she’s well acquainted

milk runs down her face, over sheer lace,
over black silken dress, not

like glue paste on coloured paper, put away
when classrooms forgot

to teach; dripping, dripping onto a dirty
linoleum floor where

dark gray water in yellow buckets got
mopped under children’s

lives; P.C. 31 watching mason’s brick
cover up windows where

once small faces were more interested
in skinned knees and

silver chutes in playgrounds, now books
and crayons gasp for

light; she remembers freckles in places
where mascara black

drips down onto an attic trunk Victorian
dress; anglo saxon church

school house adjacent, heard the steeple
bells at recess, heard

them when she sang in the choir, when she
wore a virgin color;

baby born under a thatched roof overlooking
a blue sea, he traveled,

never came back from afar, she raised with
heart and soul,

always read from the good book; daughter
off to school where glue

paste ran down coloured paper, where her
young face laughed with

arms spread out sliding down silver chutes,
learning when her

mother taught a refined essence, but that
was banned; she saw

happiness in a daughter’s face, gold round
on a finger as chapel

bells rang; love in a cottage when a grand
daughter was born…

milk runs down the daughter’s face, over
sheer lace, over

black silken dress…

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


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®