Taller than brash, boldest brave
this great horse,
That beauty's wings unfolds,
to man reveals,
Such perfect poise, though clay,
our breath still steals,
And in our dreams, trots to gallop
We dare not blink for fear its
Will clatter off the podium and
Restless with courage, whilst
gnashing teeth clamp,
To leap clear of the earth and
I hope immortality is assured,
For our estate commend and to
Our poor health in its perfection
Will grant us vitality all our
Yet all us fashioned of clay,
by youth lured,
We look to its vision of life
Perhaps the world
Is a refining fire
For we are seared and blinded
How can it be you suffer so, who have been all to me?
If heaven's love holds such a plan
It is to bright for me to see
God is not always loving
Perhaps God is Love
Perhaps, through pain
Into the world
A world that is not evil, but wracked
With its own imperfection
For only Love can be perfect
In such striving comes great loss
But Love comes to grief with us
As has been shown, perhaps
Perhaps in your pain
You are love and loss personified, so
Of all the world, most precious to Love
Love yourself as you can
|From the Editor's In-box...
Mate in 77
love made the sun set
she cornered conception
black hole understood
the end is the beginning
send me back the old man said
take hold of my elusive skin
lick the froth from the many wishes
in my hairs of gray
yet love made the sun set
as the beginning is the end
of only a sandy cry
from hollow and pithy
I, Ernest Williamson III, am completing the M.A. in English
at The University of Memphis. My publication credits include, "ElectricAcorn",
"The Canopic Jar", "Entropic Desires", "The Makakta", and others. I am
also a painter and composer. I represent the United States of America.
With reference to my profession, I am a Teacher/GraduateStudent/Proofreader/Writer.
For the Sake of Saturday
I sought the coils in dainty yellow pillows
aggrieved with one blink by me
the dust mites parading around invisibly
living as we do at times aggressively untidy
as the fragments of all tawny subjects
yet the day this day kills the ills of sneezing
and my age the kiss of old wine wont bug me
since the anguish on my face
mucus salty to the tongue
rendered numb touches
for she kissed me again
on my 75th year
all for the sake of Saturday.
It's not too easy to trim
The pileated woodpecker to a poem
Because the long beak and the name
Won't fit a convenient frame
But the beak shims under the bark
Where the cold-stunned beetles lurk
And the long bill rings in its work
In the sap-vacated dark
With a stiff and a scarlet crest
And a white splash on its breast
It circles the tree trunks lest
You prove a catching pest
Two thirds the size of a crow
Wary of watchers below
It sounds like an axman's blow
In the darkening woods and the snow
January 31, 2004
Young Will would travel in his mind
Go off to Xanadu,
Some scented treasure he would find;
Perhaps in London Zoo?
Perhaps he'd go to Brighton Beach
And buy an ice-cream there,
There was no place outside his reach
If he only had the fare.
One day he'd fly off to the moon
With a billy-can and tea,
Pick fresh wild roses right on noon
While swimming in the sea.
He found the spots where he would go
From books that he had read,
His mum agreed that it was so
As she tucked him up in bed!
How can you ask me if I love you true ?
Truth is the frisson that fuels my soul,
That in its furnace heart, stokes darkest coal,
And bursts to flame only when near to you.
When to the stars their bright I cast my eyes,
And see their pin pricks in the firmament,
Yet know how vast up close their blaze is spent,
Does not compare to love; there's no surprise.
In cauldron pools of magma melted earth,
That hubble - bubbles with sheer alchemy,
Heaves out its lust as if to spring to birth,
No comparison to our syngamy.
So now ask not (not ever), what love's worth,
It is such force as ever, finds its berth.
A sheer deep wall, cascade of ice
That falls and freezes leaning west -
Eroded roots of trees encased
It sweats and overbuilds a caul
Of sunwhite luminance, a dazzle
Shining out a signal
Then a patch of snuffcloud trims
The flame of sunlight, limbs
Trees into fluorescent columns
The forest is a bluelit tomb
The chamber of a buried sun,
The sky a muffled drum
Tombward and a march
Bluewhite and slow, the sun yellow match
Above a rolling ivory catafalque
Slowmarching waters guide the horses,
Winter's thickened forces -
Rivers freezing slowly in their sluggish courses
Who's escorted, mourned and buried?
Whose body is it being carried
To the graveyard February
Cover Lent in shrouds of oaks and ashes,
Do him honor as he passes -
Death itself is snowflakes on his lashes
January 31, 2004
I'm in a state of shock. I try to imagine what person can put
and "the smell of fish cooking" in the same sentence.
Abracadabra from nowhere, with lightning and thunder, you entered
life, you stepped on life's giant stage.
Hocus Pocus, a simple gesture and, like a wonder, red roses fell
out of your hat in a cascade.
Hey, Presto, you asked me to examine your hat and all those wonderful
things. You performed forward, but at the same time, as I stretched forward
my hand I fell in trance and heard dream-like how you whispered my name.
Abracadabra, and so, at once, the time stood still and all life brightened
up and I became warm.
Hocus Pocus, I was like wax in your hands and all enchanted I fell
for your soft charm.
Allekazu, a magic circle around my heart. A ring of pretty cloths
in a golden tone, I was enchanted by your art and, surprised, I was in
love and, like a child, I believed in an illusion.
Voila, bewildered and hypnotized I had fallen for your magic and
Shazam, your high hat was prepared. I saw through your magic all
Hocus Pocus, gilded words and paper flowers laid sprinkled around.
About us without sympathy... And all your gloss was gone. Left stood
only a simple jester who lived highly on people's faith and fantasy.
Without explanation, you were gone like a fate's irony.
Yet, here in my window is your hat with roses inside, my tears dropping
Was it a dream, was it a magic spell or was it more than that?
I'll turn these eyes away to look at stars,
For you have told me straight that you must leave,
And if I look, my temper I deceive,
To be the victim, of emotion mars.
So take your things, I would not have you stay,
If you must go, I will not beg you wait,
Put down to fortune and that poor friend fate,
Sit by this window, stare in longing way.
The moon too soon is full of halo glow,
Icy, crisp, brittle frost lone my heart cries,
I cannot say good-bye, so callow go,
Do not this tempest tempt, for my part tries.
Whistle the wind, gale and hurricane blow,
Through empty house gust, swirl dust and past stow.
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