The sugar-house

The puddling furnace for the pig iron T-rail
for the fat-cat, clean shaven
rail riders who wore silk shirts made in the
sugar-house. ….they donned
shapely trimmed facade clothes and the
white jib to protect their
thumbs; sat at the stumpy bars drinking
bourbon cold with the
saw-ice. ….carried around daguerreotype
self-portraits, “O you robust
sacred reaping machines;” you ran the
sweat shop company stores
and handed out paper-mâché script to
feed your caulked iron kettles. ….
goods sold to the unsuspecting paintbrush
public, whitewashed by the
‘hook’. ….they wound up poor, fiddling like a
riddled old homeless person
on a tarnished spoon; winters cold and coffins
filled, plaited into daisy fields.

Copyright © 07/14/2015 fishbonepoetry®

old-chair-on-railroad-tracks-jill-battaglia

red house dawn

languid tree scraping on red brick
and mortar with darkened nails
on branches, children in a
schoolroom
cover their ears from
chalkboard sounds and
teachers scraping
words out of
mouths,
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
plasterboard
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
magazine
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®

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does not dance the fandango

“a mystical spell,” andrei said, “you want 
of me, thinking
 
about me?” “do you really, nina?”
 
she reached for his white lace shirt
as he pulled away
 
weakened fingers grabbed, one by 
one thread and buttons
 
flew through still, stale air, down
hallways of contempt
 
he managed to open the bedroom
door that stood in 
 
front of him, doorknob turned slowly
 
he turned slowly to see undisturbed 
silk sheets where they
 
once danced
danced once 
 
in front of a music band
wooden floor, worn
 
from the love of two moving
as art
 
her face painted with porcelain
beauty, bodies heated
 
now
 
she started crying, tears escaped down
her face, 
 
too quickly for his hand to catch, took
her in his uninviting arms
 
she wore a long white, silk dress,
embroidered lace
 
accompanied
 
not felt by him
feelings numb
 
“why did you lie to me, nina?”
 
a voice and footsteps crept up a 
walkway to her house
 
her lover opened one front entrance
like a cribcracker opened 
 
safes carved into walls behind 
oil canvases
 
painted with amateur colors
 
andrei drew his 5 shot pistol, top 
of  stairs, fired three times
 
arnost crumpled on carpet where
things are swept under
 
andrei checked, two bullets left,
she fumbled to lock
 
the bedroom door
 
a loud bang, bullet splintered wood
 
he entered
 
she was on her knees with embroidered 
lace covering her eyes
 
her tears
 
arms at her side as one does in
a coffin
 
“BANG!” blood splattered wall
 
smoking gun tightly clenched in 
gripped fingers
 
his body lay lifeless at her feet
 
does not dance the fandango…
 
 
 
Copyright © 05/04/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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a deeper silence

sawed off a section by the railroad committee 

sawed off like a .12 gauge barrel 
 
sawed off, rolled to the ground
saw horse galloped off
 
(searching for frank l. baum),
 
handful of sawdust taken by termites
to feed their young
 
railroad tie no longer eating the tree bark,
 
stack of corded wood eating a fireplace fire;
 
big pieces of forest trees used to make
tables for poor houses
 
others, used as railroad ties to transport them,
 
clothes given them at birth already tattered,
already ragged
 
much like black and white prison stripes,
 
like forests, dwellers in a make believe wood,
hoping, hoping;
 
they touch the tree like a blind man touches
his face with a razor
 
when tree cutters come, they crash through
saplings like hounds do a fox
 
masses do not have a soul, was sold for clothing
 
kindling burns for railroad hobos like old
frying pans on wood stoves,
 
have to fight boxcar space with children’s dirty
faces, with dirty tears;
 
poor house bound, corner quick, slick rain track,
derails into a swamp
 
metal and creosote twisted wreckage, carpentry
on trains obsolete like new growth forests
 
survivors. too poor to die. but, one railroad tie
lies motionless
 
cannot emerge, is not rescued, marsh crane
to land on…
 
 
Copyright © 04/22/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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