Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Without the Red
For Lady Canada

Before she laid with me under the sun,
we dreamt awake our dine. Rapt.
Together. Penning to die Lady September
in Red October. Guess how we eloped without you?
two toasts froth with endlessness. Birds above the outside
mire seem to sing as we will. In oblong red woods-
where we end pretense and exchange it.
until I leave like November did.
Waving brown bearing red
Canada without Paris.

And to the newly, for many, for some-
there you have it. Matrimonies
calling Carrol,
four seasons
the red.


Let Us Eat Again

Afterwards. This is what is there-
Baker’s bread warmed served
With steamed asparagus tips
Draped in a raspberry puree the smell
loftier than head lice; my love, my darling.
let us eat again. as the main dish comes
to the fore. an empty one, whales a wine glass
The waitress, Kathy has it. Ghostly, red-tented eyes
two hundred pounds over
a hundred and two
dirty finger nails a seeable
must and stash.
a watered bluish wooden cross hanging
from her neck. Above the bread.
I was looking forward to dinner too.
The Famous number 5. A ribeye steak
with mashed white potato. It never came.
But Kathy in loud scream and bear red fingers
loves me. So says the chef
on the big screen.


Because of the Train

                         In memory of Bloke Porter                   
We have twenty minutes till dawn. 
For at least twenty and twenty years 
I have worked in night.
all the night. In all the nights. 
Even though no one knows
or knew about it.

Nearly now
 we can go
 like many things
 Go away. Shrills cuss words in utterances.
 Mean letters coldly aligned
 shutter then lie down. 
Though we pant in grey resultant.
  Because of the train.
  ennui in we in soaked silence 
  who smile 
  with wisdom of the fish bolts.
  As Romance and Old Visions of Rome
  In our seats. 
  We know nothing of these people.

Because of the train.

  Iced auburn rails against the rails.
 All of them so sweetly. I cannot begin to count
 the burns. our assumed words 
  burned into our ears because we wasted not
 our time. In hour's midnight. 
     Because of the train.

 Soon birches will bend for
 in smile of us, even when lights 
  release glitter ash 
  plus, my soul.
  blessed is thy soul.

 Because of the train.
        in spite of no solace. We worked.
        and this too. this is what
        I too remembered.



Dr. Ernest Williamson III has published creative work in over six hundred journals. His poetry has appeared in over two hundred journals including The Roanoke Review, Pinyon Review, Review Americana, Aroostook Review, Poetry, Life & Times, and Westview. Currently, Ernest lives in Nashville, Tennessee.

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