The color of crayons

Was it a planetary influence,
or my own 
i evaded the question
having reached down underneath
my bed
and not having found
i sat up scratching
my scalp
through mussed hair
searched in my closet, in my
dresser draws,
threw in, “Hey, mom, have you
seen them?”
for good measure.

Looked out the front door, what
was that on my
my dad’s 
car’s dashboard?
I ran out into sweltering
jumped over spoked obstacles
peered through curved 
there they were
“confusion now, the crayons
the dashboard looked like 
our dining room table
with multi-colored 
cleaned them up the best
i could
heard my dad’s voice,
“Let’s go for 
a ride!”

Gee, dad, your car looks great!
i stated while snapping in 
my seat belt,
he said, “Thanks!” as he turned 
the A/C on high…
blizzard blue, mellow yellow
and other 
assorted colors had melted 
into the vents,
i turned up the radio to quiet
the smell
one tattered piece of 
crayon paper
then another, flitted into
his lap
my dad’s speech nearly
burst my ears,
i got grounded for
a week.


Copyright © 04/01/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


of PF flyers and a carport roof

staring down at scuffed sneakers,
shook off wood shavings
from a pinewood car,
blisters on my hand wrapped around
a crook handle of an umbrella
oft times sliced pieces of a child’s
stuck it on me like chewing gum
stuck to rubber soles;
my mom calls out, “what’ya doing
out there?”
her voice is a harsh sound in my
“nuthin,” i answer
my cat retreats quickly under vines 
that have captured part 
of carport two-by-fours
and shingles;
i look over at a tree with ‘our’ names
carved in bark,
an arrow once pointed the way,
i thought of chopping
down that oak
there i stood at the precipice,
valley floor below
as i imagined it;
on my way down i wholly relied
on one umbrella
to insure a safe landing, but
rather was punched
in my stomach by fear;
landed with a ‘thud’, PF’s
left a deep impression,
grass stains and scuff
marks on levi’s
brushed off remains of
dirt in an attempt
to fool my mom, but she
always knew
the minute she rifled through
my hamper,
“i thought i told you not to
throw your dirty
clothes in here!”
i swear, if i cut off my ears,
i’d hear her
through my nose;
took my Daisy following day
and pelted one umbrella
with BB round shot,
threw the bumbershoot in a 
lake where fish wearing 
rusted hooks in their mouths 
never seemed to shrug
off earthworms,
there, half-submerged, sits
alone a failed
attempt at air resistance, i
got grounded for a week.
Copyright © 05/25/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®