Poetry from Stephen Jarrell Williams

Plaza Pink and Blue

1.

No escape

wanting not to hide

out

in the open plaza

where you can grab me

upside down

shaking me

fizzing like a bottle of Pepsi

2.

I am deserted

most of the week

except Saturday night

reading

your mind

to a crowd

slow dancing

into the hot of the cold

3.

April nerves flexing

everyone with unwanted names

and losing weight where they want

showing off once in their life

so sad

we all fall down

eventually on our knees

bleeding kneecaps

4.

Our mothers crying

as to what

we have become

in the plaza underneath heaven

great songs of remorse

violins screeching

faces swelling into salty tear bags

popped eardrums

5.

Lonely horizon

lined with old street lamps

flames

snakes wiggling

up our naked legs

stamping our heels

to each

our rhythm

6.

Daddy finding us

saving us

with an old fashioned spanking

leading us home

where all the streets

have windows lit

with grandma

hugging us back to purity.

One thought on “Poetry from Stephen Jarrell Williams

  1. The narrator has a remarkable light touch, even surreal, they do not strain

    to take us readers along on this journey. It has the classic spanking, and

    turned upside down like a fizzed bottle of cola, as if we are brought back

    to a time of nostalgic yet sad reminiscence. The observations may be

    of a skateboarder in a plaza and that’s the suggestion leading us to bleeding

    knees. The father is the story verse may have been working many hours in the

    week, not paying any mind to the narrator. It takes the reader to a universal place

    based on their own experience of youth, the angst that was faced, and the necessity

    to move out away from the nest. The mother wishes for the traditional path.

    Not sure if the hallucinogenic snakes rising up snare their rebellious subject.

    Grandmother is the hug giver of purity away from the forces of the world.

    That’s how I followed along with the plain, yet wonderfully quirky imagery that

    leads you to your own conclusion. Is a poem ever less than ambiguous as we

    recognize the ambition of tone and making.

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