Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Ernest Williamson III

The Value of Reinventing the Wheel

in the weighted hours
in solemn care
with the vaporous stems of cold gray leaves
dead but vibrant
like a moss breathing
along the musk of aged bark
I've contained a breath
with mallet and symbol
striking away
in the monotone of flaccid existence
though I've travailed in the winter now
my ways have pounced along
the cerebral branches
of more than Grandma's Oaks
I've grown backwards in a fulsome world
staging innocence with greed for position
though position is merely a crystal ball
wading in anger
in unison
with the brunt of nihilistic
made real

The Picture Had Already Been Taken

the bay leaves were stapled together
hugging each other
unabashed by the sultry winds
Montego Bay had never been so maroon
and swamped with rainbows meddling with black sands
in my house
aside the plush verdant carpet
was a cherry dresser
pleasant to the eye
with four legs
curvaceous legs
flirtatious in a way
like an anxious tongue
willing but reluctant
to taste hot Black tea
at 6 a.m. in the morning
next to the dresser on the cream colored wall
was a painting I painted in 1974
I called it "Daydreaming"
Today at times I sit and staple bay leaves,
watch them hug,
in Montego Bay
on plush verdant carpet,
next to a cherry dresser
with four legs,
in a naked room,
and with no painting of any sort
on the walls
while daydreaming
at 6 pm in the evening
with paintbrush in hand

The Chords of Life's Journey

the moon dove past the doldrums in New Guinea
all was a blur
grays meddling with capers
orange and brown
yellowed corners in the ionosphere
I saw the orbits of Pluto
after the beer from Milwaukee subdued my pain
though as I lay in the Alabama sun
courting my interests in red ants
my eyes dilate
and as the fringed beacons in their tirades
scream silently
against and for flesh
I empathize with food
yet worms seem not to be weary
of my destine transformation
a man with health
to flesh with nothing poetic to say
but I do say
with the winds in my nostrils
all is of interest
even the ignorance of being
less than
what people
imagine themselves to be

The First Love of Last Recollection

a breathless mirage of woman
parading round the green
leaving flowers disjointed and flooded with depression
turned aside as tired limbs in need of water and salt
she had eyes of black pearls
steaming the vocal chords in her lovers
like a black widow leading her prey
into the silk of misrepresentation
with no signs of sorry
and though she looms in the wake of day
in the balance of noon's transference to night
I still make note of her
like the enamel shaded white
leaning toward yellow reminders of life
you grow you age
but as the time leading towards death's migraine
you remember

No Understanding

lilacs folded over the windfalls
deep in the forests of Georgia
south of Grendel's redwood shack
two miles from the market next to Caddle's Street
sunlight meandering left and right
like a tiger on the prowl
merciless but of an evil beauty
for the sake of some esoteric show I guess
and the clouds white
with a glow of royal blue piercing through
gliding as black hawks
high above the vagary of my frontal vision
but still a sight worth mentioning
anyways always
as long as I still smile at nature
with no understanding
no understanding at all.

1 comment:

Rethabile said...

I know the poetry of Ernest from way back: CJ N°10. It's nice to read him here at the CSR.