The Walk

The Walk
by Stephen Jarrell Williams

We walk bone-deep in the city,
faces drawn, eyes dull,
eternal pain nibbling
at our bare feet.

World weary,
undernourished,
ghostly skin, we reek
down waterless streets.

The explosions have ceased for the moment.
Cosmic companions following,
spilling out into the perimeters,
but never taking the lead.

You are whispering beside me,
words I can't quite hear,
but I know your meaning,
I know the treasure of your presence.

We are near bloodless,
never to be ruled.
In the dark distance,
someone playing a guitar.

The news is music.
Smoke rising from broken buildings.
We can always dance,
even in our heads.

The flying hounds
sailing over us,
their wings reflecting
fire in their veins.

I'm tired of panic.
I've made many last stands.
They're not as powerful as they think.
They just hide their weaknesses well.

I open my mouth
like a voice in the wilderness.
"We will never die."
My fist tightening into stone.

* * *

Stephen Jarrell Williams has done everything from mowing lawns to being an executive at a software company. His poetry and short stories have appeared in over a hundred publications. He loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night.

Where do you get the ideas for your poems?

I get my ideas from observing the world around me, reading as much as possible, and especially remembering my dreams.

Sea Nymph

Sea Nymph
by Stephen Jarrell Williams

After a party, drunk more in mind than body,
walking down cement stairs to the beach,
already a leech, sneak, consumer of innocence,
he didn't like what he had become...
The darkness a calling he wanted
as much as the black wrap of the vast ocean...

He removed his shoes and socks,
dug his bare feet into cool sand,
breath of breaking waves
invigorating, salty mist upon his upper lip,
and something else...

He closed his eyes, still seeing
dreamlike, lifting his arms, fingers outstretched
for a touch of meaning...

She startled him with her words.
"Are you praying?" she asked.

Opening his eyes, taking a step back,
recoiling all of his digits,
a sudden forever
picture of her stamped into his being:
dark hair, dark eyes, skin as white as the moon,
lips perfect, naturally puckered, a questioning stare,
standing before him in a slick swimsuit of iridescent blue.

"What?" he asked.

"Are you praying?" she asked again.

"Not exactly. I'm a little drunk."

She frowned, made an "O" with her lips, blew air
into his face, a succulent swish
fluttering his eyelids, sweep of waves singing
in his ears, her voice as if inside a seashell,
all the world in the space between her lips.

"Only love drowns
the evil in your heart,"
she spoke from depths he would never attain.

Swaying, he craved her
against him hard, her body, her lips.

She hugged him, pressed into him.

He said, "My apartment is not far from here."

"No," she whispered.
She pointed to the waves. "Out there."

He blinked, thinking of what it would be like,
to have her in the water...

He stripped to his boxers.
They swam out into the tide.

Pull of dark distance
in the glide of the sea,
the two of them, side to side,
swimming into euphoria.

Soon, floating over her,
her face underwater smiling,
drifting down into shadows blurry,
her face
disappearing...
Fading light into pings of glitter,
calm within the current's rhythm,
her touch everywhere and within.

He awoke walking the edge of waves,
bewildered days had passed
before he remembered her.

He panicked for a time.
Settled into her memory,
sharing her words with others.

Now
sitting on the beach,
facing the great waters,
rocking in the sand,
he thinks of her
satisfied...
with what he has become.

* * *

Stephen Jarrell Williams has done everything from mowing lawns to being an executive at a software company. His poetry and short stories have appeared in over a hundred publications. He loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night.

Where do you get the ideas for your poems?

I get my ideas from observing the world around me, reading as much as possible, and especially remembering my dreams.

Ravenous

Ravenous
by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Father of blood-red fields,
you must be weary.

Haven't you enough of the dead?

There's certainly enough wounded...

Is your thirst unending?

It must be.
Here comes the silver jets.
The black bombers.

Your will is solid.
Constant. Ravenous.

Could you at least consider
the women and children
huddled in their homes?

You're ruthless, aren't you?

The explosions are your laughter.
The fires are your long fingertips
probing the corpse.

* * *

Previously appeared inBlack Book Press.

* * *

Stephen Jarrell Williams has done everything from mowing lawns to being an executive at a software company. His poetry and short stories have appeared in over a hundred publications. He loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night.

Where do you get the ideas for your poems?

I get my ideas for from observing the world around me, reading as much as possible, and especially remembering my dreams.