Ernest Williamson, III

Language of the Miltonia

I'm always placed by this bay window
sunlight teases my arms
breaks through nimbus clouds
when I dream
where I rest
in cahoots
with careless caretakers
though I like living
my voice seems to carry me through dastardly drones
and when I lament
my body bends downward
like unseen greed behind corporate doors
in flaming dirt
devoid of roots
and thus
not of kin

The State of The Union

leaves of sultry Diaspora
construe my alms
they lay them in cuneiform
begging for reputation
in congruence to the bore of Irish lore
rewards have danced around my ego
suppressing the drowning neurons
trying to break free
from the alabaster box
of white and black oxen
huffing at each other
until physical needs
supplement their spinal cords
like the key of C
see me
see yourselves
see America
without the tar
from the waste downward
for the trees have not starved for leaves
usually seen
in the demos
out of a pathos
for directional
sheered and shared
for the fruits of

Why is the Bastion swollen?

why is the bastion swollen?
elliptical like Iranian entrails
lifted in lichens and ivy
smeared on the edges of old newness
like dew
or even parched relations
between war and peace
within a war of legions
in one body
why is the bastion swollen?
like a play pin
like a convulsing liver
jolting for continuation
I have seem enough shame in outer space
outside of my so called designated space
that I embrace my right
to marry that which society withholds
glory and honor with no clear explanation
of why Matthew Mark Luke and John
still appear to be so much more human
than all of these stocky liars laughing
why is the bastion still

The Reaper Of Cowardly Deeds

Constantinople has fallen again
like a rank towel beaded with imitations of algae
in the worst winter of 1678
Constantinople had revealed a ghastly shadow
until the Danes in Northeastern Europe
where the waltz of the corroding winds
hummed up and down the ridges of the great verdant mountains
but now I have traveled into the astounding waste of 1912
bondsmen carry me from African precious stones
within their indestructible nuclei
awaiting my disgruntled cry
for a replenished sitting
while Constantinople reaches for precious Eastern balms
for the extant anguish in furrowed brows
of molested plankton
in all of the human seas of arrogant
and sadly winning is not an option
for walking dead men
with grand ideas
irking inertia
with no time to spare
here nor there

The Alternative Manifest Destiny

destiny has no hold on partisan laughs
of jesters parading round'
the invisible yet tangible
burning cross
nor does the mockery of dark matter
by intelligent dead winds
win in the end
nor in the midst of its
like a convinced atheist
wars evince prudish
a war of words is also so funny
it seems
even as the flag
with blood dripping from its ignorance
factions see no peace
in prodding for change
until destiny
by faith
what everybody already knows
but what can one do
but try
to save all souls
from the non-partisan apathy
for us all

Warnings From The Ward

to what end is the end a riddle with spores of mild minions
sweltering in a Trojan Horse
ensued by the government
I've never walked under a bridge without blessing the sounds
of the fowl
yet millions of dollars are groping every dishonest wound
from Wall Street to the moon
and so poetry mounts  atop Mt. Kilimanjaro
as vapor and ringworm
exposed and irked
as nerves cringe
as mouths laugh
as pundits analyze
as death surmounts
as poverty grows weary
as anarchy takes her foot out of the quicksand
singing of revolution
though your arms are weak
her mind stomps the malefaction of America
a great idea drifting into factions and
fractals of stumbling ice caps

Copyright   2009 Ernest Williamson

Ernest Williamson III is a 32 year old Christian polymath who has published poetry and visual art in over 200 online and print journals. He is a self-taught pianist, professor, painter and PhD Candidate. Visit his gallery at: