she sings the blues

she sang a hard song across his face,
he sat in a room where

outside light had to open up blinds
covered with cobwebs

and one inch dust,

he listened while he squeezed the 
last drop out of 

irish whiskey,

looked around the room for an
outlet to plug his 

life into;

she hugged the microphone with red
fingernails and 

impudent guilt,

unconscious eyes were fixed into
a moment like

a drunk driver’s headlights on a wet

they had met in a bar, a place that
served watered down

drinks and by ‘B’ girls wearing
fishnet stockings,

a cheap song was making noise
on a bad needle,

they danced with her body in
a 45 degree dress,

arms wrapped around his neck
like loose morals;

they took a ride back to her place
in a checkered cab,

threw their clothes into a heap
and had sex

with his five o’clock shadow
and her insecurity,

he left the next morning on a
crowded mid-town

bus with a lot of maybes,

fumbled in his pockets for
spare change to 

buy postage to mail her his

she, sings the blues to wallow in

and broken promises,

he, nails boards over windows
to keep out

false hopes that knock on windows
and post foreclosure

signs typed out with faded black
ribbons and

missing letters,

she, misses notes now, her mind
keeps slipping

into unanswered questions,

he, ends it with silence…

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


the desert shadow

he, searched for a love much like a parched man 
searches in greed for another glass of water
she, in looking for another direction, headed 
for the desert sand to get away
night poured over the heat of the day like water
from a hose poured over a car’s radiator
he, spent weeks in the desert looking at the moon,
trying to pull it down to mask his loneliness
she, sat on the morning dune, heard nothing, saw
nothing, yet through the silence, her heart throbbed
he, found her footprint, then another, the wind blew
ill trying to cover one, then one, unsuccessfully
she, lay there, beautiful, the sun ignited her eyes,
desert sand heat, her passion
his smile hung over her face like a piece of 
driftwood on a deserted beach
she, pulled out a photo from a pocket in her 
paisley dress, sun ignited it, burned slowly
she, ate his heart out for what he had done, 
he, now a shepherd on an endless journey…
Copyright © 03/30/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

no longer in the shadow

fallen tree in the wood like an aging
soldier clutching a black and white
photo of his family

looking up towards the light with
eyes slowly closing,
a dying smile

escaped chainsaw sound
escaped metal teeth,
papermill river runoff

remembered birds nesting
remembered them
whispering goodnight

thought of the solitude
thought of the book, it
could have been read

to speak its mind in the forest
was silent, silent as a

it yearned for the taste of life;

once stood tall
once stood with bark
closely woven

its heart cloaked thick and black

now open as it lay barely to see
a path out between
thick foliage

the distance out is measured in
its rings

tears flow, moisture for the
new growth

only with a fallen leaf can it
talk of its friends

suddenly, the light vanishes,
no longer in the shadow…

Copyright © 03/23/2013 Ðark Roasted Ƣoetry®