of whispers and footprints in silence

‘Closed’ sign swings on a rusted chain
behind whitewall marks

and faded 50’s radio stations,

ceiling fixtures hanging where fluorescent
lighting showed greasy

meals and ketchup stains in plastic menus,

tabletop jukeboxes silent from roosevelt’s
being dropped into

hear a number, a letter, some sad song
because your best girl

just kicked your insides with saddle shoes
and a forgotten smile,

cheap ink and temptation scribbled in
haste in bathroom stalls

a leather jacket and an attitude slapped
a ponytail and a poodle skirt

into a high school dance,

soft drink glasses slid across a formica
counter top on knees

with somewhere to go;

diner swivel tops embedded in black
and white tile like

mushrooms in shadow and earth,

waitresses in white similar to ER
nurses, tending to the

needy and bad pickup lines,

hairy, sweaty short order cook flipping
burgers and groundhogs

blue plate specials for the after 5:00

whispers of secrets to a bff,
whispers in eyes drinking

whispers carried out doors;

footprints on a mopped floor not
willing to let go,

footprints quiet as to hide what
souls won’t reveal;

silence as walls and fixtures remain
as quiet as old faded books

in antique store windows,

silence as conversations paid their
tab and left in convertibles,


Copyright © 06/26/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


in a glass dream

color of dusk
color of glass

menagerie of a dream
menagerie of silence,

cleared her throat by swallowing a
reflection scraped off of glass

cracked clay tint,

wrote it down in her diary,
sealed it with wax

and nostalgia;

climbed into a garden, smelled 
dead flowers

drank the scent,

followed a bee, squeezed honey into
old tea and lemon

opened a book dazed by a still breeze
and light scurrying 

through empty pages

in a pond, saw herself drowning, picked
up a stone, dropped it in

hand reached out, struggling for a 

damp footprints through a rusted
garden gate,

her hair and dress were wet with exhaustion,
longed to climb into rest;

in a tree, breaking of aged branches, scream
for HELP! 

landing in brittle autumn leaves, a little girl in
tomboy clothes,

wearing skinned knees and bruised ponytails;

on a swing with hemp holding onto suspended
air, she sits

fiance’s hand stroking beauty
stroking her soul,

a turn of her head with blue eyes sees him
disappear, on worn earth, a letter

a careless wind carries it to a cemetery 

she walks in solitude and tears, 
death tugs at her clothing

then, chokes her skin,
chokes her emotions;

eyes in glass,
glass splinters

cracks run down her face like pouring
rain running 

down bicycle spokes

she turns black and gray, her reflection
pushes back 

onto cold ground,

inside, wrenching of hands, fingernails
dig into palms

like an ash and bent metal shovel
into a grave,

slips her fingers through glass into

on a table, old tea and lemon.

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


a deeper silence

sawed off a section by the railroad committee 

sawed off like a .12 gauge barrel 
sawed off, rolled to the ground
saw horse galloped off
(searching for frank l. baum),
handful of sawdust taken by termites
to feed their young
railroad tie no longer eating the tree bark,
stack of corded wood eating a fireplace fire;
big pieces of forest trees used to make
tables for poor houses
others, used as railroad ties to transport them,
clothes given them at birth already tattered,
already ragged
much like black and white prison stripes,
like forests, dwellers in a make believe wood,
hoping, hoping;
they touch the tree like a blind man touches
his face with a razor
when tree cutters come, they crash through
saplings like hounds do a fox
masses do not have a soul, was sold for clothing
kindling burns for railroad hobos like old
frying pans on wood stoves,
have to fight boxcar space with children’s dirty
faces, with dirty tears;
poor house bound, corner quick, slick rain track,
derails into a swamp
metal and creosote twisted wreckage, carpentry
on trains obsolete like new growth forests
survivors. too poor to die. but, one railroad tie
lies motionless
cannot emerge, is not rescued, marsh crane
to land on…
Copyright © 04/22/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

whaler’s lament

the sun has set upon my watery grave,
a blue sea and its waves know me
and i have parted
indications are strong that i will never return,
there is a whisper in the sea wind 
of promises unspoken;
the sea heaved-up, hung loaded o’er our 
whaling ship New Bedford,
the waves broke there and buried me with 
its tumultuous strength
for a debt was owed to those who went 
before me, i was willing to lay down 
all my joys in this life, 
just under the surface, i will now be an 
orphan living in silence;
i can no longer see the distant light, nor hear 
our children’s laughter all surrounding,
it shattered the silence that was so heavy to bear
for it lifted my soul into the night
and filled my heart with undying love abounding;
memories of those blissful moments come creeping 
o’er me like the sea
and i am most gratified to God and to you my 
dear Maggie that i was able to 
enjoy them, 
even for a fleeting moment, my love for you and 
our children is deathless;
yet my love of whaling creeps o’er me like vapors 
from a squall
that pushed and pulled me irresistibly on, 
like rusted chains to the sea-life,
held strongly together at first, now separated 
as it cast me adrift,
you my dear, are my mourning widow, whaling my adulteress;
i now have misgivings about the cause to which 
i was engaged
Maggie, forgive my faults and the pains that i now 
cause you, how thoughtless and foolish 
i had oft times been
and now divine providence has whispered to me 
a wafted prayer, 
i return to you and our children all my love unharmed;
if the dead can come back to earth and flit unseen 
on the happiest of days and the darkest,
always i will blow a soft gentle breeze upon 
your cheeks, memories, as you sit in 
widows’ weeds, with naked feet over my empty coffin;
’tis time for the icy waters to abate, for your 
mourning to cease, i no longer face 
a sea of darkness,
for you have brought me peace, Maggie, 
never forget how much i love you.
Copyright © 04/22/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


wooded silence.
chain saw cracks bark, cracks the spine;
trees measured out with yardsticks; after,
lay fallen like dead cotton on a homeless
water fails to creep,
fails like a high school
both, now unemployed
in a dead−end
penetrating preachers arrive to give last rights
with pageless bibles,
more an exorcism…
boss man stands smoking cheap cigar,
tosses it, slow motion,
lands−smoke and fire
forest floor heats up
similar to a woodstove;
firefighters paid off
like street hookers…
wooded noise.
“light touches the dead wood of
my soul and brings forth the
tender growth of hope.”
Copyright © 01/08/2013 Barbara Sutton & Lance Sheridan