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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The Lady Tattooed

My life was wrapped around the world

That’s when I first met the Lady Tattooed

I met her in France, she was a Paris sight

Spent the night together, she was in the

nude – took pics, used up my memory card.

Ah, the Lady Tattooed, she was the most

divine creature I had ever laid my eyes on

over and over again, whenever she danced

for me, I went into cardiac arrest, it was ok

though, she gave me French mouth to mouth.

She had tiger-like eyes that made men swoon

And a bod that wouldn’t quit, it was a relief map

and an encyclopedia from A to Z all wrapped up

in one, when God made women, he saved her

for last, perfectly created, then broke the mold.

She was the Queen of Tattoo, on her back was

every famous battle and shipwreck, you needed

a strong stomach and your sea legs just to enjoy

the view, had every world flag, even the Red, White

and Blue, could get them to go down at sunset.

You could learn a lot from studying her, so much

in fact that when you were done four years later

she gave you a B. A. in History, and when she

unrobed, you got a Sex Ed degree, could even

learn mountain climbing by studying her breasts.

In the evening, when her muscles started relaxing

Up San Juan Hill came old Teddy, complete with

guns blazing, and when she showered, you could

see Niagara Falls, complete with a guy going over

in a barrel, as I watched, wished it was me.

On a clear day you could see Alcatraz Island, could

even buy a ticket and take a sight-seeing tour, on

her thighs was Buffalo Bill twirling his lasso, along

with Annie Oakley firing at targets while riding in her

saddle, on her arms were paintings by the masters.

Then one sad day for me, she was swept off her feet

by a Rear Admiral if you know what I mean, liked

spelunking, went deep in her cave, had lots of kids

All born with MENZA IQ’s, Mr. and Mrs. had quite a

fleet, envied all navies, lived happily ever after!

 

Copyright © 06/05/2013  Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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steampunk scraper

plaster cobblestone

street

 

invading tenants

 

the homeless

meander like

creeks;

 

rusting rivets leak

like a sieve into

 

the scraper’s water

supply,

 

black and white

brain memories

like

 

a

bad newspaper headline…

 

flatfoots on the take,

they seem like a theater with unseen

marionetters

 

crouched behind tin trashcans…

 

scraper top shadows casted

on passing dirigibles

 

spyglasses look through

broken panes of glass,

 

riders of the clouds

contemplate their

own absence;

 

inhabitants pull down

plastic shades,

plastic memories.

 

but,

 

hold onto a thousand

imaginations,

 

in a sweaty palm, one,

 

a tattered bus ticket

out…

 

sound and smell of an

old bus

 

pulls up,

 

hugs the curve

 

like a Jesuit priest

hugs a

 

collection plate.

 

tenants stand in

‘out−of−order’

elevators,

 

free fall like rain

on a Coney Island

 

arcade roof;

 

pour out onto

a desolate

street corner,

 

bus door half

opens,

 

potential passengers

wear the life name

tag given

 

at birth…

 

bus exits,

windows

down,

 

numb to the stench…

 

Copyright © 05/10/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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nantucket sleigh ride

longboat pulled along a liquid sea
 
we, like ghosts of whalers before, were 
 
mounted upon splintered seats
 
 
splinters in our fingers from rowing oars
 
 
the whale pulled us windward with a tremendous hate,
 
its tail flung water
 
 
white-capped waves to capsize
 
 
alone the whale swam, on a mission of its own
 
 
pulled us, pulled us, through the dark and wet
 
 
as we rode, images of you dear maggie 
 
appeared on the waves crest
 
 
you seemed to speak to me, “i love you samuel, infinitely”
 
 
your voiced muffled as our longboat continued 
 
to sway,
 
to creak
 
 
the whale nodded its head, as if agreeing 
 
to continue the chase
 
 
the oarsmen’s hands, now bleeding,
 
the harpooner summoned
 
 
readied in the bow of the New Bedford’s longboat, 
 
bloodstained shirt, 
 
calloused hands, 
 
weathered face, 
 
oil-stained boots 
 
 
his life’s station
 
 
we are here because of you, whale
 
the nantucket sleigh ride continued
 
 
years of whaling rides upon my dreams, 
 
the nightmares.
 
nighttime screams
 
 
i call out for you maggie and our children, 
 
to draw you all to my heart
 
 
but after nearing the shore to see you all, 
 
i row back out to a ghost, a whaling ship
 
 
unfaithful in love, kept secret by the 
 
un-mourning sea water
 
 
a landlubber’s life a student, 
 
the whaling life a tutor
 
 
deep with its first dead, like the lamb 
 
lead to slaughter
 
 
robbing families of their dear ones,
 
like grains of aged sand
 
 
runs in the veins of darkened water
 
 
after taking its first whaler’s life, 
 
it hastens another
 
 
the ones who quickly suspend their 
 
wayfarer deeds, now ended
 
 
it is in the small things that I am blind
 
our children’s first steps, 
 
their first words,
 
holding you close
 
 
no longer wait for thee
 
 
somewhere, somehow, the joys that I knew
 
rode out with the tide
 
 
i have often wondered, 
 
what did you see in me?
 
 
was it my touch?  
 
my smile? 
 
 
now all hidden, from the beauty of your eyes
 
 
my thoughts of you quickly disappear, 
 
even if only for a moment
 
 
as we continue the chase 
 
“mr. right whale, 
 
 
we’re going to be picking an iron harpoon out of your liver!”
 
“come about all ye oarsmen, come about…
 
 
Copyright  © 05/08/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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