Corner of time

Whitewashed fence gray from 
minutes and hours,
rain clouds pulling themselves along a 
cargoed sea
with a throbbing, thunderous movement,
rusted metal pole lamp trying to
absorb light
from holes in a blackened sky,
i, a solitary onlooker, must go where i
was intended to be,
at a dimly lit pier’s edge, splinters in
my fingers,
peeling paint grasping my palms,
dark sky i’d hope 
would open.

i look across vast waters and time to a
distant land,
she awaits,
dancing in light and shadows,
writing me letters on an
old table, in an old whitewashed
chair,
dust in corners, dust in planked floors,
covering wrought nails, rusted from
rain leaking through 
tin ceilings,
she catches familiar drops dripping into
old Ball glass jars,
smells flowers through a cottage window,
sips wildflower tea.

She sends me snapshots, ones she
favors most,
of her in flowing dresses
and scarves,
i carefully place them in an album,
running my fingers across each
box Brownie photo
while sitting on an old weathered
bench
on an aging pier,
warm smell of perfume on each
envelope
running through me, deeper than any
wave in fathoms of this sea.

i wait patiently for the next mail ship,
but it doesn’t arrive,
lost in a storm with all its crew,
i hang over whitewash and wood,
scanning a conscious horizon…
something in a curled wave,
a letter
washes up on the sliver beach,
anxiously i open and read,
“i want you here,” “fell in love from
when i first saw you.”
a wooden bow awakens the 
sleeping sea,
i feel mists of blue waves, her gentle
breath in canvas sail,
i do not drown the anchor.

 

Copyright © 04/18/2014 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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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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clouds that dropped into the sea

rim of sun in morning air,
pushes overcast
skies into the sea,
they drift along undaunting
currents
with sails of white
fabric, much like 
a skiff, bow lapping 
silent waves.

once, footprints along the
shore, now
vanished, rocks
jagged trying to hold
onto memories,
but rather much like
wisps of stones
skipped along 
the surface.

sprays of salt dance on the 
shore, pebbles delight,
thirst for more,
roll of thunder, harsh and
exciting, casts
rain upon the sea
like fishing lines, gulls
circle like slanted
wooden oars.

springlike leap of whitecaps,
crests with foam,
soon, blue gaps of
sky above, taunts the
gray, clouds lament
and despair, 
pieces scatter into
wind and landscape,
fresh is the dawn.

Copyright © 12/18/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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empty envelopes

clatter of soldier thread
marching
in a muck mud hole
deep boot dry cobbler nail tear
crack
like a “we want You”

painted
poster,

rain of dissension washes off colors
into storm drains
with

papershredscutout
military boys

scissored rusted clipped;

but he joined
disagreement with his father
goodbye “i’ll show You!”

steelrailtrainridetrack NYC
from afar

watched scenery still,
all the same

tree
sun
green
night dark,

held her phone number tight
grip finger 
remember,

YMCA stay
phone booth dialed
close,

anxious
anxious,

undecidedmotherquestion
deep pause
receiver cupped smothered

gasps
gasps,

“it’s for You…”

sweet sixteen bobby sox saddle shoes
running to grab the
young man’s
conversation,

meet, love at sight first

a day
a day

military ship foreign port sails

a day
a day,

they love letter write intense
stamps
fall off

glue can’t breathe;

emotions swim back and forth

in the sea
in the sea

three plus long years,

a fight…

letters taken out by each
with doubtful,

not wanting too fingers,

wordspicturesthoughts
into dumpsters

leach through rust,

find the storm drains

but

happily ever after
i thought…

Copyright © 09/12/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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symptoms

torrent of gray sky, torrent of water, she
drapes the cleave of dress over
feet of clay, cracking, impermeable 
layer, as to soil
as to sun and
earth unfertile as she 
is, head to rest on aging hand
not to affect a lover, a ring
lays between argil, 
bluish layers;

in fingers she reluctantly grasps tattered
ribbon once in reddish hair
and gift to be given by
him, she lets an unwanted wind 
forsake a future as it 
be to rest in advancing sea,
the clay it chokes,
she rattles her non-denominational 
cross, gilded chain to
redden skin;

finely laced sleeves to cling as they be
pulled and torn, fabric of life,
lessened
salt of waves deepen
intent malicious,
her tears drop, one, then
one into brine
and clay,
she cannot swim, she
cannot hold her breath,

under a sea of despair, above
light, gasps for air, clothes
wet, tighten
she cares not,
wooden boat of hope, he 
is in to save, but her 
heart pushes
away, drowns in 
self pity, sorrow of the row,
never ceases…

Copyright © 08/18/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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in the world of the wicked

daunting sea waves lick wooden boards 

with a taste for an 

 

innocent’s destiny, yet she wears the                  

white; breeze of a

 

future pulls soft hair, makes butterflies 

dance and barren 

 

limbs taunt, they scold as if to tell the

young child not to

 

get her soul wet, but she replies, “i 

must keep the roses 

 

moist, for surely they will wither and

die;” the limbs pick

 

at her clothing as a daunting grand

parent must, “child,

 

if you do not listen, you will receive

a switching from a

 

deftly branch!” “what of your leaves

dear tree, to soften

 

this punishment?” “have you forsaken

them for you own

 

banishment?” “they have fallen from

once a stately oak

 

into the sea

into the sea,

 

i hear them in desperation calling,

slowly sinking,

 

do you not care to save them?” “i

choose not too,

 

for they are now orphans of silence,

besides, i will soon

 

have new growth in the spring;” “but

what of this tide?”

 

“child, you ask of me too many

questions!” “besides,

 

it is time for a switching…” “oh,

i rather thought

 

you had forgotten about such things,

anyway, i want to

 

sit beneath your branches and touch

the sky with my

 

heart on swing;” “i am afraid little

one that the sea

 

has now come to claim thee, it grabs

my roots with

 

salty hands as to choke, to smother

with brine, take

 

heed not to succumb to dark water,

one of youth

 

and purity;” “i will dearest friend…”

a tender touch

 

now from bough to wipe a long,

solitary tear;

 

she walks away as bark and limb

get pulled into

 

cold, desolate degrees, places red

roses on whitecap

 

and depth… butterflies are free.

 

Copyright © 07/29/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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her hand

‘tide… rusting ship with pop holes from

tired hands, knocking,

 

knocking, trying to escape; she stands

in the harshness of time

 

holds in her hand a paper thin

remembrance of something;

 

wet sand like quick sand of time…

rowboat thirsty for drinkable

 

water, in pain as salt licks its wounds,

sea worms in tight where

 

rusted screws no longer grip old wood,

one rotted oar as a crutch,

 

one survivor limped to shore; footprints,

footprints, she feels;

 

a cottage in dunes where spiders spin

webs to catch breezes

 

and remnants of insects, has closed

shutters, closed long ago

 

by her when he left for a war of some

kind, he took paper, pen

 

and a black and white photo, “with all

my love” written

 

in ink from a cracked glass bottle, the

ink had dried up;

 

footsteps up a path she follows, blades

of saw grass cut at her ankles,

 

she cannot see, opens a door held in

place by old carpenter’s work;

 

inside, relic of a lover, beaten by

sea battles, beaten by the sea,

 

he says, “i’m on furlough, waiting for

the next war, i came for

 

more pen and paper,” one gauge

bandage covers her eyes,

 

tears from the heart run down, can’t

stand the pain, she says,

 

“i know…”

 

Copyright © 07/14/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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