Of a child and an elephant

For Sumi…

Dusk in an Indian village


out the day, allowed


of cooler air to spill


for the night…

it entered carrying

old wooden buckets 


with darkness.


The village slumbered,

yet she remained awake

thinking about her friend.


She, a child, had a special

relationship above the


with an elephant of the


at first, they only


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 


a pond,

she was very brave,

full of love –

both full of kindness.


Nothing the village elders

could ever


would equal the 

bond that

this small girl and


felt, the sound it

made muted


rustling in the 


A lonely life it now 


after she sadly waved 


left for another


the elephant 

no longer trumpeted,

no longer saw her


in the pond, only its own

slowly aging.


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


cotton row



black and white spools
black and white


shoveled the cotton manure
decomposed in the presence

of its oxygen

divorced children from their

thread wheels cogs oil sweat
neglected residue

ceiling crack lead paint chips

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 

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,


scratched with nails to be

scavengers absconded

parental satisfaction.

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


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®


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



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




climb up rusting metal ladder

to meet resistance 


from a manhole cover,

yellow cab tire





shots fired, ricochet ’rounds,

rats float dead,


miscreants next;


sewer pipe leak




onto a dear john letter, he leaps

from a platform


without regret





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



breaks her into dismantled 



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




to sewers,


follow behind vice squad cops

as to haunt


illicit ways,


miscreants no longer



to sit in broken chairs at a


slum tenement table…


Copyright © 05/23/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


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®


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 
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®

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®

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®