Sentinel Poetry (Online) #47, October 2006. ISSN 1479 425X

The Internationl Journal of Poetry & Graphics…since 2002

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Ernest Williamson III


Handle Bars


amid the peaceful standstills in Augusta Georgia

1981, race stains the ground with cantankerous isms

blurted with a placid hate

but I'm 12 years old now

my bike is still black

the chain is of rust


the hand bars are tokens of deceit

my hands slip with frustration

but I'm happy

I'm free

I'm alive

though I wonder if happiness and freedom and vitality

are wishful thoughts shared by the establishments

                                       the founding fathers

                                       of yesteryear

                                       and the jails filled with seas of ebony

                                       of seamless forever

                                       will I have a motor bike in 10 years

                                       or will I be writing about one in a room

                                       with bars

                                       that are too greasy

                                       to hold on to



A Confounding Patriotism


I love the way she forgave my sins

alluding to comparable separations

in tunes by Coltrane and George Benson

she's so often in the midst of rare moments of peace

her name is legions of vaulted African equations

beautiful proofs with contrived improvisations hissing

in the weltering sweat stained in Western tents

I still love this place

it's a firm chair aware of its feeble legs

brave yet weighted with apathetic isms

like my woman

aforementioned nicely in line five

sexy true yet ignored

and not just mathematically


The Selling of the Souls


irrespective of minced happiness

a smile splintered partially in tune

with the nice weather

unclothed sunlight cloudless skies

and yet partially colluded with problems 


sandy ligaments

in feet and hands

lying to the bruises of incoming apathy

like a car accident

with blood stretched on the concrete

or a racial slur leaping from ignorant young lips

as a Christian elderly Black man drives cautiously

down the street in search for carnations for his wife

of 65 years

but what can the writer sell his observations

what can the greed of the eye effuse to others

when the writer's own inner galaxy trembles

in drifting orbit



maybe I can stare at the word STRONG

carved in this oak tree on 52nd street

south of too many confederate flags

rendering swastikas in gray shadows

or maybe I can write with two hands

and paint one sign outside of my weary house


not for sale

not for sale




The First Love of Last Recollection



a breathless mirage of woman 

parading round the green

leaving flowers disjointed and flooded with depression

turned aside as tired limbs in need of water and salt

she had eyes of black pearls

steaming the vocal chords in her lovers

like a black widow leading her prey

into the silk of misrepresentation

with no signs of sorry

and though she looms in the wake of day

in the balance of noon's transference to night

I still make note of her

like the enamel shaded white

leaning toward yellow reminders of life

you grow you age

but as the time leading towards death's migraine

you remember


Poetry in Terms of Sight & Sound


poetry is an inert gas

but subsumed by the wisps of cyclical wash

it's bad seed

it covers the earth in dark sounds

bats whining for berries

masked marriages yelping in disarray

based on easy traditions



pseudo matches

for fires with no heat

meanings with no definitions

kisses draped in wooden words 

no pith or sadness

just affinity for laughter

contemporary poetry

words supple too much to touch

yet rigid to the ears of all the seasons

of dying leaves



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