sickened core
monotony buried in safe folds
of purple sage
and unforgiving stone.
Nature’s show plays out despite our tepid audience
yet its performance revels more when admiration sets in deeper and begs its pristine bow.
I taste the nectar left behind by
reckless bees
from the prey of amassing clouds raging hungrily for desert dust to drink and appreciate this
mighty gift of storm.
The way of the wild wants merely to tame the vigilance of unreceptive rigidity to break pieces
unwilling to bend
with yielding compatibility.
How is it lichen can thrive beside a rose
not feel the need
for competition
Alas! not be overwhelmed that beauty lies haunted
behind the swollen eyes of the fickle beholder?
Does it not seek its own
In the mouth of space are we not all
swallowed by some cosmic script
adhered to yet
for now still unwritten staring at us
blind with loneliness
but confidant in our face?
How it dares mortality relinquishment of
burning, insatiable
desire for each eternal soul to be erased.
In the ravine’s wide breath of day in and out of
indigo blue
the last, great gray heron
with the soft breakage of the world
soars through its tortured sky
cutting the wind like a beautiful knife.

Copyright ©

SUSAN JOYNER-STUMPF is originally from New Orleans and now calls the Colorado Rockies her home with her husband and menagerie of animal friends.  She has been writing since the age of seven.  It started off as an escape mechanism for Susan, for she was suffering from Childhood Abuse.  After a while, it became a passion, and after 37 published books and still counting, and appearing in over 20 United States AND International Anthologies, the rest is history. Susan started her own Publishing Company three years ago called WILDFIRE PUBLICATIONS, having made her best friend, Deborah Brooks Langford, as Vice-President and Marketing Director.  Together, Deb and Susan are also starting up their own Live Blog Radio Show on Red River Radio Station called RHYTHM AND MUSE INTERVIEWS.  Also, they’ve extended the services of WILDFIRE PUBLICATIONS to include a monthly magazine entitled WILDFIRE PUBLICATIONS MONTHLY MAGAZINE, which is doing quite well. Susan feels that her writing career, spanning over MORE than half her life span thus far, has been a life-long journey of pleasure and pain into that great Unknown.  She writes to help herself as well as to help others heal.  It is Susan’s humble objective to keep the Arts alive as well as to help her readers find oneness in a driven, stressful world strewn with bits and pieces.

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