Dark Lady Poetry - Volume One, Number Two




Volume One, Number Two

November 2009





Louie Crew

A Shaking Spear


Yermiyahu Ahron Taub    

Cat Lady's Request

Walking with Sarina


Jennifer A. Hudson

 Golden Malice

The Lament of Hephaistos while in Oceanic Delirium


Ivy Peterson  

Fault Lines


Broadie Thornton







Louie Crew




A Shaking Spear


My lover's buns are nothing like a God's.
Plate glass is far more rippled than his chest.
His six-inch fuse becomes his only rod.
With no cologne but rankest funk he's blessed.

 I have seen glistening men, hirsute or smooth,
but no alluring luster's in his face.
And I've known even yokels less uncouth
clutching their men in graceless long embrace.

 I like to hear my lover's tuneful shower,
but any glories there are merely myths,
for though his songs indeed my spunk empower,
the truth is that he all too often lithps.

 And yet I swear my man's to me more real
than hunky clones who, unrehearsed, can't feel.





Yermiyahu Ahron Taub 




Cat Lady’s Request


Forget it all, every last wisp.
It can’t be recalled, anyway.
The quest for antecedent,
for the contours of primordial meat dumpling,
for the steps marched en route to annihilation,
however noble, is doomed, in the end.
Don’t imagine otherwise. Don’t be lulled
by branches waltzing by on gray silk,
by the ache of your blurry yearning,
into conclusions of grandeur or imagined connection.


Pulp the maps and the guidebooks;
burn the photo albums.
Circumvent the archives,
municipal and otherwise.
Why face the natives pissing at the tour bus?
Don’t go to the tombstones,
tottering in drunken gloom.
You won’t find anything.
I come from the garden of nothing and nowhere,
and to there I shall return.
You too, you know.


But, if anything should happen to me in the by and by,
she paused,
her many chins aquiver at last,
peering through the lace of bramble and tangle,
take care of my children.
This one is X,
and this here is the angel Y,
my twin integers against the apocalypse.
That’s all I ask. And thank you for visiting.
Come see us again soon.



Walking with Sarina


All the schoolyard taunts initially came to mind:

He--beanpole, tower, tree trunk, ropy, Lincoln, skyscraper, pillar.

(But now with a twist—the ripple of sinew, the strain of bicep.)

And she far below—a speck, paramecium, toy, bobble-head, Weeble.

An odd couple, sure, but also wondrous to behold.


With Sarina, you see, Marvin made sense.

His long limbs formed a fortress around her barkless muzzle, her tiny body—

more places to hide, snuggle, get warm, even in summer.

A light bore through her rheumy eyes at his approach.

His every move, his very touch transformed her into ecstasy.


With Sarina, Marvin removed his mantle of self-deprecation,

the voices from long ago, the stares of today.

In the fog of her declining breath, he could loosen the fortress of his discipline.

Hovering around his ankles, her limp was if not healed, then irrelevant.

Her wiry gray curls became damask under his massive hands.


Throughout their strolls the neighbors eyed, not the tower and the toy,

but me, the one behind them. It was so obvious: none of this was about me.

Even when Marvin pooled Sarina’s drool and I saw myself

hobbling to the toilet of an old age home—

a scrim on the eyelids banished to the cobwebs of foreshadow, even then I knew this.


So don’t let this poem be about me, the ghostly lover outside the frame.

If you have to see me here at all, see me not as interloper,

but as chronicler of a gentle love. Listen to me as I walk with them,

whispering my incantation, my mantra of well-wishing:

Sarina, Serena, serene, serenity, Sarina, Serena, serene 






Jennifer A. Hudson




 Golden Malice


An apple tree stands alone
atop a stark bayside hill.
Bowed and twisted
she dangles
her forsaken golden yield
hoping to entice an admirer

But who desires bitter fruit
with rotten tang these days?

In her prime, the apple tree had borne
an abundance of golden delicious—
bore them right on her top boughs,
fruit of Hesperides.
But the reaper cursed her yield
and vowed never to return,
for how dare she taunt him
with crop he could not reach?

But had the tree’s harvester not felt
such malice toward her ‘mala,’
she would have tossed care to the winds
and let her golden delicious
yield like tender raindrops.
Now she fancies a landslide
brought on by September gales.



The Lament of Hephaistos while in Oceanic Delirium


I remember her eyes as
shimmering pools
where dolphins splashed
and eucalypts tickled
soft tan grains
with supple innocence.

I wonder if bottlenoses
still boogie inside her bay,
or if gum trees
still droop over her sands—
or have all her suitors been netted
and her stringy bark shed?

If only her pools could erupt,
then I’d see why my Lady vanished
and why I’ve been forced into exile






Ivy Peterson




Fault Lines


the refrigerator rudely clicks its way to an expensive death

in the valley of our kitchen,

where the faucet drips debt relentlessly

and centipedes vacation in the dark.

the duet of  dying appliances

wakes us up early and

we mutter apologies

as you timidly explore

the terrain of my hips

like you’re panning for gold.

domination is sweet at 6:17 a.m.,

before lucidity,


and longing. 




