Of a child and an elephant

For Sumi…

Dusk in an Indian village


out the day, allowed


of cooler air to spill


for the night…

it entered carrying

old wooden buckets 


with darkness.


The village slumbered,

yet she remained awake

thinking about her friend.


She, a child, had a special

relationship above the


with an elephant of the


at first, they only


glances, not enough of

an escape from

their daily chores.


How sweet the early morn,

washed as in a bath

by pouring rain

when they 


a pond,

she was very brave,

full of love –

both full of kindness.


Nothing the village elders

could ever


would equal the 

bond that

this small girl and


felt, the sound it

made muted


rustling in the 


A lonely life it now 


after she sadly waved 


left for another


the elephant 

no longer trumpeted,

no longer saw her


in the pond, only its own

slowly aging.


Copyright © 06/13/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®



What do you think has become of my healed scars?
And what do you think has become of my passage away
from remorse? She asks her reflection.

They are present in drops of waiting rain clinging to glass,
the smallest closing her eyes,
And if she opens them, not awaiting change, not
awaiting movement to another place,
Then she grasps the moment appearing.

Her reflection wipes the rain away, dripping to a crowded
sidewalk below, umbrellas go up, drops now hiding
in cracks of solitude,
She moves back inside her life, fortunate, anew.


Copyright © 04/03/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


of a run aground ship and winged crows

marked depth of saltwater by a
yardstick in inches,
storm clouds receding like
playground children
into secret places, oak timber
painted white
painted red
ran aground in a mist,
in a rainy fog, crew abandoned…
fallen sails and 
mitered joints left
to rot in mud, on a forgotten
shore, winged crows 
to nest in a timbered mast,
reeds grab and choke
the oxygen 
out of splintered wood,
last breath taken, gasping,
a trickle of saltwater,
then a torrent, canvas hoisted
by an updraft, 
sets sail, no longer moored,
crows cast adrift 
in flight, wings like
oars in clouds.

Copyright © 12/06/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


last ride

iron ferris wheel buried in

twisted contorted metal
one seat creaking, rivets
underneath a figure 
crawls out sandy, moving
unsmooth pebbled clothed,
for rain
tears dry fast… 
looks for a prairie, like
trees seeking 
a cold night comes.
Copyright © 12/03/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

pushing you in puddles

black and white rain, once, kept
you inside

with an open umbrella as you
watched your

finger draw a heart on a window;
you served

tea to your dollies, they were kind,
never asked

for seconds; you skipped rope 
while waiting

for your best friend, drops of 
rain jumped

off branches just to kiss your
porcelain like

face; a childhood, once, kept
you in 

memories as you looked in a
mirror to

see you’d grown up into a
beautiful woman,

had a family, moved, some
place in

between you wrote poetry,
then searched

for a new voice; rain fell onto
a street

where holes form puddles, you
looked outside

and saw a new friend wave, you
untied an 

apron after serving tea; “come
on, let’s

play,” he said, pushed you in
puddles, you

found your new voice…

Copyright © 08/06/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


cold droplets of white

it snows in a desert where cattle
skeleton heads
lay in hot sand by day
and minus temperatures
in winter,
lizards lie on glass windows
in homes beneath
desert cactuses made
of foam rubber
and green paint;

it snows in a small hometown
park where she drinks
hot coffee, pondering,
nervous blue eyes look
around for
yesterday’s footprints,
cold droplets
of white, frozen
rain, they somehow
comfort her; 

but she seeks solitude in distancing
herself from his last touch,
trees line a December
solstice as if to offer some
sort of guidance,
a letter lays silent by
her feet
her unforgiveness,
wet snow washes off ink,
his writing;

they met by chance in a village
square, both in a shop
where promises are sold
for a buck ten,
one was left on a forgotten
shelf, two hands
touched, they walked
for a while, he fell,
somehow she forgot what
it was like;

as he tried to get closer, she
kept distancing herself
like old wallpaper
in a painted room, tried
to forget a painful
past, dogged her day
and into minus temperatures,
shoulder cold
on any attempt of a kiss,
he grew tired;

his feelings were where he sat
in the back of an old
greyhound transport and
a busted seat, wrote
a long letter with few
words, mailed it
to ‘attention’, she poured
hot coffee on snow
and runny syllables, stepped
into yesterday’s footprints.

Copyright © 08/02/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®