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®


of infidelity and dirty sheets

he pulled up undusted blinds and gazed out
at falling snow and frost
behind him, an empty bed covered with dirty
sheets and meaningless sex
in a photo of them on a nightstand, he wore 
a piece of a smile,
the rest had been peeled off and held in her
hand where a marriage
certificate was crumpled up along with a
whiskey glass
deception crept in on their relationship with
aging knees,
the betrayal, arthritic;
her shame was clothed in black and stretched 
all over his mental state
to where he was popping anti-depressants
with the the same fervor as 
halloween candy,
children wear masks as to deceive;
her boss kicked a chair out from underneath,
a promotion,
she choked on his advances, spit up large
chunks of guilt
his feet were swift, covered often with mud
from a muddy path
a stepford wife sat at home,
could never bring herself to tell her husband,
finances that once suffered 
as do fat kids being picked last to play 
now wore black, red washed down a washtub
sink with lint and loose change;
wind cut across city sidewalks as her legs
departed a cab,
elevator tenth floor pushed, slow key in a 
lock, handle turned, perspiration
grip, a draft pushed against her face,
dropped a white wine into
a thousand pieces,
loud scream,
he slept on his way down to where footprints
and bad attitudes 
fell between cracks,
she had come to ask him for 
Copyright © 05/30/2013  Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


In solitude I sit

The images of children now

Buried beneath the snow

Laughter now missing

Removed from wanton air

Imaginations erased from

Playing in the sky

Firmed grips no longer needed there

Ideal recreation for dedicated moms

With noses nestled in books

Avoiding imaginary warfare,

Or flying trapeze artists with skinned knees

“Will you take your hands off?”  I ask

“Double-dare ‘ya” heard from friends below

‘Fly through the air with the greatest of ease’

Firm footprints now buried beneath the snow

Under bright sun, or moonlit sky

Sounds of make-believe screaming –

Parents make-believe hearing

But I listen for a younger generation to come along

Playing an adult stepping sideways –

As the playing child steps forth

Restless and twitchy at first in my seat

But then has the self-confidence –

Of a king or a queen sitting upon a throne

Entered into their own magical world

Splashing in fountains of mud with their feet,

As parents come running to scold

Now, snow-covered, in solitude I sit alone.


Copyright © 05/09/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


the junior birdman

he. wore the goggles,
     wore the leather
buttoned up the leather coat,
threw the scarf over a young 
laced up his PF Flyers
gave up sailing paper boats in 
paper water trickles
worked in his father’s garage
shop with
        rusted nails
in memory of children with rusted
lives sitting in front of
black and white t.v.’s;
stood proud in front of his sopwith 
camel, with 
           U.S. Army Air Corps insignia
           red, white, blue on the tail
propeller made from canoe paddles,
now someone’s 
up the creek
with clothes line rope, pulled behind
on his tricycle,
pulled behind the scent of breakfast
pulled behind looks of amazement held
in friends eyes
headed for a hill lined with leafless branches,
where oblong rain
replaced winter snow
like children replace worn out clothes with
deodorant and attitudes;
sitting in his sopwith camel, propeller slightly
turning with a non-abandoned wind
goggles on, ready to taste the flight, wheels
creaking, turning,
hits a ramp… airborne!
eyes turned skyward, defying the laws of
wind blowing through his smile, he lands,
found freedom for a moment,
earned his wings!
Copyright © 04/21/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®