the glide that stuck to her fingers

jack booted thug, group of a bullet

threat thereof


to take what he wanted wearing the

muscle, wearing


the cobbler’s nails


blackened stubble on a hardened face

with shallow


depressions where a blade cut in like

furrowed soil


gave coppers the slip down crevices in

mortared walls


carried the jackknife rusted deep down 

a soiled 


pocket with stolen coins, flipped, tails

they lost


held up in four walls and a dirty mattress

dirty sheets


rusty water dripping with intent to  commit

annoying feelings


curtains painted with dust, termites eating



lifting a wallet felt a woman’s hand soft

manicured nails


smelled fresh linen clothing and high heels

short skirt


she ran her index finger under a five o’clock

look got


his undivided


shave and a two bit haircut, three piece with

a gold


chain watch, looking rather sharp, smacked

a kiss


moved to a city loft, big brass bed that spun

sensual intense


reformed, he put on the needle, put on the

record phonograph


she danced the glide that stuck to her fingers

he applauded…


Copyright © 08/13/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


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®