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,

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,
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
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®


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®


steampunk scraper

plaster cobblestone



invading tenants


the homeless

meander like



rusting rivets leak

like a sieve into


the scraper’s water



black and white

brain memories




bad newspaper headline…


flatfoots on the take,

they seem like a theater with unseen



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.




hold onto a thousand



in a sweaty palm, one,


a tattered bus ticket



sound and smell of an

old bus


pulls up,


hugs the curve


like a Jesuit priest

hugs a


collection plate.


tenants stand in




free fall like rain

on a Coney Island


arcade roof;


pour out onto

a desolate

street corner,


bus door half



potential passengers

wear the life name

tag given


at birth…


bus exits,




numb to the stench…


Copyright © 05/10/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


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®