The forgotten

Rails blistered by age and

rust

Sweat and thirst hidden in cracks,

splitting

lumber bolted down with gasps 

for

air, blinding sun paid for 

with

broken spirits and aces up bosses

sleeves.

 

Mildewed tents, dysentery in

drinking 

water ladles, dripping much as

rain

off picks and shovels, faces

hardened

Hands calloused from ethnic

ranking

Backs branded by grimaced

looks.

 

Constant digging, like holes to hell

On 

leads to prevent workers from falling

into 

pits, hot air same as heat in drafty

tenement

buildings, tenement camps… nomads

in

search of greener grass on other side of the

tracks.

 

Random diseases ran through canvas

and 

rope, much as a stray, rabid animal

Immigrants 

rattling nondenominational crosses

to

ward them off, nonetheless, fever and

blisters

ensued, like landlords pounding on old

doors.

 

Ailments, starvation and death washed

over

ethnicity as floods of tics, sucking 

the 

life out of them… for each railroad

tie

laid, a whole or part of their existence 

lay

beneath in a grave, a spike, the

headstone.

 

Copyright © 05/13/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image

sleight of hand

transformed themselves from children to slight
of hand in front of the silver bulb light
two waved flags, all wore turbans, one sat on
a musical chair first after the music
played no more
performed their feats on Saturday at “New Hillsoats
House on Jibbets corner”,
messrs. “Ransleys and Mipps”, proprietors, never let
any riff raff in,
“mrs. Waggett, the vicar’s wife, soul of discretion,
like pocketing a fiver during a church
holy water baptismal,
liked to wink at the choir boys,
she didn’t care to be on any straight and narrow,
not even with holy figures in stain glass
windows looking over her shoulder,
took in their wash on the sabbath,
just like castle serfs who washed crusader’s
crosses in moats of dust;
the children’s legerdemain turned sand into comets,
matches into magic lanterns,
hand fans into whirlwinds, audience members
disappear behind billowing curtains,
and for the pièce de résistance, flew around
“New Hillsoats House” theatre on a
moth eaten carpet
messrs. “Ransleys and Mipps”, proprietors made sure
the three received several curtain calls;
standing ovations were at the foot of their beds
given by parents before the
sandman came,
four watt lightning bugs flew through open windows
and plugged themselves into electrical
outlets
the boys had light like dimly lit stage candles which
flickered similar to the vicar’s wife’s romantic
fantasies
ab·ra·ca·dab·ra, these children transformed themselves
from a set age boundary to adults,
the silver bulb light took a new black and white
of younger clothed with magic
cradled in their slight of hand…
 Image
Copyright © 04/13/2012  Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®