Sky parchment writings by Vivian and Lance

of wingless flutter and a summer wind


painted kites with tails of cotton sheets

skip among drifting



small town children, barefooted, tug

on string attached to


wood framed airships, green eyes as

to watch like Catis eye



spun off of fingers with knees buried

‘round a sandy circle


smell of twisted hemp on hands gets

lost in lake



calls by parents echo off in a distance

as swimming trunks


stay wet, dripping bodies run home

late through neighbor’s



little Tommy thinking it can’t be time

to take a


bath, just a waste of water for a

little gunk left



my ears, surely parents to believe

Rover ate my homework


and send me straight to bed

meanwhile Sally worries

about old


Mr McElroy’s yard with a bear of a

guard barking and


carrying on, “Hoot” goes the owl,

now escalating the



all of us children now wishing

we were already home


as the roar of thunder from a

distant storm rolls



safely being tucked in under

the covers with


Mommy and Daddy in the next



Copyright 08/08/2013

Vivian Locastro Dawson & Lance Sheridan


red house dawn

languid tree scraping on red brick
and mortar with darkened nails
on branches, children in a
cover their ears from
chalkboard sounds and
teachers scraping
words out of
passerby’s feel uneasy
as they step on disfigured
leaves, faces pale, as
pale as sickly patients waiting,
waiting in ambulatory
hospital wings;

curtains rustle back and forth
on second story windows
where lead paint chips
fall onto mousetraps, mice
forget where holes in
walls are;
gray, cracked hands not
adept at removing cobwebs
from curtain rods,
vision through half-closed
eyes, squeak off circles
on dirty glass to
peer below;

the air is thin for forty feet,
breathing is swallow,
hands choke necks for
some sort of light,
in the house front nothing
but shadows,
nothing but smells of
those who suffered
at the hands of
the sawbones doc;

mD with malpractice suits,
carries his
malpractice insurance
folded up in a tired wallet,
carries a mistress
picture glued over his
wife’s photo, tucked away
from his heart,
his once betrothed is
locked away in a floor
reached by sinister
stairs and old wood;

she sits on the edge of a tarnished
brass bed, nightgown a
straightjacket, glassed over
look, pretends, seeks
help by anyone passing
by, but they all
think she’s gone
around the bend,
she paces,
she paces
like animals in forgotten
zoos who look for help
from gum wrappers
and stomped out
cigarette butts;

he’s in the adjacent room next
to her’s, listens with deaf ear,
he walks back and forth
babbling on about
patients who owed, uses
his dirty shirt
sleeve to clean a
dirty window, takes a photo
and a bad memory
out of his wallet, carries a
gun from a torn out
page, loads the .38 with
paper bullets and says
to ‘her’ through the keyhole,
“oh, you’ll get your’s,
my adoring mistress…!”

Copyright © 07/25/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


she got too close

ribbons of pain climbed through her, 
she suffered where old ivy grows
into cracking mortar,
inserts fingers and pulls apart
red clay; her soul was 
wet like rain in
aging walls;

she fell for him in a slow twilight, love
written in smoke circled ’round,
night darkness laid out on
damp surfaces; he made promises
like echoes in school hallways,
solitude occupied
her listless look;

dark eyes seen where abandoned 
windows sit shut, ghosts of
school children’s faces,
never had a chance to 
grow up; illusions of living,
cold, much
like winter frost;

she pulled up shadows off of sand 
and dirt where jacks
were played, he watched through 
broken windows, stood on stairs in 
a condemned factory,
watched her turn from child
to woman;

footsteps down stairways, footsteps
down streets where images of
double dutch clung to
row houses, patience never
found a way;
he cut his face thinking
about her;

drops of blood fell into tired water
in a sink, he looked at an
old image in a mirror;
she smiled on a street corner
as she slipped into a
new beginning and clean



Copyright © 07/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


closed eyes

she. suddenly felt scared where light

from a flashlight

didn’t hit 

corners in an empty

room, he. stood in one, slowly

aging, confused, love 

removed like a floor to sadness,

mistakes he made died in

a second, second hand on a

wristwatch ticking

away in a 



rusted slides and boxes of crackerjacks,

splinters in young fingers,

all covered with

moss and yellow

parking lines now; music

playing in an idling automobile,

song runs down her leg,

she checks the small

revolver, checks the small bore,

slaps the cylinder shut

like she slapped his 

mouth open,


revved the v—8 with a stiletto

heal and a bad attitude,

she looked

in a rear view, painted 

a reminder with tire rubber

and a slit dress,

straightened out road

curves with an Indian chief

hood ornament

and a palm pressed hard

on a horn,

tossed his ring out the 




pulled up in front of his apartment,

straddled the curve,

imagined a

drunk lying in an

awkward position on a warped

park bench, tattered 

clothing not

close to

a beggar’s ambition; she shot 

through his lock with

a smoking gun,

shot through his loose apparel,

dropped the gun like

a prom date drops

her morals,


watched him bleed, watched

his gentle hand plead

for help; as she negligently 

walked, struck sulfur,

ignited the place,

three alarm red trucks used

water like a drowning

man drinks

moisture off a



a while later, she awakens in her

Pontiac, guilt grows into

her face, she missed

the hugging,

missed his hand

brush her face, turns the key,

mashes down on the

accelerator, sails into

a lake where ice painted

its surface,

sails into solitude; 

