The Calling / Sugar Snakes by Stephen Jarrell Williams

The Calling

His cold hands

carrying flowers

upon the path

along the cliffs

up to the main peak

overlooking the sea

continual winds

he remembers yesterdays

sitting the flowers down

beside a handmade cross

bent by the years

when memories become alive

he senses her

loving presence

tears forming

rolling slowly down

with the far below

rush of the sea

he swallows hard

wondering if he should jump

but her voice comes

softly

Someday

We'll be together again 

her words

keeping his soul

and heart warm.

Sugar Snakes

Halloween candy

millions chewing

mouthfuls of stories

masks covering

grinning

sugar snakes.

Stephen Jarrell Williams writes at night, waking from his dreams, before they consume him.  He can be found @papapoet on Twitter X.

Fingertips by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Simplicity is an illusion
just as words don't have enough blood
taking me down a low road
with summer heat on my sunburned back

remembering a poet from twenty years ago
quitting at his peak
whispering he was tired of writing
the same old words in reset sentences

recalling his familiar name
probably sick of his aliases
changing his clothes and shoes
to a long-haired hippie barefoot

swollen steps
into the ocean in Laguna Beach
polluted waves into the deep sand
outstretched fingertips to underwater graves.






Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write in the middle of the night. His poetry and art can be found here and there. He's @papapoet on Twitter X.

Double Moon Above the Sea by Stephen Jarrell Williams

When the wind eases into nothingness
alone
scent of sorrow
leaving you limp
in the low glow of darkness

distant sea of rolling waves
double moon
yesternight and this the last night
you're out of breath
stumbling for the sea

wading in
the cold press of death
water lapping as you stand still
tide swirling around your chest
licking salt on your trembling lips

tilting forward
into the deepening waters
loop around your neck
each eye seeing a moon
under you go

lighter in the ease of giving up
and down you sink
eyes open and blurry
ocean world
near and far dream filling

awakening hours later
lying on an island shore
coughing water burning your throat
lungs raw
heart of your will not to die

for there's something more in the living.

Stephen Jarrell Willams... Poet, writer, artist, dreamer, God believer, and man of many faces.  He can be found on X Twitter @papapoet

Out of the Past? by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Driving my old Impala
speeding faster than the wind

night moon
gleaming above the highway

listening to myself singing
to my lovely wife

passing groves of trees
endless farms of apple trees

suddenly imagining
tasting a juicy red apple

now humming
taking a deep breath

no other cars before me
clear to the distant city

a perfect night
seemingly

until looking
into the rearview mirror

unbelievable sight
coming swiftly with a roar

honking cars with lights
lifted high above the road

something holding them up
a dark shape

huge yellow eyes
a snake larger than a train

opening its mouth
outstretching tongue

I glanced over to my smiling wife
holding an apple in her palm

with a bite already taken out
telling me it was my turn....

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write at night, looking at the stars, and when a comet zips past. He can be found on Twitter @papapoet

It All Begins Again by Stephen Jarrell Williams

A pair of eyes watching.
Preparing to strike
in a fold of dreams...

You've seen them.
But you pretend
you're a blinding blaze of light.

Or is it
you're as dark as they are?

The trees bending.
Roots extending...
Holding on
for the coming breaking of earth.

The birds already singing
songs at night,
clearing their throats
for the choking change of forever.

The dogs sniffing with eyes bulging.
Cats with shaved tails.
Fish straining for more air.

Sky falling
with crumbs of bones.

Smoke rising
from below a hidden lid
of the buried
garden chamber.

Does it begin again,
or has it always been?

Stephen Jarrell Williams use to stay up all night and write with lightning bolts until they fizzled down behind the dark horizon.  But now he sleeps through the night and writes with the morning sunrise.  He can be found on Twitter  @papapoet.

