Of a child and an elephant

For Sumi…

Dusk in an Indian village

closed

out the day, allowed

thimblefuls

of cooler air to spill

Fresh

for the night…

it entered carrying

old wooden buckets 

filled

with darkness.

 

The village slumbered,

yet she remained awake

thinking about her friend.

 

She, a child, had a special

relationship above the

Commonplace

with an elephant of the

forest…

at first, they only

exchanged

glances, not enough of

an escape from

their daily chores.

 

How sweet the early morn,

washed as in a bath

by pouring rain

when they 

Entered

a pond,

she was very brave,

full of love –

both full of kindness.

 

Nothing the village elders

could ever

Observe

would equal the 

bond that

this small girl and

elephant 

felt, the sound it

made muted

leaves

rustling in the 

 

A lonely life it now 

led

after she sadly waved 

Goodbye,

left for another

country…

the elephant 

no longer trumpeted,

no longer saw her

reflection 

in the pond, only its own

slowly aging.

 

Copyright © 06/13/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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cotton row

mill

longhours
childlabor

black and white spools
black and white

minds

shoveled the cotton manure
decomposed in the presence

of its oxygen

divorced children from their
families

thread wheels cogs oil sweat
neglected residue

ceiling crack lead paint chips
tasted
inhaled

fogged over windows
no daylight,

sun with arthritic hands couldn’t lift

row aisle slept in their shoes,
tattered clothing,

placed bitsandpieces of 
cotton on to mend

fingers caught unsplinted
pain tearsshed

drained through crackedconcrete 
floor

dripped on children below
they wiped it

on torn pants

row aisle exited with rusted lunch pails,
their shadows 

stayed behind, motioning them to 
hurry back…

then, closed because of laws,
footprints 

remained,

scratched with nails to be
removed,

scavengers absconded
with,

parental satisfaction.

Copyright © 09/18/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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in the world of the wicked

daunting sea waves lick wooden boards 

with a taste for an 

 

innocent’s destiny, yet she wears the                  

white; breeze of a

 

future pulls soft hair, makes butterflies 

dance and barren 

 

limbs taunt, they scold as if to tell the

young child not to

 

get her soul wet, but she replies, “i 

must keep the roses 

 

moist, for surely they will wither and

die;” the limbs pick

 

at her clothing as a daunting grand

parent must, “child,

 

if you do not listen, you will receive

a switching from a

 

deftly branch!” “what of your leaves

dear tree, to soften

 

this punishment?” “have you forsaken

them for you own

 

banishment?” “they have fallen from

once a stately oak

 

into the sea

into the sea,

 

i hear them in desperation calling,

slowly sinking,

 

do you not care to save them?” “i

choose not too,

 

for they are now orphans of silence,

besides, i will soon

 

have new growth in the spring;” “but

what of this tide?”

 

“child, you ask of me too many

questions!” “besides,

 

it is time for a switching…” “oh,

i rather thought

 

you had forgotten about such things,

anyway, i want to

 

sit beneath your branches and touch

the sky with my

 

heart on swing;” “i am afraid little

one that the sea

 

has now come to claim thee, it grabs

my roots with

 

salty hands as to choke, to smother

with brine, take

 

heed not to succumb to dark water,

one of youth

 

and purity;” “i will dearest friend…”

a tender touch

 

now from bough to wipe a long,

solitary tear;

 

she walks away as bark and limb

get pulled into

 

cold, desolate degrees, places red

roses on whitecap

 

and depth… butterflies are free.

 

Copyright © 07/29/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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dirty city

untied, yellowing laces under

a slum tenement table

 

delinquent child sits in a broken chair, 

rocking her legs back and forth,

 

mother injects

mother scolds

 

lead paint ceiling color falls into

a breakfast cereal,

 

milk comes out of an unpaid

electric bill,

 

yellow bus metal glass rubber door

closes;

 

a three piece in a narrow alleyway lifts

up a $20 skirt

 

fills her up like lead pipe water in a 

clogged sink,

 

some seeps through 

 

some down a drain to sewers

where miscreants 

 

with knee high pants wet

elude vice squad

 

cops

 

climb up rusting metal ladder

to meet resistance 

 

from a manhole cover,

yellow cab tire

 

resting

resting,

 

shots fired, ricochet ’rounds,

rats float dead,

 

miscreants next;

 

sewer pipe leak

dripping

dripping

 

onto a dear john letter, he leaps

from a platform

 

without regret

without 

 

remorse,

 

everything about her races

through his memory

 

erased as he hits

 

metal glass rubber window

subway car

 

she watches as a missed

touch fails 

 

to forgive,

drops to her knees

drops to cry,

 

she staggers onto a busy 

nyc street 

 

taxi once parked on a manhole

cover 

 

breaks her into dismantled 

pieces

 

a child eats cereal alone,

stands delinquent

 

at a school bus stop,

 

then. walks to school in a cooling,

morning rain

 

footprints on a sidewalk hold

back her tears,

 

shadows from a disappearing sun

get washed down storm

 

drains 

 

to sewers,

 

follow behind vice squad cops

as to haunt

 

illicit ways,

 

miscreants no longer

late

 

to sit in broken chairs at a

 

slum tenement table…

 

