replica

she smiled,
 
her face had
the texture
the shape
the color.
 
cradled my love in her breath,
in the palms
of her 
hands.
 
she was distinctly alive
 
had honey colored skin
auburn hair
 
instantly evoked my
feelings
 
spoke two languages,
english
 
and something else.
 
echoed all that i gave
had a humbling
 
resemblance
 
to who i was,
 
wrote about her beauty on
poetic paper
 
i could taste her aroma,
her love liquid
 
looking at her, she was the
mountains,
 
the blue morning dawn.
 
she was a heroine to my wants,
my needs
 
spent many hours in the bedchamber
under satin sheets,
 
heat of her body through the thread,
through the fabric.
 
then, one day, watched her casket
lowered into the earth
 
trees swayed under a cold,
winter wind
 
leaves moved to other
small towns
 
but, she stayed with me
 
her replica
her soul
her life.
 
 
Copyright © 05/15/2013  Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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chrome bumper

“i crave the asphalt mouth,
winter salt left on a
broken yellow line,
 
left like salt in a cast iron
skillet to fry day old fish
 
impalpable ash from 
a burned cigarette,
 
last drag left in a mouth
with yellow teeth like
old piano keys
 
that don’t play any more
 
wrinkled body lost in 
a cracked, faded
convertible seat,
 
still cruis’n down a boulevard
 
silent and starving, 
i once prowled through city 
alleyways in search
 
of muggers glimpses,
 
i hunted for the liquid leaded measure,
pumped by an attendant’s ghostly hand, 
 
vague memories of a showroom floor, 
pushy sales people like climbing 
 
vines pushing into aging 
cement cracked walls
 
i want to eat a sunbeam 
flaring behind
 
ignorant clouds 
 
i hunger for children’s laughter,
silenced by open hydrants
drowning ghetto streets,
 
washing away hopes to get beyond
yellow line boundaries
 
washing away like storms drowning 
forests, bending branches over
 
forgotten foot paths;
 
now, i sit with others, alone and 
forgotten behind a barbed 
wire fence,
 
with barbed wire dogs
 
acid rain eats my skin
 
i smell the twilight, 
 
i am but a silhouette
dying… “
 
 
 
Copyright © 04/19/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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winter flight

winter flight of the cold, of geese,

unfolds the frost, snow has no 

forgiveness

 

the depth of the freezing temperatures 

is in the reflected pond, the geese cannot

land

 

snow laden wings tire the unforgiving snow 

below waiting to entomb the silhouettes of 

autumn

 

the breath of the wind on the bough of the tree,

melancholy are sounds of warmer days

remembered

 

timelessness of the hills where inhabitants existed,

they feel the loneliness, the grip of frost, forgotten

footsteps

 

the sunset opens the window to the night, flurries

begin to fall like brittle glass, moonlight guides their

way

 

to dream of summers past

soaring, endless into 

freedom. 

 

Copyright © 01/13/2013 Barbara Sutton and Lance Sheridan

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