He was a seafaring man

Set sail on a morn when

the sea         was

its wettest,

‘her’ locket he wore ’round

his               neck,

the shore wears 

the tide.

 

Strong headwinds kept the

tall               ship

along the coast,

in her bow,

a

fragment of wood from

a shipwreck.

 

Clouds, a storm from nowhere,

grabbed the  keel

grabbed her

sails with

barnacled     hands.

 

The sea gave him and his

ship a           frothy

look as mad dogs in

a cobblestone

alley,

put them on a thin line

before

pronouncing sentence.

 

Brusk, bitter and insulting

waves           washed

over her deck and

crew…

were kept mortal prisoners,

in rusted       chains

of the sea life.

 

Shadows lay before her skeletal

remains,       much

as open windows on

the sand,

closed by his sole

survivor         fingers

to silence

the screams.

 

The ship tilted, creaked, a tomb

for the          dead

on a barren beach,

its bell struck eight times,

over and       over

by the wind pulling

on the rope.

 

The sailors roots to the sea pulled

out               where

fallen tress lie in

shipyards…

he walks along the shore with a

fragment of    wood,

a mutinous cane,

looking for a

new ship.

 

Copyright © 05/20/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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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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the sand strewn landing incident

no distress signal where wood is above
and metal rust below the sand
water line, life jackets now
dust, lie scattered to save ghostly
cries for help, rubber and
chrome rolled off into 
waves of dunes, half submerged,
desert poured in 
quickly through rolled 
down glass;

passengers but to swim against the
tide, looking for a rescue,
will it come? hang on
desperately to railings, splinters
to succumb to, minds
race back when a storm 
arose on a crossing,
pilot knocked unconscious,
wheel spinning
spinning;

off course like misguided children
in orphanages, walk in
shadows where no shadows
exist, where water glasses
contain no water,
only filled with sand, drink
the dryness to quench
a thirst, hope,
the sand laps at their
faces;

just like survivors in the sand strewn 
landing incident, soaked and
cold, where is the sun?
dunes rise like tidal waves
to block, night
encroaches where sidewinder 
snakes slither,
but, perchance a rescue?
blankets to warm,
to comfort…

Copyright © 08/23/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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Fahrenheit 451

Our hearts ignited like two fiery particles

thrown off by the love we had for each other

Happened when our two bodies pressed hard

brought love making to a new level—Fahrenheit 451.

You activated my sensual senses, ignited my engine

I stimulated yours, got in your body and drove you fast

An unspecified amount of time passed as we hung tight

rocked and rolled all night, we both melted inside.

We had reached a luminous phenomenon, sparks flew; eyes glowed

triggered a chain reaction like a storm does to a high tension wire

Put us into further sexual motions, actuated our circuits

our love making was so extreme everything in the room started to burn.

It was so intense I had to install a spark arrester on the bed

but that didn’t stop me from caressing your celestial body

Made me so hot, there was continued sexual activity and growth

flammable effluences discharged when I exploded.

 

Copyright © 05/13/2103 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry® 

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storm upon the dunes

the storm wings across 

the dunes

 

thunder is its’ voice to 

be dreaded

 

the wind braces up–then finds 

itself accelerating

 

opens the gaits–galloping ghosts of lightning in 

the offing

 

behaves with un-gratuitous folly as it bests the 

ocean’s roar

 

the rain rides the wind–the skies 

are riven

 

and bursts as a wave from the clouds

that impend

 

then climbs down on stormy ladders–one rung at 

a time

 

the tempest’s onslaught charges the 

stormy skies

 

lightning strikes the highest points as the thunder claps 

for more

 

the wind delegates the ocean waves to lash the 

affrighted shore

 

as swift as a darkened shadow, as long as a 

dreadful dream–

 

the rain begins to carve its’ name with 

slanting lines

 

its’ signature most illegible, but 

most assured

 

ever expanding, the storm enlarges its’ field 

of view

 

and sets its’ sight upon 

the dunes

 

where grains of sand one by one are 

quickly deluged

 

its’ spirits bruised by the storm’s 

fierce intensity

 

and footprints are washed away like the remains of 

the day

 

as are the echoes of 

conquering children

 

their fate is the common fate of all, into each life some rain 

must fall

 

just as the sand-dunes, heaped one 

upon another

 

hide each the first, so in life are 

the former

 

deeds are quickly hidden by those that 

follow after

 

but still dreaming like the 

sand-dunes

 

taking shape–not fearing the hand 

of fate

 

not hearing lonely winds 

great wail

 

that grasps the sand-

dune’s grass–

 

fastening itself–seeking to rout its’ 

very spirit

 

but soon tires and 

is spurned–

 

making it as momentary as 

a sound

 

for the wind itself has blown away 

the storm

 

and a bright new day 

always follows

 

so quick bright good things come 

to warm.

 

Copyright © 05/13/2103 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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