It’s called ‘Untitled’ and I think that’s appropriate.

Since I seem to have missed you
with the sluggish slowness of the snail
I was looking for you, then

in sweet
winding trail

I was looking for you. God,
on the goblins of the landscape
and not finding your sun in a snare of the desert
in a city that has already strangled me
I was and remained a social donkey
Maybe a little cracked
with oversized pantaloons

Am I dog slobber as for bone-in brown oils and gasoline?
are all made up of peach chops
while there somewhere a killer whispers in mobile?
glory is a group work on systematic harvest gleanings.
in a sculpture of parchment of unfinished manuscripts
in my grave, I will crew
this morning


POETIC PHOENIX,  Susan Joyner-Stumpf, dedicated this poem to – me.

(For Leila Mehdi)

Serbian Sage
Balkan Bia
Rise from the Tower of Babel
Where Shinar will again shine
Corner wings of words
To draw your sky-maps
Structures strong will crumble
Around you
But so your Goddess-breath
Shall hold the fortitudes
From crushing such effervescence
Be your own storm
That reeks the sadness
From your heart of all
Those dirty fingers lifted
Out of boneless minds.

In the Sun’s wavering array
Discover new arrows
To pierce virgin Dawns
Not allowing subterranean suits
To steal such humble attire.

You have made your mark
Upon the shifting sand dunes
Of hypocrisy and odium
Cleansed evil eyes of
Their predatory, loathing lure.

Madness is a gift you favor
In intangible realms of
Poetic dovetails ~ ~

We choose our blades wisely,
Those of us who write to
Sustain our ever blood flow.

Poetic Phoenix ~

Do you not already scrape the sky, the stars,
With Soul’s misty flavor?

Taste of Life’s emptiness but, so too,
Drink from the cup of all you have
Given, thus!!!!


Bia IN GREEK MYTHOLOGY; Bia was a minor goddess of the Greek pantheon; Bia being the personification of might and compulsion.

Copyright ©Susan Joyner-Stumpf 2019®

* No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*

Graphic designed/created by sonnetwolf designz© Copyright © Susan Joyner-Stumpf ®

No part of this Graphic Artist Image created by me below may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the Artist.

(¸¸.•*¨)¸.•´¸.•*¨) ¸.•*¨)


This is an amazing gift from the incredible, magical poetess, Susan Joyner-Stumpf who dedicated a poem – to me – POETIC PHOENIX
I am so honoured – Phoenix is an extraordinary symbol of resurrection and immortality.
The word Phoenix derives from Greek, it means- red blood.
seeing me as a Phoenix, forever rising from the ashes, a melodious voice that gets sad as it approaches death., but is not it easy for everyone to get over this sad voice when the bird fall dead if the bird fells in beauty and sadness?

Always rising again.
And again.

…a bird of flame, living a lonely life in a distant land, coming to a region inhabited by people only when ready to die, having the ability to heal and rise, impossible to be destroyed.
You, Egypt, lying on the altar of the sun, in Heliopolis, wait for my old ashes for this poem is so good to revive a dead man, Thank you so much, Susan Joyner-Stumpf! I am deeply touched.
and I shall always rise again.
And again.





Thus spoke my mother.

Seek no longer the soil
Forgotten among the trees
Under which you were born

In the chosen night
When the grasshoppers flew away from the terraces
Into the heap of voices filled with hatred
Directed towards me

Silent mother
Not even a sound to flicker within me
How could I have known
About the other side of maps

Are they coming yet to take me
Rooted in the last morning of a bullet

I arise barefoot
The sea is frightened
Like ground from thunder


The bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poet is the one whose mind and heart are puzzled over things, many of them gave up.

The poet, as the last Mohican, with his art, connects immortal to mortal, in the garden of the separating paths.

The poet suggests that the beauty of the spirit of the only permanent value in relation to which everything else does not matter. It never dies and the only shining at all times
as the moonlight that with its splendour breaks the blackness of the night.

Even when it sees the dark, and when surrounded by darkness, the poet offers light.
His poems are a conscious choice by which the poet moves the boundaries of the darkness pushing him out of his world glittering path to anyone who wants to see and do not tap in the dark.

Poems are prayers with which the poet boldly breaks false, dormant peace calling for awakening and liberation from grotesque characters whose zombie-like existence kills the liveliness of art and spiritual creation.

In the rousing kiss of the poetry,  the creator is ready to play their life convinced that only the beauty of pure artistic expression can win perversion.

Through the depth of their poems of which will not give up the poet shows that the bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poem must be an impeccably solid structure. It must be – solid.
The poem is a work of art. And the act must be closed in itself. This must be impeccable.

The one verse in the poem has several blind streets, signposts and goals than a writer ever succeeds to create a dozen pages.


Memento Mori, Sleeping Mathilde, Poetry written for novel’s sake

These are poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark, with a wish to conjure up a medieval mood and to create the dark atmosphere in the book.

I am Hyperborean, Atlantean

“It is a story of a woman dreaming of greatness and being her most actualized self, but is limited by her nationality.”, Pamela Sinicrope

I live in a country where the sun never sets;
Eratosthenes and Pliny, they write stories about me;
Waiting for me to show up
In a world that really does exist,
In a land that lives in a world of myths.

I have fed hundreds of swans flying
I have fed hundreds of swans flying…

I was the defence counsel
At The Battle of Thermopylae.
I live and die to fly in Thrace’s winds, for the golden freedom described by Pindar.

I am a Hyperborean living in Serbian land.
I am an Atlantean living in Serbian land.

I embrace the pillars of Hercules
I am an inspiration to the writings of Plato
And Ignatius L. Donnelly
I am a visitor to the magnificent Garden of Eden
I kiss earthly gold and walk through the ocean.
I am the queen of Egypt
I am a teacher, showing Phoenicians their alphabet
I poured hyperborean shadows into the golden bars

We mock the poor Hyperboreans
Who dreams of Thrace’s winds. BUT

In one horrible day, we died, trampled by
A hairy brethren of elephants.
In one horrible day and one night, we
Sank into the ocean, lost.
I am a hedonist who
Lost her might from fear.

I was a Hyperborean woman
In the land where the sun never sets
I was a Hyperborean woman
Who fed her swans, watching them fly in the wind.
I did not die in a world of myths
I was defence counsel at The Battle of Thermopylae
Apollo took me to Delphi in his carriages
So that I might spread his doctrine to other nations
Since then no one has ever seen me,
I’m still waiting for her to become.

I am a Hyperborean living in Serbian land.
I am an Atlantean living in Serbian land.