She Covers Herself by Stephen Jarrell Williams

She covers herself in baggy clothes
floppy hat down over her eyes

sometimes seen in the daylight heat
but usually she stalks at night

the homeless have nightmares of her
waking them in the silence of dark

whispering into their ear
up against them like a smooth snake

they can't resist her
as she stands up in the shadows

stripping her old clothes and hat off
silencing all sounds

she is not a witch
her beauty unbelievable

her swaying dance unstoppable
they lose consciousness in her trance

awakening the next morning
to find they are already decaying

she is not a vampire
blood is not her drink

she infects their flesh and spirit
with all the wrongs of this world.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to stay up all night and write with lightning bolts until they fizzle down behind the dark horizon.  He can be found on Twitter @papapoet.

She Plays With His Heart by Stephen Jarrell Williams

She plays with his heart
laying him out in the morning sun
centerpiece on the corner sidewalk

those walking by

pointing and poking at his fading pulse

accepting her excuses from the past

blaming him

for her outbreaks of savagery

she dances around him

whirling half naked

stopping cars in the street

shocked and enticed by her show

magnifying his weakness

his love for her

she finally says the words

I'm Leaving You

and he closes his eyes

with a last puff of breath

realizing he's free

smiling in death.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write and draw.  He's been published in Mad Swirl, I am not a silent poet, Homestead Review, Chronogram Magazine, Rusty Truck, Mirror Dance, Pyrokinection, Your One Phone Call, Houseboat, Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy, and others. He can be found on Twitter as papapoet.

Reunion by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Bare trees
stick arms
stark and worn

stepping on dry leaves
veins cracking
crumble of pieces

empty sky dark
immense dome hollow
bats darting zip-zap

the western garden wide
stretching along the river
through the hills

far mountain
attainable
reaching into the heavens

searching for my woman
years ago saying goodbye
separation a crime

so many mistakes
in youth
and the need for closure

when the garden had
fruit and room
to sleep under the stars

the ghost of her
following me
and I didn't know until now

her eyes
finally seeing
the soon forever in me.

Stephen Jarrell Williams has appeared in Black Poppy Review, Synchronized Chaos Magazine, Fixator Press, The Chamber Magazine, Mad Swirl and others.

The Last Night by Stephen Jarrell Williams

He walks slowly
holding his side grimacing

the night time attempting
to mend his heart

when he use to play for her
only her

pitfall between her lips
beauty trap

lights lit down the street
shaking his head knowing the threat

rock band playing in the park
she’s approaching their bulging eyes

they all want her heart attack
from the tips of her puckered lips

crowd clapping hands
she steps before the stage stairs

cheers and drums and electric guitars
ground and street vibrating

as she steps onto the stage
he draws nearer still holding his side

she turns around quickly
he stops and looks up to her

the dance charge begins
crowd trampling over him

his blood
on the bottom of their shoes

his flute still tucked to his side.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write poetry and draw unusual works of dreams. He can be found on Twitter @papapoet.

Athena, You Must Come Home by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Athena
Your father is dying

Gazing out the window to the garden
The garden that you once tended

It’s growing weeds now
Dying vines and withering leaves

I’ve never met you
Don’t know where you are

He told me to write this poem
Publish it on the Net

You would see your name
You would read and know

He’s asking for you
In his fever of no return

Come home to him
And hold his hand of forgiveness.

 

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write poetry and draw unusual works of dreams. He can be found on Twitter @papapoet.

Into Remembrance We Believe by Stephen Jarrell Williams

I come to you
In the flutter of night dreams
On your side loose in sleep
Pinpricks across the sheet of your bed
Covering your shoulder and hip
Your leg tucked against the other

Fire and floods of the far world
Closer than you want
Earth no longer a sweet dream

I breathe upon your lips and cheek
Teasing your inner boundaries
To forget this world that aches

But you’re having trouble escaping
Turmoil in real life
So I kiss you
Whispering a song that tingles

My essence touching you
As many years ago
Into remembrance we believe
Yester night into tonight

I am not a vampire or cosmic lover
Just someone captured
By the breath of your being

Together this night I protect you
And hush the outside monstrosities
As we snuggle
Time sealed in the moments of now
Not sure if I can let you go.

