Four Poems
by Ernest Williamson III
Along The Avenue
I must have missed the supper of the Lord;
Lying here cornered in careless rain,
As the lucky people walk by
Full fat and bemused by the sobbing leaves
Draped and doused in concern of me.
I must have outed a crime against humanity;
Shivering here cussing at the wayward wind
Smoking a dirt covered Marlboro cigarette,
As the ants quietly gather and work round my blood.
Whatever wrong turn I birthed will soon weep in wintry want,
Not of my trembling sullied pink hands
covered in tattered tawny cloth,
But of my guitar’s strings catching the glare of a rich man
Who barely hears its tune
slip and slide
up and down
his numb and ignorant lips.
The Sounds of Charlie
Charlie makes sweet mumbles of the ghetto,
ghostly smoke from his horn knows my street.
his tunes walk rightly only when crooked cops arrests their crimes.
times are ticking tautologies of trite talk
but Charlie’s horn doesn’t know that.
the funk of the juke sails high over the sad tides
Unlike stationary windmills moving fast
over dead grumpy fruit.
Charlie is a cool man,
but he won’t speak to me;
especially when he is trying to sit still,
in the midst of undeniable trouble.
blood filled streets
streaking still
in the same ole fills
in the same ole ghetto
even as the blues in jazz make me wanna grab a horn
and listen to all of the other sounds,
Charlie rightfully refuses
to make.
The Painted Man
carefully lay your pillows
next to the barrister,
next to the last lady you slept with,
like a lying lyre you sound so sweet,
your hair promptly pinpoints agony
in love in bed out of love out of relevance
romance has vaulted into a diadem of rust,
Its old fame washed in dirty new cash,
tons of it
lifted and flaunted
like some blue magic,
some snuff thrown from a star's mouth
onto my sighing soul.
yet I polished my canvas again
and again like before you ran your course
before you ended nothing but peace.
I've made you;
more beautiful than before the ring;
because before the ring,
I found myself before something
grander
than
me.
Hinckley’s Shame
the windows were caskets;
placating purple flares;
smoldering by a tattered King James Bible
beneath deceptively secured feet;
draped in red-brown leather sandals
atop musty parkay floors
layered with red ants;
chasing spilled heavy oozing red honey,
as garrulous mice were squealing in soprano tones
esoteric trills leaking
like liquid ragweed in zero degree temperature,
pleasant to itching eyes yet cold as rime;
though I still see The White House
in memory,
it won’t change the agony of day;
unless I shut up
the windows
where my breaded works
remain
distilled, uncooked, and cracked
BIO: Ernest Williamson III has published creative work in over 650 journals. He has published poetry in over 200 journals, including The Oklahoma Review, Review Americana: A Creative Writing Journal, Pamplemousse, formerly known as The Gihon River Review, and The Copperfield Review. Some of his visual artwork has appeared in journals such as The Columbia Review, The GW Review, New England Review, and The Tulane Review. Williamson holds an M.A. in English Literature from the University of Memphis and a PhD in Higher Education Leadership, Management, & Policy from Seton Hall University. Currently, Ernest lives in Tennessee