Time enough

The sound of cracking glass on pocket watch, i do not
count seconds on its aging face and weakened breast; 
i do before sunset hands that take the night dip my quill 
among ashes in inkwell, consumed by which nourishes 
me; this i perceive on parchment as i bid time’s dwell adieu.

Copyright © 04/04/2014 Çross §titching of the §oul®

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Of a song… for Sumi…

A song you heard
of gold
In the corners of worn,
mortared steps
It refracts white and
gray hues
Savors the ripeness of
black moonrise.

Our senses know how
anything so
utterly as wealth when
we lack it
Yet, we place the precious
yellow metal
in our pockets, in
the shadows of
our clothes.

But something more
precious is found
A hand in ones hair,
fingers caressing
the nape of a neck
Lips kissing the
corners of a mouth
Sunshine moving our
shadows closer.

The sky is clear, wind
dusts tired steps
Shadows bequeath us
passage, a truce
Its roses, the stones
of ruin.

Copyright © 02/11/2014 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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Sky Parchment Writings by Vivian and Lance

~Somewhere~

Width and depth of breath
twisting trees in expectation 

with

flights of fantasy
allowing sun at bay for
awakening 

as 

spiritual beings having
a human experience

quieting mind turning
on the sun 

within 
doves fluttering 

contentment;

Forest dwell of fair maiden
down darkened stairwell

with 

flowing robe she seeks 
warmth of her lover’s touch
expectation

her

hands reach behind to
feel his presence he

caresses kisses soft
lips embrace 

fluttering hearts eyes
shut

ecstasy.

Copyright 08/11/2013 
Vivian Locastro Dawson & Lance Sheridan

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the religion of bees

sun, it cuts holes in ominous

clouds with

school scissors, traces

parochial fingers

along dirty sills,

shines through smudged

crosses on stain

glass and

window cleaner,

 

tiny, biting black flies stick

to swamp creek stink

like nuns with

discipline

and one inch thick

yardsticks,

birds fall into crowded

trees and

beehives,

 

muddy water mouth takes

a gulp, brushes aside

children with

uncleaned playground

faces from

a fountain, pools with

sandy

bottoms wet double

knotted buster

browns and

scuffed

shoe polish,

 

white combs and sweet honey

drip onto pebbled

anthills

and teacups

with cracked saucers and

silver spoons,

fairy tales are read

in clover fields

and unfolded blankets,

innocent looks

blow dandelion seeds

into shallow

streams

and memories,

 

bees dream at night of nectar

and pollen,

of flying in cluttered

garages looking

for heaven,

stone written tablets in

educational systems are made

of plastic and

finger crossed

promises,

 

bees collect hexagonal shapes

and move them under

tin roof overhangs

and pinging sounds of

wetness from

clouds with scissored edges,

they fly to seek

sanctity,

 

me, in faded jeans

and no breeze happened

upon and ‘clicked’,

its humbleness

spoke through my

soul, it

was a pure poetic

moment…

 

Copyright © 06/21/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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Joffe Cameron’s Most Unusual Occurrences

stars leaned back too far on old rocking chairs

and collapsed into a black hole

 

their light emptied into a sea,

 

a man puts on a diving suit and submerges,

needs flame for a candle

 

so his children can eat cornflakes when the

sun is late,

 

it missed the 4:15 a.m. train, fell asleep in a

station where newspaper

 

headlines read like stereo instructions;

 

dogs don’t tell lies when holding black and

white stories in their mouths,

 

burnt cinder in an ad from a sun’s request

 

family skeletons hiding in darkened closets,

afraid of the obituaries;

 

teachers in one thought classrooms tearing

pages out of text books,

 

paper airplanes fly out of wooden sashed 

windows searching

 

for the truth,

 

gray suited historians aiming shotgun shells

at unidentified flying aircraft,

 

air raid sirens sound;

 

i look up into a sky where stars once where,

a quickly burning match

 

singes fingers that have labored a lifetime,

 

the charcoal is black like memories i’ve

forgotten

 

she was in a piece of broken glass lying

in a doorway,

 

nails no longer holding paint, fall and break

away her smile

 

i cut myself on a sharp edge as i try to fit

remaining glass into

 

a frame on a warped door,

 

her tears cleanse my unhappiness, yet

i am in solitude

 

old brick beneath my feet turns to sand,

i sink into a room

 

behind a desk

 

candlelight cloaks keys on an aging

typewriter,

 

black ribbon presses words onto empty

paper

 

a poem takes shape like the expression on

forgotten remembrances,

 

finished, my eyes close…

 

Copyright © 06/06/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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excerpt of #35

her way.

 

my

soul.

 

like a ladder up against

a barn door

 

can we climb it

or will the

rungs

 

be neatly sawed in

half.

 

paintbrush drips

half into an

empty

 

paint can

half into

the

 

ground−

 

similar to a

promise

 

that might be kept;

 

i look up at the sun

and swallow

the

 

light,

 

it warms me…

 

i push back her hair

with closed eyes

 

my heart skips like

a needle

on a 78

 

she runs her hand

half−blind

 

down my face

down my

emotions;

 

the paint dripping

sets the pace

 

for a wet kiss

 

i carry her under

awaiting

sheets

 

touch like

a dirty

paintbrush

 

love enters

with the same

 

feeling as a

footprint on

 

a deserted beach;

 

after,

 

wrapped up

tight

 

wrapped up

sweaty,

 

her way.

 

my

soul…

 

Copyright © 05/10/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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she walked with her left leg in the sun

it quickly grasped the fertile soil 
by the wrist
 
threw it back as dust
threw it back as debris
 
1929 jobless man sits by a lamppost alone 
 
black blizzard wanders through a
garden gate
 
ignores a ‘no trespassing’ sign 
like a wallstreeter ignores
concrete sidewalk
 
she, with two under each arm, saw
her husband buried in sand
 
their life closed like a dust jacket on a book,
 
numbered pages;
 
in a library, someone reads the ‘no talking’ sign
 
the depression was a place of skin,
hiding bare bones
hiding soup kitchen
 
black blizzard wore a reaper’s veil,
wolf knocked on the door,
it huffed and puffed
 
a poor swimmer makes it to the surface and drowns
 
a banker reached into his three piece suit pocket
and pulled out a handful of dust
 
the mother of two reached into her apron pocket 
and pulled out a foreclosure notice; 
 
she sat by a lamppost alone, darkness to see
her children
 
dust and debris covered everything like a 
handyman’s paint job
 
then, through pasted window a glimmer 
of light
 
touched her hand like he once proposed,
she had sold the ring for food
 
the black blizzard was carried away on a 
non-ill wind
 
her children smiled again.
 
 
Copyright © 04/10/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry® 
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