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®

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Of a walk

            A footpath.

 

 

She once read of sand,

            she walks with lack

            of water.

 

 

Braids in her hair, the

            track is smooth.

 

 

She walks, grass grows

            behind her, thirsting.

 

 

The trees have a thousand

            leaves, she does not 

            write of love.

 

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

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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®

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To bathe

We play the child’s
play
of mud and swings, it
creeps upon us,
it provokes my sister 
and me
to prick the sides of 
cleanliness
our hands and knees,
our clothes
are of earth colors,
we care not, yet seek
to try
and 
hide them from mother’s
view…
i sit now in copper 
cauldron
to soap and warm
water,
it is their finest
hour
i hear mother boiling
more water,
’tis your turn, dear
sister.

 

Copyright © 03/31/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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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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row the boat ashore

low rolling ambitious clouds to cover 
impressions made by the
sun’s footprints, others
thirstily drink from a 
small pond of blue water,
a shirtless man 
hastily
rows a wooden boat, fears
of inclement weather
fears of drowning
fears of getting wet,
the moon is sinking; his body is
there while the event
takes place,
craters spill out moon dust, 
blustery winter on a mountain range
is blindfolded by 
the soot,
colours gray the prairie,
he cannot see from whence
he came, nor where he’s
suppose to be.

Copyright © 12/11/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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