but, a touch, a tug,

she’s pulled from the cold

watered murkiness,


gets mouth to mouth, the taste,

the feel, he

saved her, forgives her,

puts back her heart where in

a kitchen

a husband puts back

together a favorite plate

dropped out of haste

with white glue and a

tired opinion,

she holds him

with closed



Copyright © 06/28/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


light of day

she walks through the worm earth

dirt with a circus mind


crippling headache like a roar

of tigers


eats a bag of peanuts while

elephants starve


she watches a saw bone man fix

broken acrobats


who trapeze onto straw floors


smells a thousand miles of

rail track


and smoke;


train stations orphanages to



where Tennyson holds up



of fairy tales;


horse and buggies sit quiet

on dirt streets


as a circus caravan leaves

wagon wheel metal




sideshow freaks a confusing

swirl of ugly


and bizarre


hookie school children watch

from behind nails


and crooked boards;


air slams on big top canvas,



clowns come out of cartoon



horses and hoops of fire,

they jump through

like moths through a lantern



in a gilded cage, lions pace

with memories


audience puts its clapping in

mason jars,


grocer sells on shelves next

to old cans of soup;


she was a high−wire performer,



fell to a sound of a crackerjack

box tab pull


her epitaph makes ash and dust

her paper


husband to hold, rain cries like



stands with flowers, reads a poem,


“i sleep in your sounds that

call me

i swallow your voice,

your love

i forget this world and dream of

your eyes kissing me

your soul is liquid thirst in

my heart”


light of day paints earth,

he feels


her breath, her touch,

a loving silence.


Copyright © 05/25/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


and in her eyes

delinquent children skip rope in a street,
steal moments of sanity
fire hydrant water washes away the dirt,
the remains of a previous day
bare feet feel the pull,
the weak suffer
hot black top city pavement,
taxi tires melt
in place
meters ticking,
one fifth of a mile comes out
of knock off
preacher in a church laughs a
hallowed laugh,
abscond with holy water,
abscond with collection
plate change
does the steepled fingers before
inserting a key in a benz
police officer taps on window car
glass for a slice
of a holy pie
sandlot slide zone in an empty lot,
once, a building,
once, families lived
now watch 
sandlotters play, know of caliber
handguns hidden under
plans of shooting the messenger
shooting the landlord
but, hands still cold from 
winter frost
on glass
vagrants kick stones through brittle,
crisp mornings;
on a damp sidewalk, collar up to
be inconspicuous, 
i perchanced,
looked up 
at a solitary Victorian window,
she, with black lace on hands,
with black lace covering
a beautiful look,
i climbed into her eyes,
became a part
of an expression,
she handed me a deep silence,
had a story
held it up on written paper,
black ink dripping onto Victorian
rug, words 
formed in a small, dark puddle,
crept through fibers into 
cracks in a planked,
uneven floor,
resident below placed them neatly 
in a dirty mason jar,
closed with a rusted, uneven lid;
i invited myself up,
she opened a door, slowly,
somewhat reluctantly
i asked to read what was left 
on parchment
a life like a prow in still waters,
yet waves broke
broke her spirit,
i sympathized,
she kissed me
with blue delicate eyes;
on her finger, mark of a 
wedding band
the husband, an undercover cop,
found dead in an
abandoned factory,
birds nest in 
broken window frames
she cried, eyes now hollow
like potholes in 
waxed tabletops,
“i cannot possibly fit myself into
this world any longer,”
she turned away and gestured 
for me to leave,
beyond her look, beyond her veil,
she stood by a lonely
for her love to return…
Copyright © 05/17/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


No. 12!! Thanks everyone for your marvelous support!!


First of all, let me start by thanking you for your wonderful submissions, thanks to writers like you, we had a record number of submissions to read during our blind evaluation process, all of which were amazing.

I am pleased to inform you that your poem, The Color of Outer Space, has been accepted for inclusion in our anthology, Point Mass.   If you have not already provided one, please forward me your most recent bio by May 24, 2013. You will be receiving a free electronic copy of the anthology. In addition, print copies will be available for purchase. I will contact you again when both become available.


Thanks again,

 A.J. Huffman and April Salzano

co-editors, Point Mass Anthology


 ᵺə ʗolor of outər sp∀cə.


rode in the /ˈwôtər/smooth, silver craft–) 



running from the space end;


the lofted /bəˈlo͞on/man sees,

dances the foot



inside, non-/ˈsitizən/, has an

allegiance to instruments



intellect evokes, just like the marm in a 

school one room house /CHôk/ dust–)


reads, just like the /blak/board writing

1888 circa current →




  g)eorge w(ashington) first in war


                 (c((o)lor O(u)tEr ))sPace





a                                                         t


  OspHerE                         .gRaVaTatiOnal) ))pUll







children’s eyes, thay have the slience,

they have the scare; fingernail

deep into the wood top 



can’t leave the room one house school→


will. be. abducted. parents, never to see.


suddenly. the inside=the /ˈoutˈsīd/;

one figure alien.


children close their eyes like the arthritic

hand. their frailness has the

/ˈsan(d)ˌpāpər/ texture,


the alien’s, like the death scroll→


carries on the bough limb, the dead birds.


children begin to rattle their non-

denominational crosses–) make 

the movement like chiseled





now, taken. now, /ˌənˈkəmfərtəbəl/ 

minds in shapeless bodies;


but, with the permanent face. on earth,

parents with the permanent search.


the /CHôk/ dust /iˈradiˌkāt/s . . . 


Copyright © 04/01/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®