ERNEST WILLIAMSON III
I, Ernest Williamson III, have a B.A. in Creative Writing and currently I am completing the M.A. in English at The University of Memphis. My publication credits include, "Electric Acorn", "The Canopic Jar", "Entropic Desires", "The Makakta", "Scribble", "Ariga Magazine", "Subjective Substance (March), "Adagio Verse Quarterly" (April 15), "The Oracular Tree" (April), "Poetry Webring Review" (April), "SP Quill Magazine" (May). I'm also a self-taught painter, composer, and I'm 27 years of age.
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MATE IN 77 love made the sun set
she cornered conception
black hole understood
the end is the beginnning
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
ForgetMeNots
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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 aggresively 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.
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PACKING THE WORLD IN 24 HOURS
Insomuch I draw close to death's lure
leaning with a dry repose
clasping for the attention of the lying mind
yearning for cells which have grown weary
unlike the patience of Ghandi
the good man wanes and waxes
I too with tears solid and degenerate
place learning on the beasts of the sea
slowly as the processes of time
cornered by the wasted lands of Eliot's rest
forwardly the stewardship
of taking that which is all to costly to forget
that is
the rhtymn
of the arch angels
in the ideas and leaps
of something lucid and simple
a fragile smile for a contained
breath.
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WORDS TO ME
syllables are tortured windmills
a shot in the darkest light
of constant flames
the blue kissing the white
and tolerating the yellow
the midst of palpable misgivings
slowly in dank rivers
rivers of untravelled roads I am
the lover of the constructed signs
though they are far more than tools
they are the demons and angles
of our doubting lentils.
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THE FOLLY OF AMBER & JASPER
amber is the gelatin in my own sleep
and jasper coaxes my slums
to birth
future pains which kill
the mendacity of life daily
so as the moon
the gibbous
wanes
little as if I were
a mantle larger than its light
I find amber and jasper to be
all that is remiss in art
the seen but uncomprehended.
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POETIC RANT #3
spaces allocated in cruciform
words are spaces in tight rooms
where walls feed upon their
shadows
I the subject of your predicated problems
your hightened level
of morbid probity
lest you the pronoun viscerally
named speciously contained
tight too
as the wrinkles
of the child feeding
his mute father
words of precious writing people.
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MY LIFE, OUR MYSTERY
virgin dishes cold untender
left to the winnows of barking trees
my art
is not the window to the souls of men
it is as your lifespan
a mystery
materialized for scholars
yet badly trite and dubbed old
by the bard
who as a lampshade
hides
in the glow of attempted immortality.