The Misfortune of Shallow Sight


she slid through the sackcloth
like a silkworm
gracing the sweet softness
of aching movement
of slender shaved legs
and her hair was blessed
with a kink
golden brown
fresh
clean
like the liking
to a week old kitten
her hands were
sweet perfumes
penetrating the dermis
with intent on making man smile
without reason
but her eyes were darted and gray
uneasy to my own sights
yet her scent
the vitality of her ways
made me a bit greater than a man with common sight
her lack was no metaphor needed
for this iteration
I give you
in fact
my eyes are now driblets for hawks
carrion for foolish men
who seem to eat
with their eyes
I am blind
and so happy to confess
to all of the noisy permutations
of ogling formalities
proud beings
with tearless eyes



The Value of Reinventing the Wheel

in the weighted hours
alone
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
possibilities
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
smiling
with paintbrush in hand



Unlocked Perspective From Cell 43


in the conquest of delirium
no one wins
a tincture of smelt rising above ground
to tattle and tell man
he is a romping victor of words
of tragedies or maniacal white flags
glaring from the islands far off
away
in the mills of conflated human confidence
but I've been reborn
into the requiem of human effort
of split semblance
corroding the vespers of our Lady of Sorrows
bent and broken like drunken grape vines
swollen like diffident coconuts awaiting harvest
yet I won't show my life
to the mental illness of the world
since I am transposing the life of me
into a script written
for the fascination of watching
images of whatever
I wish to see




© Ernest Williamson III

Bio: Ernest Williamson III is a 31 year old polymath
who has published poetry and visual art in over 120
online and print journals within a time span of 8
years. His poem "The Jazz of Old Wine" has been
nominated for a Best of the Net award by the editors
of Thick with Conviction. He holds a B.A. and
M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature from the
University of Memphis. Ernest is now listed in the
prestigious Directory of American Poets and Fiction
Writers. Professor Williamson is also a private
tutor,and a Ph.D. Candidate at Seton Hall University.
Visit his website at www.eyeoftheart.com/ErnestWilliamsonIII