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®


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®


Sky Parchment Writings by Vivian and Lance


Width and depth of breath
twisting trees in expectation 


flights of fantasy
allowing sun at bay for


spiritual beings having
a human experience

quieting mind turning
on the sun 

doves fluttering 


Forest dwell of fair maiden
down darkened stairwell


flowing robe she seeks 
warmth of her lover’s touch


hands reach behind to
feel his presence he

caresses kisses soft
lips embrace 

fluttering hearts eyes


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


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


and one inch thick


birds fall into crowded

trees and



muddy water mouth takes

a gulp, brushes aside

children with

uncleaned playground

faces from

a fountain, pools with


bottoms wet double

knotted buster

browns and


shoe polish,


white combs and sweet honey

drip onto pebbled


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


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



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



me, in faded jeans

and no breeze happened

upon and ‘clicked’,

its humbleness

spoke through my

soul, it

was a pure poetic



Copyright © 06/21/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


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



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



black ribbon presses words onto empty



a poem takes shape like the expression on

forgotten remembrances,


finished, my eyes close…


Copyright © 06/06/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


excerpt of #35

her way.





like a ladder up against

a barn door


can we climb it

or will the



be neatly sawed in



paintbrush drips

half into an



paint can

half into





similar to a



that might be kept;


i look up at the sun

and swallow





it warms me…


i push back her hair

with closed eyes


my heart skips like

a needle

on a 78


she runs her hand



down my face

down my



the paint dripping

sets the pace


for a wet kiss


i carry her under




touch like

a dirty



love enters

with the same


feeling as a

footprint on


a deserted beach;




wrapped up



wrapped up



her way.





Copyright © 05/10/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


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® 

the desert shadow

he, searched for a love much like a parched man 
searches in greed for another glass of water
she, in looking for another direction, headed 
for the desert sand to get away
night poured over the heat of the day like water
from a hose poured over a car’s radiator
he, spent weeks in the desert looking at the moon,
trying to pull it down to mask his loneliness
she, sat on the morning dune, heard nothing, saw
nothing, yet through the silence, her heart throbbed
he, found her footprint, then another, the wind blew
ill trying to cover one, then one, unsuccessfully
she, lay there, beautiful, the sun ignited her eyes,
desert sand heat, her passion
his smile hung over her face like a piece of 
driftwood on a deserted beach
she, pulled out a photo from a pocket in her 
paisley dress, sun ignited it, burned slowly
she, ate his heart out for what he had done, 
he, now a shepherd on an endless journey…
Copyright © 03/30/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

spinning the copper coiled wing

bathroom mirror reflected a breath
that was hard

mist stayed on it like a circus
that never leaves

cracked floor tile slippery similar
to a memory

he tucked away his scars in the
medicine band-aid box

wiped away the tears like blood on
a shaving cut

tasted the morning air, much like a
bowl of cereal

put on the vinyl, same song played
out of habit

danced with a limp, sunlight shadow
didn’t care, applauded

disqualified himself though, searched for
the copper coiled wing

needed for the mid-air suspension of
thought, for the faith

healing was the closest thing to touch,
forgiveness, the wind against
his face

spinning as he fell, warm air to the
wing saturated

landing, still had the limp, was the cure,
put back on the vinyl

they danced one last dance,
then kissed her hand

Copyright © 03/26/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®