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valsa-georgePoems
The waterlogged lands have long gone dry The soil is lying cracked and parched The frogs that crocked in shallow pools, Nowhere on land or water to be seen The once full river has thinned and narrowed Into a greasy smudge of faded stain On the long yard of brown earth The road is a burning stretch of black Sure it can make the water steam and sizzle Quicker than in an electric *** The sun is seen a flaming ball in the sky Darting down spears of smarting beams Heat like a spiteful scorpion’s sting Burns the flesh and the bared scalp Watermelons or chilled buttermilk Cannot douse the midday heat The fiery tongue of humid summer Licks up the last residue of green The woods dread the fall of a spark That can ignite an inferno, anytime The cattle stay still with frothy foam Dripping down from their drooping tongues A thirsty crow beside a dried up pond Looks around for a drop of water (But alas, not as lucky as the parable crow That finds a jar of half filled elixir) A line of black ants carry a carcass Clambering up the cracked stump of a tree The brown grass sings And the Etna seethes!
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Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
Summer Heat
The waterlogged lands have long gone dry The soil is lying cracked and parched The frogs that crocked in shallow pools, Nowhere on land or water to be seen The once full river has thinned and narrowed Into a greasy smudge of faded stain On the long yard of brown earth The road is a burning stretch of black Sure it can make the water steam and sizzle Quicker than in an electric *** The sun is seen a flaming ball in the sky Darting down spears of smarting beams Heat like a spiteful scorpion’s sting Burns the flesh and the bared scalp Watermelons or chilled buttermilk Cannot douse the midday heat The fiery tongue of humid summer Licks up the last residue of green The woods dread the fall of a spark That can ignite an inferno, anytime The cattle stay still with frothy foam Dripping down from their drooping tongues A thirsty crow beside a dried up pond Looks around for a drop of water (But alas, not as lucky as the parable crow That finds a jar of half filled elixir) A line of black ants carry a carcass Clambering up the cracked stump of a tree The brown grass sings And the Etna seethes!
valsa-george
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valsa-george
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
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