cold droplets of white

it snows in a desert where cattle
skeleton heads
lay in hot sand by day
and minus temperatures
in winter,
lizards lie on glass windows
in homes beneath
desert cactuses made
of foam rubber
and green paint;

it snows in a small hometown
park where she drinks
hot coffee, pondering,
nervous blue eyes look
around for
yesterday’s footprints,
cold droplets
of white, frozen
rain, they somehow
comfort her; 

but she seeks solitude in distancing
herself from his last touch,
trees line a December
solstice as if to offer some
sort of guidance,
a letter lays silent by
her feet
her unforgiveness,
wet snow washes off ink,
his writing;

they met by chance in a village
square, both in a shop
where promises are sold
for a buck ten,
one was left on a forgotten
shelf, two hands
touched, they walked
for a while, he fell,
somehow she forgot what
it was like;

as he tried to get closer, she
kept distancing herself
like old wallpaper
in a painted room, tried
to forget a painful
past, dogged her day
and into minus temperatures,
shoulder cold
on any attempt of a kiss,
he grew tired;

his feelings were where he sat
in the back of an old
greyhound transport and
a busted seat, wrote
a long letter with few
words, mailed it
to ‘attention’, she poured
hot coffee on snow
and runny syllables, stepped
into yesterday’s footprints.

Copyright © 08/02/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


‘the mystery’—part two…

the neighbor kept silent…

on stocking feet, not trusting ancient boards to 
keep still,

all the while racking his knotted mind in heaps,
he birth

a smile. his liquid fingers grasping the magnum
hard enough that

fingers whitened. on the landing, her door ajar,
with wide eyes

spied the creep hunched over the spread-eagle gal
tied to four

posts. she, mouth socked, eyed his framed shadow
in the hall and

nodded slightly, even as the crud undressed, bent and
began to 

engulf her. the neighbor, restrained, watched the movie
reel, fiction

action, the creep began to fondle her passionately but

feelings. the elderly friend raised his arm, fired
and red ribbons

adorned her presence but the stench was unpleasant
enough she 

puked unashamedly. “take a shower, sweetie. i’ll take
care of 

this, don’t you worry.” arthritic, aged, the former butcher
wrapped the 

meat to go—sheet, mattress cover, blanket, rug—it wouldn’t
leak plus

wouldn’t leave a trail on their non-existent weedy lawn when
the creep was

moved to his house. his wife, still occupied, the t.v. noise

deafening, never saw the intruder enter, the pillow beside
her plumped

and placed behind the sofa where she sat. her nagging nudged
at his

sanity. double luck, the bloody bullet passed through to shatter the t.v.
set then

he pressed the gun into the creep’s bloody mitts before taking the weapon
to hit himself 

with. it bloodied his forehead. the gun was unregistered and had no

number. emergency vehicles pulled up outside, saw his open door
and hustled in

side. the creeps’ weapon lay in his neighbors’ river of thorns from which
there would be 

no return. they found the three sprawled in the old house and

the neighbor kept silent…

Copyright © 07/27/2013 Sandra S. Corona and Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


blue on blue—the conclusion…

one stroke at a time, deeper and deeper
into a blue forest, night savors
her features,
“what should i promise him?”
one grain of sand, then one grain
of sand, closer and closer
into a blue forest, cloak to hide his
presence, his lust, “i seek
the feel of her skin, my heart
beats rapidly.” 
blue plume her sacred
instrument in the white, pure
virgin light, seeks him to
impregnate her, carries the quiver,
the bow, to haft the arrow,
“do not kiss the other, for you
to be mine.”

blue goddess eyes to see two in 
in love with one, her ears
to hear who he has cast his
heart out to, he stands
hidden behind
brown bark tree, cloaks his soul,
cloaks his being;
he approaches at last, young
one with a hat, as to
kiss her hand, on one knee,
on forest growth,
he kneels; the feathered
white pulls the bow
string, arrow rides silently
on wooded air, blood drips
warm on his fingers.

she whispers in her last breath
sweet, “i love you…”
falls gently dying into
his arms, he carries her to
his Arabian steed, they begin
to ride; a sharp arrow swift,
he pulls his sword and
cuts death in half, turns,
in a gallop pursues
one with blue feathers,
one with hate,
‘zing’ with a tempered blade,
a death instant; takes his
love back to the desert, magic
oil, wound healed,
married, forever in love,

Copyright © 07/08/2013 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®


a whisper through ice

slapped her with a weakened hand
while she drank red
wine from a
borrowed glass, in
she got thirsty
for a walk, shattered
windows scattered
fog through
old furniture, she sat drunk
in dust,

sleek shape and a poverty
of shadows hid
her behind
portions of sliding windows
and pieces of
a smile,
eyes recited no emotions
fingers breathed no

she untied him like laces
on discarded shoes
in forgotten closets, moth cakes
drip down
and are eaten by blind

cursed him in French braid and
tired mascara,
color thread in 
sheets lay on tarnished
brass and impudent
his green eyes closed from
scowls and

he cried dreaming awake
in solace,
cradled his tears in
wrinkled skin, whispered
through icy grass
and cold

she licked her lips drowsily,
moisture impatiently
awaited like
suitcases in a bus terminal,
he woke up then,
“the time for lies is
‘cats prowl for blind mice
in alleyways’
she questioned in the usual way,
she sat there unresponsive,
his silence made
a sound…

Copyright © 06/19/2013 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®