the color of sin

white silk see through dress
smashed the marriage 
sworn oath 
cracked length un—
wise, she closed his eyes
with dirty fingers 
moving

along muscles and looks
sharp—edged, 
neon lights were 
limp electric on a
sign, surrounded by bouquets
of stinging
paper wasps and
bursts of
spiny backs tripping
on dance
on sin, 

drenched in white sweat,
offering her a tongue,
licking
on a firm breast,
slides a hand down a 
belly, she strokes 
to get a part 
hard, 
bony in a bottom pink,

excited nymph thigh wraps
tight,
low smelling a scent,
into velvet,
white silk pulled up
unspeakable
lust, dark hair skull
pull,
rock—pushing
brunt,

arched back,
soiled reputation, immaculate
slate like uneven 
black—board
dust
erase,
invitation, pelvic bone
stretches skin, sexy curve
of a waist,
muscle tightened, wants
her again,

soot—black lashes slit
venetian
blind open
moans in her warm
hair, random screaming
impatient, laying
on a pure naked body,
ready to repent,
lust swells in a night, he runs 
fingers down her
jawline and 
neck,

her hands like cuffs in a 
vice—squad,
the wait to be uneasy, similar to
matches in a box
waiting to smoke
light,
she. tastes of spilled whiskey on 
the edge of a glass
he. can’t wait to sip 
it slow and
get drunk…

Copyright © 06/17/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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tears on whitewash and rusted nails

she’s there, does not love fences, they
make her cry

but firms up her backbone and sends
the horsehair brush

coating of something sitting in dented
cans and paper labels

onto wood picket and rusted nails,
skips the gaps

they get filled in later to silence
yelping dogs

and quiet slingshots from pinging
glass fronts that

hold onto rubber arms;

wears her ring finger rough from
bargain wood and price tags

paint grasps coveralls and old sneakers
with tenacious hands

uncut grass with white tops gasps for
sun and turpentine

wipes her sweat with hard work and
tired bones

pulls out of a deep pocket where forgotten
thoughts remain, an old photo

of him,

he wears frowns and wrinkles from
crinkled black and white

on the back, “that thing standing on
the deck is me.

i know you will say you like this
snap but i still say

it’s no good, love…”

another photo anxious to breathe
air is reluctantly

pulled out of lint and jacks,

husband, wife, two offspring,
they question,

“where’s daddy?”

storm off of rocks and disagreeable
blue water,

a photograph washed up, waves
poured it onto sand

poured it down a path to a beach
cottage 

her tears on whitewash and
rusted nails…

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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she sings the blues

she sang a hard song across his face,
he sat in a room where

outside light had to open up blinds
covered with cobwebs

and one inch dust,

he listened while he squeezed the 
last drop out of 

irish whiskey,

looked around the room for an
outlet to plug his 

life into;

she hugged the microphone with red
fingernails and 

impudent guilt,

unconscious eyes were fixed into
a moment like

a drunk driver’s headlights on a wet
curve;

they had met in a bar, a place that
served watered down

drinks and by ‘B’ girls wearing
fishnet stockings,

a cheap song was making noise
on a bad needle,

they danced with her body in
a 45 degree dress,

arms wrapped around his neck
like loose morals;

they took a ride back to her place
in a checkered cab,

threw their clothes into a heap
and had sex

with his five o’clock shadow
and her insecurity,

he left the next morning on a
crowded mid-town

bus with a lot of maybes,

fumbled in his pockets for
spare change to 

buy postage to mail her his
resentment;

she, sings the blues to wallow in
self-pity

and broken promises,

he, nails boards over windows
to keep out

false hopes that knock on windows
and post foreclosure

signs typed out with faded black
ribbons and

missing letters,

she, misses notes now, her mind
keeps slipping

into unanswered questions,

he, ends it with silence…

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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Finding Your Voice

‘it is quite exhilarating when as a poet, you find your voice and you share it, knowing that it touches so many lives’. On my most recent pennings, ‘under a calico sky’ and ‘of love and suspicion’, I had over 115 likes (blog and Facebook), and over 80 comments (on Facebook). Thank you all for your marvelous support!!

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of love and suspicion

she pulled paper off of elm bark and cut out

characters with dull scissors,

 

pressed them into old scrapbooks with white

paste and the corner of a smile

 

she took pieces of a puzzle out of a cardboard

cupboard where paint chipped

 

and cracked dishes held onto forgotten suppers;

 

had a hound dog that could smell a funeral

a mile away,

 

scent came up through porch boards and wet

sawdust

 

black ants come crawling out of woodwork

looking for leftovers

 

scraped into trash cans with dirty newspapers;

 

jealous boyfriend next door every time she

sat on rope and board to swing,

 

wearing her low cut red dress and wiping off

humid air with

 

a soft, wet, damp sponge,

 

young men cruis’n by in white walls, d.a.’s

and wolf calls

 

she eats it up with a silver spoon and glued

on lashes;

 

walks into the house moving like her hips

are on springs,

 

she’s running on full oxygen,

he, just trying to breathe

 

opens up an appliance for cold milk

and satisfaction,

 

a shot fired

 

travels through white in a glass,

travels through

 

a life,

bone

 

she clocks out like 24 chapters in an

unfinished book,

 

her body, flying puzzle pieces that

scatter into blue darkness

 

he tucks death into his pocket, opens

cautiously a

 

screen door where police lights pry

into furniture and

 

eyes in grandparent faces hiding behind

glass walls

 

‘rounds exchanged,

the boyfriend keels

 

over,

 

hits porch boards like slow nails and

a hot sun

 

had a hound dog that could smell a

funeral a mile away …

 

Copyright © 06/09/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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under a calico sky

cloud bank
 
heaven floats in a river,
streak of wind
 
sails on sky fabric,
my love looks
 
above, light cascades
down,
 
lights a lantern
 
she is no longer in 
darkness;
 
her tender hands hold
a red dress
 
she is a beacon on 
craggy rock;
 
mist of a dream rolls
in on air,
 
same air as the angels
breathe
 
sun breaks through clouds,
they retreat 
 
as to lapping waves in 
a canyon
 
i diminish the distance by
stretching 
 
on transparent wings
 
birds depart as i descend,
summer rain
 
softly blankets us as we
climb
 
golden stairs,
 
sunbeam slants, color of
a new dawn;
 
straight up into a calico
sky,
 
i am suspended in her love…
 
 
Copyright © 06/06/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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