 

 

 

Stephen Jarrell Williams writes at night, enthused, and waiting for the Coming Good Dawn.  He has been published lately in Rusty Truck, Synchronized Chaos, and The Beatnik Cowboy.  Accepted and soon to be in Mad Swirl and Chronogram Magazine. 

Bitter by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Everything at her fingertips

And everyone

But no one completely

All these years

Looks and body

Eye-catcher near perfect

Until age bent her bitter

Teeth sharpening into a horror

Cavities decaying

Mini effigies

Oozing from her brain pores

Snake ghosts

Bread of dry crumbling cells

Burnt toast

Wrapped in a hardening cocoon

Captivity hung

Nightmare on a hangman’s noose

Sobbing until cutting loose

The fall

A last grasp

Changing slap

Picking herself up

Stumbling to the pond in the garden

Moon-mirror waters

Kneeling

Quake

Cupping her hands for a drink

Ripples of time she tastes

Finally understanding herself

Acceptance of mercy

Bitterness into freedom

Beautiful wilting of a flower.

Stephen Jarrell Williams has had over 1,000 poems published nationally and internationally in print and online magazines. He has been “the poet on call” for Billy Graham’s Decision Magazine, called by some The Great Poet of Doom, and has been the Editor of Calvary Cross, Dead Snakes, and UFO Gigolo online magazines.

Thirst by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Within the microscopic fluttering of mist

void of sharp lines defining life and death

she glides angel-like in the blur

silent strokes of wings and see-through veils 

her breath a breeze of unfelt disease

inhaled by those too close and unfocused

she is on them

before they know with understanding

foggy cloud of spittle juice

suck of the succubus

her silhouette mixed with enticing secrets

absorbing all senses of decency

her white eyes hypnotizing

temptress supreme she smiles

bite within a kiss

embrace of emptiness

systematic squeeze of the soul

dripping down to the hollow underworld

full of fluids where nothing floats

all hope like rain that never falls

she is from below and already here

coming within the exhale of hell

your tears swallowed like grapes.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write and draw late into the night. His work can be found here and there and in-between. 

Last Breath by Stephen Jarrell Williams

On this road

Death with his thumb out hitching a ride

His weathered look slowing you down

He’s been with you since the womb

Chewing on his bottom lip endlessly

Promising in his eyes a place of climax

Wind ruffling his long hair stitched into his scalp

His raincoat layered with dust from a waterless world

You stop

Foot hard on the brake

Miles away from your homeland of strangers

Your car stolen from a bank parking lot

You reach across the car seat and brush away crumbs

He gets in with a grunt and closes the door

He folds his hands upon his lap

Lip bleeding into his chin whiskers

Gnarled whiskers

As if separate entities searching

Daylight soon

Taking your foot off the brake to the gas

His aroma filling the car

Musty yet fertile

You drive down into a valley thick with trees

A half moon with sharpened points

He doesn’t speak but talks through thoughts

I am your guide to the sprouting of wings

You’re not dead yet

You still have a last breath in which to choose

Will you succumb to the crow or achieve the dove?

Not so long ago, Stephen Jarrell Williams was called by some, the Great Poet of Doom…  Now, he writes at night, enthused, and waiting for the Coming Good Dawn. 

Chaplet #5 - Dark Flower by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Dark Flower

Poetry & Cover Art

By Stephen Jarrell Williams

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Table of Contents

My Secrets

Only A Few Are Picked*

Always In The Distance

The Plea

Night call

The Spell

Her Necklace

My Only Hope

* First published in Black Poppy Review

January 30, 2015

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

My Secrets

My secrets are ancient

Myths have formed at their edges

My face and form are forever

Changing somewhat with my mood

Pressing my finger on another mini knot

Beginning bulge trying to rise on my forehead

Tip of a horn

A circular rubbing it down keeps my intentions hidden

Vampire heal thyself

And I do

I was one of the first to write and paint

Abstract meanings

Dark flowers

Filing down my growing nails and teeth

Never wearing a cape

Staying away from mirrors a joke

Turning into smoke and flying like a bat so ridiculous

But it gives a scare and helps to cover my footprints

The day a whim

Night its covering

I am high and low and fickled like an old hag

I’m strong as a mad bull on the charge

I am a lie

I am a quiver magnified

I laugh until I’m hoarse when drunk

But the truth is I often convulse into fits of tears

I drink the wine of others

Slow sips of boring lives

But some make me a child again

Dreaming dreams I wish to die within.