Broadie Thornton





“That’ll be three thousand dollars and sixty-four cents, Mr. Rowan,” said the Asian clerk with the empty smile. “Cash or check?”

“Visa,” said Mr. Rowan.

The clerk smiled and slid black plastic, the right way, at the right speed.

Mr. Rowan made a soft clap. The tall, pale manservant stood to the right of the door of Bloomingdale’s, wearing a simple two-piece suit with no visible buttons. Without preamble, he strode to his master’s side and began to pull the latest wardrobe injection into his long, monkey-like embrace.


Moments later, Mr. Rowan’s most impressive wad of closet stuffing yet, was bundled into the trunk of a silver stretch limo on the curb in front, and hauled away beneath the characteristically schizophrenic traffic lights of Manhattan.

“I am how I dress, Jeeves,” said Mr. Rowan. With that, he pulled on a black teddy bordered with kinky lace, and smiled into the large vanity mirror in his bedroom wall. He shifted from foot to foot, searching for the perfect angle. The image in the mirror aped his movement. "Today,” Mr. Rowan giggled, “I’m decked out as a high-priced delight.” Tossing his head, along with the brand new, jet black, thousand dollar wig on top of it, he grinned into the mirror. “I wonder what the filthy johns on 125th are paying for this sort of class, this time of year.”

The manservant remained as impassive as ever. He had learned ten years previous, that it didn’t do much good to question the Master’s sense of style. “Very good, Sir. Are we taking the Seville tonight, or is Sir more in the mood for a less smooth journey? The Ferrari Formula One, perhaps?”

Mr. Rowan laughed and laid his palms atop the teddy’s breast pockets. “I think I would rather have a new friend in the drawing room instead of in a cheap, roach infested hovel tonight, Jeeves.”

Jeeves. The manservant’s actual name was Warton, but he had learned ten years previous that it was better to simply allow the Master to call him whatever caught his fancy on any particular day. Or moment. Things went smoother that way.

“Very well, Sir. I will prepare the drawing room bath.”

“The john first, Jeeves. I’ll prepare the bath. Besides, you always forget to add the Clorox, and I’ve got to say, that just takes all the fun out of riling the vermin up.”

“Very well, Sir.”

A week later, Mr. Rowan became a pirate. A bright city night passed, and when morning came, two fancy lofts had been slashed to ribbons by a broadsword and befouled by great gobs of human feces, that covered the walls like new coats of paint.

Two nights after that, he transformed himself into a football player. An ancient high society woman in fox furs paid for his fun, when her left knee exploded like a pinecone in the heart of a blazing campfire...under the football player’s sudden assault.

Six nights after that, he morphed into a biologist. A stray mongrel lost its right hind leg to the perversions of dark scientific discovery.

A day later, Jeeves, since he had no choice but to play along with the Master’s transformations, (it was there in the job description, in great BOLD print) ran through the large mansion in abject terror, an old rifle in his right hand, a kerosene powered lantern in his left. The serial killer that the Master had become seemed lost in a tide of confusion and madness, though this illusion was tinged with an insanely bright species of lucid joy.

“Come to me, Jeeves!” he screamed, his words echoing up and down the halls of the vast old mansion. “Give me your neck to cut, and I’ll give you a raise! Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeves!”

The manservant barely managed to escape this particular game with his life. He did so by bringing a rare Japanese vase down on the Master’s head from the within the shadows of the darkened building. “All lights off, Jeeves,” the Master had whispered as he stared upon his collection of African weapons before the start of the game. “This can’t be fun without darkness.” The Master didn’t fully recover from the blow to his skull for three days.

A month after that, he made himself into a poor drunk vagrant. Bottles covered the floor of the food court within the local Mini Mall the next morning.

It went on like this for fifteen more years. Until, one overcast day, in the festering bowels of east Brooklyn, Mr. Rowan died in a battered suit of medieval armor. Brought down by a hail of very modern armor-piercing bullets, his final words were, “For Her Black Majesty, you bastards!”

Jeeves, saddened beyond his own belief, buried the Master in a navy-blue uniform.

The Master’s nephew, William Phelps III, being next in the family line, inherited the family fortune.

Jeeves gave himself a week off: to purge the former Master from his heart and soul.

William first came to him in a shiny black wetsuit and thick goggles. Jeeves had managed to bury himself up to the crown of his head in Wall Street black and white, a cup of black coffee on the table in front of him, and a half eaten doughnut on a saucer beside the cup of coffee. A small voice bled through Wall Street words and found its way to his ear.

“Jeeves, I feel like Jacques Cousteau.”

Ten years old. The boy, the Master, idolized the old depth explorer.

“The yacht will take us to the Marianas Trench, won’t it, Jeeves? It will, won’t it?” said the boy, the Master, his brown eyes ablaze beneath the goggles that sat upon his smooth, dark forehead.

“Yes, Sir. It will," said Jeeves.