70 year old traffic

i honk the horn, it is silent
the whippoorwill is silent
all about are rusting
and whatever can be done
will not stop the rusting,
it is you time and small rain.

i want aging wheels to turn
and it is you air
that will not allow it,
up in trees and sky
and whatever it is you do,
no one really knows where you are.

here is the metal roof and doors
and dashboard;
springs pushed up through seats
where passengers sat on
road trips; faces remembered
on brownie cameras.

i sit, keeping junkyard relics behind
me from budging an inch
moving about as fast as dead
batteries and headlights
lying on the ground, lying
in old tire treads.

yet, there is the wonder of stars
each night, and of
fireflies lighting up all radio
tubes and big band songs,
and of keychains with a
sweetheart’s photo being held.

i want no world where i can’t
hold a memory
and it once was sitting inside me,
not sprayed on with coats
of a paint, but rather were the ones
who enjoyed the ride.

Copyright © 03/19/2015 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


Water for a memory

There she sat on a rounded key,
the typewriter
gasping for air, paper dust having
filled its lungs,
the ribbon thirsting for words, a 
key crawling
through space in search of white
she, in her head, replicating every
letter typed,
gray hair’s footsteps walking through
the memory 
of a younger person; she wraps 
herself in 
a blanket of self-contentment,
deeper into an impression of
the past.


Copyright © 04/08/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


the visibility of the dance

she peeled back layers of his life and put them
in green jars with tarnished lids

sat them on faded, warped boards with rusted 
nails and carpenter ants

left them forgotten on a porch where a broken
kitchen window awaits

a repair, where he once carved her initials in
a dying oak, birds no longer

nest for fear of falling; the corner of wood on
a swing brushes her footprints

in sand and a memory, her laughter painted
flowers and bees in flight

to hives in secret corners of forests; there,
they heard as they made love

warm breeze glided over nakedness and
lust, sun rays pushed aside

leaves to create shadows on moist soil,
her screams echoed 

just like her passion for dance, more than
her passion for him

in ballet, in a pirouette, he tried to embrace
was jilted, dragged

himself into a bar and drank her away on
shots and dirty whiskey glasses

half stoned, sat in the back of a bus and
old seats; got off by a river

walked a bulkhead in acid rain and an
unshaven face; one foot

then one foot, into garbage and debris 
hanging onto stagnant water

one less breath
one less breath…

Copyright © 07/14/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®