A 1920’s romance

At first, she was ice

water in a sweaty 

                  glass

“Slow down!” her voice laced

like the nylons wrapped

                          around

legs that went from here

to there, then back

                     again.

 

But, being quite debonair

with suit and acting lessons,

                                   sweet

talker, his kiss was waking

up from sleeping and

                     pushing

a nightmare out a window and

hearing it land in a trash

                      receptacle.

 

In a park with a vaudeville

background and a white collar script,

                                                     he,

fingers deep in a wave, hand

wrapped around her intent,

                                    she,

cozy on striped colors, pressing lips

against theatrical makeup, “au

                                 couture.”

 

Applause! Applause! standing middle

class leisure time, theater circuits

                                        buzzing,

they toured urban hubs, toured each

others lives, selected each

                                  other

for their vague, faint, but harmless

gentility… lived happily ever

                                    after.

 

Copyright © 05/06/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®
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White broken water

Fingers of a squall scooped up the sea as a thirsty
beggar would scoop water
from a ditch,
ragged pockets filled 
with salt

Ragged seagulls squawking, then a silence,
i awoke, alone, tired eyes
beacon dim,
half awake, stared at a 
flightless sky

Waves pounded, each drop of salt steady
like flakes of heavy snow,
cascading
with 
impurities

Disparate shards of ice knitted together,
cloak upon my brick
and mortar,
sleeveless, i frightened
of cold 

Bucket handle joints being hammered 
on like frozen iron,
straight-peen 
wielded by 
insidious breakers

i, alone, sit helpless as ships run up against
jagged edge of crag
and shallows

How can i expect them to pass judgment
against me if their
words
are silenced?

Closed within this lighthouse, i listened to
my old heart beat slow, 
then fast pulsing,
as if to pace

The brutality of the sea’s pounding beat upon 
my walls gives me excess
of it, 
its improvised music 
climbing, falling,
its tonic, sickening

Where pools of salt and ice lay, like
bales and baskets,
bundles of brine, bushels
of rime,
a ray of light, a warming 
pulse on me

My soul is longing for a calm sea. “doth
it have a heart,
this great body of water?”
“O, seagulls flying again,
beacon bright.”

Copyright © 03/04/2014 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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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®

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hill of the crow

automobiles travel on dirty nights,
thread through curves 
 
on whitewall tires
 
in a glove box, road maps and whiskey
conceal a .38 handgun
 
coal miners 1:00 before twelve o’clock
in hidden seams, below
 
mud and earth
 
mutinous winds take over moored ships
in a secluded harbor
 
carry hurricane lanterns, one if by land
two if by sea
 
to find their way
 
dog packs look for alley cats
one beats a can lid 
 
with a stick, this old man
 
in a shade drawn house, lovers,
in another, pot and pans
 
fly through the air with trapeze skill
 
small children in bed dreaming of sandboxes,
sand by a creek bed, footless
 
footless gravel kicked as if by a stubborn mule,
chrome dodge grill to reach a summit
 
wipers tasting the morning dew,
inside, he, a bit nervous
 
beads of sweat rolling on his forehead,
but the wipers can’t touch
 
he says to himself, “has to be done”
 
sun pulling up a shade on a dirty night,
shadows slide under back alley
 
door entrances
 
in a greasy spoon, ‘c’ note slides under
a palm
 
turns the cheek
 
gravel and dust whitewash cool air 
as car brakes carve out a name
 
a .38 revolver gets a once over.
man in a black suit
black hat
 
sunglasses, awaits
 
in backyards, children play with
imaginary guns
 
engine sound approaching, 2 shots,
awakes a sleepless morning
 
windshield cracks like skate ice,
off a ravine it tumbles over,
over
 
inside, himself, his past
 
on a stone, a lone black feathered crow,
cawing
cawing.
 
 
Copyright © 05/08/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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