Copyright © 05/23/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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rusted nail in wood

“i am aging metal rusting from an abandoned factory,

worker’s arthritic hand that dropped me onto a 

 

cracked, cold wet cement floor; where oxygen 

shadowed me relentlessly, disturbed my sleep

 

disturbed my dream like a cracked rim in a pothole,

thieved away in a tattered, aging pocket, sold for

 

3s 6d to a blind carpenter with broken tools,

with a broken soul, hammered me into a piece

 

of decaying wood where rain, sun and wood

particles aged me, i cannot differentiate 

 

any longer between my drunk and sober state,

i bleed the rust, nothing good ever came from

 

a bitter act, but alas a hammer’s claw retracts me,

what is my new fate i ask; i am used to strengthen

 

a child’s swing, to feel the child’s soulful laughter,

to see them age, to leave, then to feel another

 

young voice, straying hearts oft times venture

for a ride in the clouds, higher than an illusion, 

oh, you cannot go, without me… “

 

Copyright © 01/06/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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once upon a forest dwell

blackletter ink on oldid parchment she wrote,
whlist she rode on a white
mythical beast,
 
it stood still for the grass feast,
 
the green stuff woven into the life of
the forest, into the life of
the earth
 
this grass came from the beards of 
leprechauns,
 
long grass grew like long hirsute adornments grew,
 
from whose roofs of their mouths came 
the Gaelic irish, much like the 
roof of the forest;
 
she a poet was, penned about “ofer hronrāde 
hȳran scolde& egsode eorlas, 
Syððan ǣrest wearð”
 
watched the soft wind hand move 
the grass, move the wildflowers,
 
her world smelled of ladyslippers and 
forget-me-nots, watered by tears
of distant lands,
 
after, she crossed the gôd cyningwith 
fingers tight on 
mythical beast
 
in the þrym ġefrūnon, a king
learned about the poet, Oftdid 
Scyld Scefing of scather threats
 
on horses mount,
 
galloped with thunderous hooves, 
 
she whispered to a white
mythical beast, traveled over
the whale-road to see
 
the sea,
 
all things mysterious and unsurveyed like hidden, grassy fields
 
she sees the tall, majestic sailor sail,
smells the sea, feels the blue sky,
flies through the mystic,
 
passed throughfirmament clouds,
found the frover abode in a year
called ɮɮ, then she was but ʒ
 
found a forest dwell,
lived the happily ever after,
once upon.
 
 
Copyright © 04/12/2012  Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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the taste of honey

brittle frame stands with the purity of a 
close friend 
 
earthworm crawls slow to escape blindness
 
she follows her instincts into a wood
to search
 
has the eyes, but no tears falling,
the bear has no soul
 
piping hot soup in the fireplace kettle boil,
empty chair at a table
 
her superstitious mother reads from the holy book
 
the father, coal mining black lung disease,
carried the pick ax like a jesuit
priest carried a cross,
 
canary, carried in a gilded cage;
 
“our child should be restricted, snuff out her light”
 
mouse runs lucid with moldy cheese
from an unset mousetrap
 
the father, breathes without a breath
 
she follows the path between self love
and awareness
 
her family life is a trough, her awakening, a peak
 
the mother serves soup with pictures of bread
cut out from an old magazine
 
the father, collapses like weak coal tunnel lumber,
no money to pay for a doctor
 
the child’s bare feet make no sound,
she does not walk into temptation;
 
she is edged with mist from 
a new dawn
 
light enters, she does not garish the sun,
 
her mother closes the room dark
her father ceases to exist,
 
the bear tastes the honey.
 
 
Copyright © 04/06/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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the myths woven by us

reflect a splintered fragment like splintered glass 
in a mirrored rear-view
on a rusted car sitting in the woods abandoned
 
invented stories come out of our yawning abyss, 
from our minds, half asleep
 
the fluid movement of our words moves with 
unnerving ease, like wet 
paint dripping off a ‘wet paint’ sign
 
we get addicted to our thoughts like a drunk gets
addicted to an empty liquor bottle
 
we play out of tune like evaporated milk, 
yet we drink it
 
we play with others then toss them aside 
like glued labels on old sneakers,
 
to them, can’t have the pain without 
the pleasure
 
we look out of the corner of our eye 
like a blind cat looks around
a corner searching for blind dogs
 
we believe there is a light inside us 
surrounded by four stones,
 
the soul, the heart, passion, and belief,
 
yet we weave the myths 
with a needle  
and invisible thread,
 
but that’s like sewing a bullet into a revolver,
 
once the shot is fired, the damage is done
 
we have disclosed ourselves like 
water has disclosed 
itself to a crack in a dam
 
and then we try to put the water into 
a single cup and offer it 
to someone who’s drowned
 
we prey on other’s weaknesses 
like dust preys on a drought;
 
feathers once filled a small room,
 
paid a penalty for participating 
in child’s play
 
feathers float through stale air,
children grab as to catch,
 
much like myths woven
by them at 
some time in the future
 
when they realize their dreams can’t be touched,
much like the feathers
 
much like lost car keys to an abandoned, rusted car,
the wet paint no longer drips…
 
 
Copyright © 04/02/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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