she smiled,
her face had
the texture
the shape
the color.
cradled my love in her breath,
in the palms
of her 
she was distinctly alive
had honey colored skin
auburn hair
instantly evoked my
spoke two languages,
and something else.
echoed all that i gave
had a humbling
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
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®

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®

winter flight

winter flight of the cold, of geese,

unfolds the frost, snow has no 



the depth of the freezing temperatures 

is in the reflected pond, the geese cannot



snow laden wings tire the unforgiving snow 

below waiting to entomb the silhouettes of 



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

melancholy are sounds of warmer days



timelessness of the hills where inhabitants existed,

they feel the loneliness, the grip of frost, forgotten



the sunset opens the window to the night, flurries

begin to fall like brittle glass, moonlight guides their



to dream of summers past

soaring, endless into 



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