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®


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®


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®


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,


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


put them on a thin line


pronouncing sentence.


Brusk, bitter and insulting

waves           washed

over her deck and


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


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®


The forgotten

Rails blistered by age and


Sweat and thirst hidden in cracks,


lumber bolted down with gasps 


air, blinding sun paid for 


broken spirits and aces up bosses



Mildewed tents, dysentery in


water ladles, dripping much as


off picks and shovels, faces


Hands calloused from ethnic


Backs branded by grimaced



Constant digging, like holes to hell


leads to prevent workers from falling


pits, hot air same as heat in drafty


buildings, tenement camps… nomads


search of greener grass on other side of the



Random diseases ran through canvas


rope, much as a stray, rabid animal


rattling nondenominational crosses


ward them off, nonetheless, fever and


ensued, like landlords pounding on old



Ailments, starvation and death washed


ethnicity as floods of tics, sucking 


life out of them… for each railroad


laid, a whole or part of their existence 


beneath in a grave, a spike, the



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


A 1920’s romance

At first, she was ice

water in a sweaty 


“Slow down!” her voice laced

like the nylons wrapped


legs that went from here

to there, then back



But, being quite debonair

with suit and acting lessons,


talker, his kiss was waking

up from sleeping and


a nightmare out a window and

hearing it land in a trash



In a park with a vaudeville

background and a white collar script,


fingers deep in a wave, hand

wrapped around her intent,


cozy on striped colors, pressing lips

against theatrical makeup, “au



Applause! Applause! standing middle

class leisure time, theater circuits


they toured urban hubs, toured each

others lives, selected each


for their vague, faint, but harmless

gentility… lived happily ever



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


The scandal

After all  their




  and  all their




  after kissing  her  lips  on  the


rim  of a whiskey glass


  with  broken  promises,


he left.


  she  stood  silent


in  abundantly  hidden:




         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®


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 



                                 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®


The money of dogs

Kick’d in wire mesh on a barn red 
alley screen door,
hang’n there like some kind’a 
vegetable can lid
dogs, they go in and out carry’n 
chalk-white powder fall’n off 
somewhere on a 
kids play’n five square with it
’till dusk.
Dark street winds bend’n the 
twist’n its arm into 
asphalt and
curbed tire marks
pedestrians walk with a walk 
in music,
railway cross’n arm on a street 
a ‘metronome.’
Razor sharp suit under a dimly 
lit city,
kiss’n the tip of 
her tongue,
blood boil’n underneath, she
his bottom lip with hers, fresh 
coat of lust
their emotions moving in
silent count,
long legs in black nylon wrap 
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 
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
a moonbeam rubs out circles in
glass and 
forgotten whispers
he with hat and a tired suit, twirl’n
his walk’n stick, 
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®

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
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,
deeper into an impression of
the past.


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