pure stillness

rain filled day, drop by
drop covers a 
web sewn between
twig branches,
the spider drinks
of moisture, 
becomes drunk
on the mindfulness
of its work.

drop by drop covers
lifeless twig 
branches,
slowly turning bonewhite,
sips of 
moisture as if 
to lick off 
with dry fingers.

once lived with oak bark,
now a memory 
in a moonless night,
snapped off
by an unforgiving wind,
now lies in silent
moss, no longer
holding
autumn leaves.

 

Copyright © 12/14/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image

 

i drowned along the mist of her walk

steel face on a footpath so no one
would look at 
her

no one to wink similar to scratches
made on a
second story 

window by wind moving branches
back and 

forth, fire hose effect, like etchings
engraved in her
cheeks

from years of crying
from being 

all alone,

she left alone the grass walk and
walked where

cables and rivets tried to hold
the love
she

had lost, now a scavenger gathering
leaves and sticks

to build her a shelter, white 
knuckles
in 

a mist grow cold searching for
clothes tattered

that she tried to pull off, ones
he had bought
her

left a mark like a wedding
finger, 

tried to wash it away a 
dwarf of a 
memory

she tried to depart into the horizon
of despair

but mist veiled crept up slowly on
hands and 
scuffed

knees bleeding, brooded where 
wreaths of shadows

covered her sleep, she cannot wake
in the dawn

scattered light darted on wing like
chimney swifts,
sped

out of darkness
out of swamps

he woke in her morrow in her
breathed thereon,
quiet

as the soft mist as the dampness
rising from the ground

the mist pulling up their voices
yet he cannot
breathe

in her presence, yet he drowns
in his still

love for her, he staggers, he
stumbles upon
shores

of misted sand searching for
her gentle lonely

footsteps… they wash away 
where tears
are wiped

by tired hands pushing them
away as do
stones

of puddles,

she climbs between the porch
pillars porch swing
memories

they drift into her where splinters
become painful,

yet he attempts to remove them
with warm
smiles

he whispers into mist into her
soft ear,

“i love thee still”

the steel withers off between
forest moss

collapses into cold hard ground
as she collapses
into

his arms into his heart
forever…

Copyright © 10/29/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

Image

~Passage~

Matters of concern as is up or down 
short or long the lifespan ascending
knocking on Heaven’s Gate or choices
descending living burning sins of Hell

Murk rising yet progressing toward a 
higher level above and blooming 
to achieve enlightenment processing
purification azure in spirit alignment

Becoming of a staircase for an arising 
sun beams offering relative portals of 
connectivity reaching for lotus petals
from among lily pads for future growth;

Winding banisters project images in a
painted mural of Shangri-la as brushed
on colors run in unison into glass covered
mirages filled with imaginary water 

Rivets in twisted metal pull up sets of
curved wood in an ascension to light as
conversely in a reflection descending
to shadows of an intent by dark

A ceiling acts as hands in holding steel
cable in an avoidance to letting go 
where miscalculated architectural figures
would lie with tortured faces grimaced.

Copyright 08/03/2013 
Vivian Locastro Dawson & Lance Sheridan

Image

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
clothes…

end.

 

Copyright © 07/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

Image

in a glass dream

color of dusk
color of glass

menagerie of a dream
menagerie of silence,

cleared her throat by swallowing a
reflection scraped off of glass

cracked clay tint,

wrote it down in her diary,
sealed it with wax

and nostalgia;

climbed into a garden, smelled 
dead flowers

drank the scent,

followed a bee, squeezed honey into
old tea and lemon

opened a book dazed by a still breeze
and light scurrying 

through empty pages

in a pond, saw herself drowning, picked
up a stone, dropped it in

hand reached out, struggling for a 
rescue

damp footprints through a rusted
garden gate,

her hair and dress were wet with exhaustion,
longed to climb into rest;

in a tree, breaking of aged branches, scream
for HELP! 

landing in brittle autumn leaves, a little girl in
tomboy clothes,

wearing skinned knees and bruised ponytails;

on a swing with hemp holding onto suspended
air, she sits

fiance’s hand stroking beauty
stroking her soul,

a turn of her head with blue eyes sees him
disappear, on worn earth, a letter

a careless wind carries it to a cemetery 
headstone,

she walks in solitude and tears, 
death tugs at her clothing

then, chokes her skin,
chokes her emotions;

eyes in glass,
glass splinters

cracks run down her face like pouring
rain running 

down bicycle spokes

she turns black and gray, her reflection
pushes back 

onto cold ground,

inside, wrenching of hands, fingernails
dig into palms

like an ash and bent metal shovel
into a grave,

slips her fingers through glass into
memories,

on a table, old tea and lemon.

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

Image

a whisper through ice

slapped her with a weakened hand
while she drank red
wine from a
borrowed glass, in
moonlight,
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
words,

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

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

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

she licked her lips drowsily,
moisture impatiently
awaited like
suitcases in a bus terminal,
he woke up then,
“the time for lies is
over”
‘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®

Image

the color of sin

white silk see through dress
smashed the marriage 
sworn oath 
cracked length un—
wise, she closed his eyes
with dirty fingers 
moving

along muscles and looks
sharp—edged, 
neon lights were 
limp electric on a
sign, surrounded by bouquets
of stinging
paper wasps and
bursts of
spiny backs tripping
on dance
on sin, 

drenched in white sweat,
offering her a tongue,
licking
on a firm breast,
slides a hand down a 
belly, she strokes 
to get a part 
hard, 
bony in a bottom pink,

excited nymph thigh wraps
tight,
low smelling a scent,
into velvet,
white silk pulled up
unspeakable
lust, dark hair skull
pull,
rock—pushing
brunt,

arched back,
soiled reputation, immaculate
slate like uneven 
black—board
dust
erase,
invitation, pelvic bone
stretches skin, sexy curve
of a waist,
muscle tightened, wants
her again,

soot—black lashes slit
venetian
blind open
moans in her warm
hair, random screaming
impatient, laying
on a pure naked body,
ready to repent,
lust swells in a night, he runs 
fingers down her
jawline and 
neck,

her hands like cuffs in a 
vice—squad,
the wait to be uneasy, similar to
matches in a box
waiting to smoke
light,
she. tastes of spilled whiskey on 
the edge of a glass
he. can’t wait to sip 
it slow and
get drunk…

Copyright © 06/17/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

Image