The deepest secret

rows of windmills painting the sky

 

With dark colors

with raindrops

 

wet is the water

 

her tears dry as they roll down her face

she sits 

 

statuesque holding a bowl with

stones holding water

 

A goldfish watches and dreams

the bench is wet

 

empty is the sky of sun

water is empty

 

she cries no more.

 

Copyright © 06/27/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image

Of love and an innocent moon

when pails filled with moonbeams

 

Sit on painted chairs in moon dust

and are cast upon

 

the world, i shall then write

of love

 

pulling words from heart shaped 

lockets on stars

 

laying in fields of midnight sky

you laying covered with dark purple poppies

 

my fingers beneath you caressing

as meadows do of wildflowers

 

my palms walk through moonlight

on your skin yearning to pick petals of color

 

i kiss the rose of your lips.

 

Copyright © 05/22/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image

The spy

She sat in a railway station, silent,

one piece of baggage containing all of

her intricate, imperfect life – she was white 

as paper, skin like ice water, “you can’t

be bored dying in a dignified position;” any

sensitivity left dropping away as

do hairs off a comb.

 

A victor walked by, she thought, “what’s 

the matter, have you no religion… “

and then, a smiling copper – as if he knew

of her keeping a cupboard full of

alibis for all spying occasions, corked up

in old medicine bottles – she had no

proposition whatsoever on using a gun.

 

Sitting there, memories arriving as

do late trains – of when, as an

eight year old, skipped rope with half

a rope… of making someone bleed

regularly when she cocked the hammer,

rather as opening the flap of a tent

and stepping into the cold.

 

Of a nasty little man in a grubby mackintosh,

snuffling through pigeon holes looking

for her room key in a cheap hotel – peering 

through his spy glass in hopes of seeing clothing

draped over a chair – then dark alley waiting, one

round fired… she’ll be there awhile, not forever,

but a little while, holding her ticket home.

 

Copyright © 05/27/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image

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®

Image

The forgotten

Rails blistered by age and

rust

Sweat and thirst hidden in cracks,

splitting

lumber bolted down with gasps 

for

air, blinding sun paid for 

with

broken spirits and aces up bosses

sleeves.

 

Mildewed tents, dysentery in

drinking 

water ladles, dripping much as

rain

off picks and shovels, faces

hardened

Hands calloused from ethnic

ranking

Backs branded by grimaced

looks.

 

Constant digging, like holes to hell

On 

leads to prevent workers from falling

into 

pits, hot air same as heat in drafty

tenement

buildings, tenement camps… nomads

in

search of greener grass on other side of the

tracks.

 

Random diseases ran through canvas

and 

rope, much as a stray, rabid animal

Immigrants 

rattling nondenominational crosses

to

ward them off, nonetheless, fever and

blisters

ensued, like landlords pounding on old

doors.

 

Ailments, starvation and death washed

over

ethnicity as floods of tics, sucking 

the 

life out of them… for each railroad

tie

laid, a whole or part of their existence 

lay

beneath in a grave, a spike, the

headstone.

 

Copyright © 05/13/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image

A 1920’s romance

At first, she was ice

water in a sweaty 

                  glass

“Slow down!” her voice laced

like the nylons wrapped

                          around

legs that went from here

to there, then back

                     again.

 

But, being quite debonair

with suit and acting lessons,

                                   sweet

talker, his kiss was waking

up from sleeping and

                     pushing

a nightmare out a window and

hearing it land in a trash

                      receptacle.

 

In a park with a vaudeville

background and a white collar script,

                                                     he,

fingers deep in a wave, hand

wrapped around her intent,

                                    she,

cozy on striped colors, pressing lips

against theatrical makeup, “au

                                 couture.”

 

Applause! Applause! standing middle

class leisure time, theater circuits

                                        buzzing,

they toured urban hubs, toured each

others lives, selected each

                                  other

for their vague, faint, but harmless

gentility… lived happily ever

                                    after.

 

Copyright © 05/06/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®
Image

 

The scandal

After all  their

 

      words

 

  and  all their

 

     secrecy

 

  after kissing  her  lips  on  the

 

rim  of a whiskey glass

 

  with  broken  promises,

 

he left.

 

  she  stood  silent

 

in  abundantly  hidden:

 

      Nothing

 

         They  wrote

 

  “etcetera. etcetera. etcetera.” 

 

     she dances with one 

 

foot  on a paper floor,

 

       the  other

 

    on his abandonment.

 

 

Copyright © 04/16/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image

Sticker price

Clouds walk

 

                 on stilts  through a city and

 

Jigsaw  pieces of

 

Mud.            Thickens.            Forever. 

 

They  peddle  rain until  rust is  spilled 

Completely   on    chrome   for  him  to

 

         E   X   A   M   I   N   E.

 

Until   there is no gas  left to 

 

                           drive

                                 with. . .

 

He   remembers a  radio  played song

and  trunked   luggage  kept in bottles

of aspirin to take with empty canteens,

 

Missing puzzle pieces of a marriage.

 

Church  bells and borrowed  friends.

 

A bitchin babe  dancing  like sky  art.

 

A sticker price.

 

Copyright © 04/15/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image

The money of dogs

Kick’d in wire mesh on a barn red 
alley screen door,
hang’n there like some kind’a 
rusted
vegetable can lid
dogs, they go in and out carry’n 
‘scratch’,
chalk-white powder fall’n off 
somewhere on a 
sidewalk,
kids play’n five square with it
’till dusk.
 
Dark street winds bend’n the 
night,
twist’n its arm into 
asphalt and
curbed tire marks
pedestrians walk with a walk 
measured 
in music,
railway cross’n arm on a street 
corner,
a ‘metronome.’
 
Razor sharp suit under a dimly 
lit city,
kiss’n the tip of 
her tongue,
blood boil’n underneath, she
brushes
his bottom lip with hers, fresh 
coat of lust
their emotions moving in
silent count,
long legs in black nylon wrap 
around
his waist,
‘grope des sex.’
 
A full moon veils itself like an
unwanted stranger,
except for a 
glimmer of light, the
night grows cold
a piano converted store front on
the corner of 
nowhere,
nobody, save one, now travels 
the length
of  ivories, doesn’t want to
‘get the air back’
much as railroad ties look for
a train,
he looks for the music.
 
Dull, dirty windows framed into
the listless
building,
a moonbeam rubs out circles in
glass and 
forgotten whispers
he with hat and a tired suit, twirl’n
his walk’n stick, 
waiting…
wealthy dogs come run’n on
deserted noise,
com’in to see him
coins are dropped into 1895 and
ragged rhythm
a vagrant crowd stops to listen, 
stares inside,
applaud. applaud.
 
 
Copyright © 04/09/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®
Image
 

Water for a memory

There she sat on a rounded key,
the typewriter
gasping for air, paper dust having
filled its lungs,
the ribbon thirsting for words, a 
key crawling
through space in search of white
paper…
she, in her head, replicating every
letter typed,
gray hair’s footsteps walking through
the memory 
of a younger person; she wraps 
herself in 
a blanket of self-contentment,
falling 
deeper into an impression of
the past.

 

Copyright © 04/08/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image