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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storm upon the dunes

the storm wings across 

the dunes

 

thunder is its’ voice to 

be dreaded

 

the wind braces up–then finds 

itself accelerating

 

opens the gaits–galloping ghosts of lightning in 

the offing

 

behaves with un-gratuitous folly as it bests the 

ocean’s roar

 

the rain rides the wind–the skies 

are riven

 

and bursts as a wave from the clouds

that impend

 

then climbs down on stormy ladders–one rung at 

a time

 

the tempest’s onslaught charges the 

stormy skies

 

lightning strikes the highest points as the thunder claps 

for more

 

the wind delegates the ocean waves to lash the 

affrighted shore

 

as swift as a darkened shadow, as long as a 

dreadful dream–

 

the rain begins to carve its’ name with 

slanting lines

 

its’ signature most illegible, but 

most assured

 

ever expanding, the storm enlarges its’ field 

of view

 

and sets its’ sight upon 

the dunes

 

where grains of sand one by one are 

quickly deluged

 

its’ spirits bruised by the storm’s 

fierce intensity

 

and footprints are washed away like the remains of 

the day

 

as are the echoes of 

conquering children

 

their fate is the common fate of all, into each life some rain 

must fall

 

just as the sand-dunes, heaped one 

upon another

 

hide each the first, so in life are 

the former

 

deeds are quickly hidden by those that 

follow after

 

but still dreaming like the 

sand-dunes

 

taking shape–not fearing the hand 

of fate

 

not hearing lonely winds 

great wail

 

that grasps the sand-

dune’s grass–

 

fastening itself–seeking to rout its’ 

very spirit

 

but soon tires and 

is spurned–

 

making it as momentary as 

a sound

 

for the wind itself has blown away 

the storm

 

and a bright new day 

always follows

 

so quick bright good things come 

to warm.

 

Copyright © 05/13/2103 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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in your eyes (completely freestyle)

blue ocean eyes, 
skies bend as they meet the sea
 
deeds of a morning dew,
black feathers do not meet
 
she rummages the earth,
in my walking, i travel slow
 
voices with which you speak,
narrow cages are always in dark corners
 
in my eyes i care not to see judgment,
when evening lulls i sleep not
 
if i touch her she is tender,
in narrow loneliness she takes away the light
 
cold wind enters through closed doors,
she writes of lost words once upon
 
sometimes she loved me with her eyes,
i carry a key in my pocket for something
 
in my grief and vain she was a miracle,
one looks for destiny, for twilight
 
first stars in a sky flash like my soul,
in your eyes i see damp walls of tears
 
white hills in winter lie in surrender,
old men wither in young clothes.
 
 
Copyright © 05/02/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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sorrow of the row

“now the solitary one, I find no grace

 

for myself,

the mercy of the morniNG,

the mercy of the deceased

 

trying to pull me back into the sea.”

 

“although sorry hearted,

I must for a long time

lay motionless on 

sand along the 

barren shore,

 

(along) the ice cold ocean,

and tread the paths of exile;

 

events always go as they must.”

 

so speaks the sorrow of the row,

mindful of hardships,

of corners cut, and

and the downfaLL

of the designer.

 

“often (or always) I had alone

 

to speak of the disaster

each day before dawn;

 

there are none now living

to whom I dare clearly 

 

speak of my innermost thoughts.”

 

“I know it truly that it was in 

the building, several flaws

that were kept secret, a

 

misjudgment 

as-it-were;

 

the sickening terror,

the deafening crash, 

the moment of panic;

 

could not withstand its fate

nor did a sorrowful mind

do any good.”

 

“thus those eager for glory now 

kept secure dreaded thoughts

in their breasts.”

 

“so I, the sorrow of the row,

 

often wretched and ashamed,

bereft of my duty far from the 

drowned,

 

have had to bind in fetters my true feelings;

 

since the sinking long ago,

I hide in the loneliness

of the /därk/, 

and I, 

weary.”

 

“from there, traveled sorrowfully over

the frozen waves.”

 

“I sought to be

sad of the lack 

of any passengeRS, 

a giver of life.”

 

“indeed now, I can longer think,

why my spirit does not darken;

 

when I ponder 

on the lifeless bodies 

that no longer grabbed 

at my sides.”

 

“and how their cries were silenced by the freezing air;

 

losing sight

as the lights

 

sank beneaTH the surface,

 

I was blown by the still

wind, covered with the 

frost from stilled voices.”

 

“then my oars

touched the ocean 

with a deafening silence,

 

and carried me away;

seats eerily creaked,

 

no one was inside to quiet them,

 

I had chosen to

save myself.”

 

Copyright © 04/15/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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