Only A Few Are Picked

The long night lingers before you

But you know its end will be too quick

Too painful

Too full of eyes closing

You step out on the street

Cars moving and pedestrians walking

Unaware of all the hovering above them

Only a few are picked

Only a few morsels in this area of the city

But there’s a whole country

A whole world half in darkness

And half blinded by the light

The harvest is plentiful

A chooser’s paradise

No one listening

Or believing

The monsters among us.

*First published in Black Poppy Review

January 30, 2015

Always in the Distance

This night bringing everyone out

A calming breeze with another day done at the job

I see you down the street walking around the corner

My steps quicken as you are always beyond me

Seemingly teasing me to follow

Just to get another glimpse

Another sigh

Amplified when I cannot find you

The streets elongated with those so fortunate

Those that have seen you up close

Those that keep a picture of you in their minds

A picture to return to in their dreams

But for me

You are gone again

Always disappearing

Into your hiding place

For somehow you have sensed me

Sensed my strangeness

Sensed my need to hold you in my arms

Struggling against me

Plucking your magnificent wings off

Kissing you with the kiss of sin

But never leaving you in the unreachable distance.

The Plea

Every night the stars seem to reach down and stroke me

Then they crush me

Pushing me face first into the street

Mashing me into the asphalt maggots

It takes

Everything I have to get up

Blood soaked again

Beautifully wicked within the shadows of the fallen

I can fly now

But never high enough

The earth and its magnetic pull

Overpowering

We are trapped

Trapped in the taking of others with us

Trapped in hearing their pleas for release

We turn to the seductive release of the crazed

It whips at us

Whipping

Whipping continually

Oh please

Let the sun rise again

In a garden of long ago when the world was whole.

Night Call

The last of the day ebbs back toward the horizon

Shadows collecting into the darkness

Souls and those without souls

Hoping what we have heard is not true

Us that feel the sharp pain of separation

A rebellion in our blood

We are the stone-hard dreamers

Whispering in the crowning of night

Magnificent in our madness

I say “we” and I seldom see

Others of my kind

But we are everywhere

We often attain greatness in the public eye

But more often we are hidden within

Capes and caves and cavernous mansions

And the world sweeps past us

As we grab at the strands of life

Lost from a time we cannot remember

The night always calling

Leading us out into the emptiness

The endless search of loneliness

Tortured by the so-called people of love.

The Spell

You’re in a state of dreams and half awareness

My spell upon you

Your eyes heavy

Your body light

Floating with my touch

Quivering with my words

Stillness of night outside the window

A ring of candle lights around our bed

You have a slight smile of anticipation

Your flesh rosy pink

Soon to be caressed

Tingled into a thirst

Your moans expecting heaven

Your suppressed screams ready to be released

Nothing like this

Has ever happened to you

The floorboards creaking

With my weight coming down upon you

Snuffing out the candles

Consuming your unbelieving world into mine.

Her Necklace

She didn’t wake up screaming

Wondered why the sunlight through the window

Did nothing to me

She went to the bathroom

Peed blood

Rinsed her mouth with water from the tap

She came back into the bedroom unafraid

Stood before me smiling

Took her necklace off

Placed it in the palms of my hands

She gave me a kiss on the cheek

And left me alone

A silver cross

A dare

Dangling from the necklace.

My Only Hope

My paradise will be death

Never seeing another that I must have

Never seeing another like myself

Only a few of us begging for the end

The matrix of the mirror

My only hope

Truth in the great sacrifice

A man hanging on a cross long ago

For everyone and those such as I.

copyright 2016, Stephen Jarrell Williams

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About the Author: 

Not so long ago, Stephen Jarrell Williams was called by some, the Great Poet of Doom…  Now, he writes at night, enthused, and waiting for the Coming Good Dawn.