"sunbaked" poems
I woke up and the sun is shining,
majestically emitting its golden glow.
In spite of this, it's a cold Scandinavian morning
and boy, the sun is putting up a real show.
So what's really going on here I asked,
why am I not yet sweating profusely?
Why am I not yet drenched in sweat and sunbaked,
Or is the arid heat being turned on slowly?
By birth, I was born a Liberian, a true African,
my umbilical cord was buried near the Equator.
My nationality is Norwegian, a Scandinavian
By virtue of the winter, I always feel like a visitor.
The African sun would shine until we hide or run
just to avoid the scorching heat and humidity.
The Scandinavian sun I feel shines and people have fun,
A factor to make me question the sun's true nationality.
So is it the same sun that rises at about 5 am in Ghana,
The one that shines brightly on the vaults of the Ashanti gold?
If it's the sun worshiped by Ancient Egypt, of the sun god Akana,
So why doesn't it burn away the snow and the extreme cold?
©️IB-Poetry
2/20/2018
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
I bent my toes over the tub
like talons on a sunbaked branch
and clenched the curtain
in my gloved hands.
I sprayed Tilex on a scouring
pad and scrubbed the black mold
riddling the ceiling and caulked
edges of the shower like leprosy.
My lungs filled with nitrogen,
oxygen, and argon as well as
sodium hypochlorite and hydroxide,
spores, and mycotoxins.
I staggered backwards, trying
to find solid ground but found
only a dazed, curtain-wrapped
fall to the cold linoleum below.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
Puts me in mind
Of a man who embodied our eternal, sometimes fruitless search
And why the heart is a lonely hunter.
John Singer, you silently sang,
Of heartbreak and devotion to someone
And the eternal search for those elusive qualities
Those missing puzzle pieces we all look for
Happiness
Acceptance
Love
Always seem out of our grasp
Like a puddle of water
On the sunbaked, summertime highway of our lives
Traveling
Always looking for something
Hunting for anything
To let us know we’re human
We’re loved
But still our lonely hearts search on
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
The heart is a lonely hunter.
Staring out the window of the bus
Thinking about the ones I love
And wondering if it is all worth it.
I wish I could’ve sat down with you, Mr. Singer,
And compared notes through pantomimes
Written words of your struggles
Maybe I could’ve understood you better than others
Deaf and mute, you
Couldn't communicate with words,
Couldn't hear what other said,
Instead you communicated with looks of compassion
Serenity,
Composure
Masking a single-minded devotion to one person
And you let others who lean on you
Attaching what meaning they may
To the nonverbal cues you say to them.
When some of it wasn’t what you really intended.
Believe me, Mr. Singer.
I know all too well the misunderstandings
That come up in the name of simple love
Or the search for it.
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.”
You think you have something special
But does the other person really understand you?
And when others need you, and vice versa,
They fail to see behind the wall masking
Your true heart
What you’re really trying to tell them
And even with the powers of speech and hearing
Would you still have made yourself understood?
Misunderstanding, it’s so easy
Words are woefully inadequate
Because people will see what they want to anyway
They attach their own meanings to the words you say
Mister Singer, I can understand why you blew a hole in your chest
Sometimes that gaping hole is more preferable
To the gaping hole left by a broken, misunderstood heart
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.
And if you think that you are only
A shadow in the wind
Blowing around but when
You let somebody in
They might fade away.” (*)
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
This is it.
Your big moment.
Taking time at these crossroads.
Your decision determining destiny.
A moment all your own, never to be replicated.
skittering circuits buzz, obedient to your commands.
Hours lay ahead of you, stuffed and bulging with the static you will consume.
Channel 2 or channel 4?
This is it.
Your catastrophic downfall.
An outcry was made, now the civility is shattered.
the acquaintances you once held as companions,
may now cut icy glares as the senate did to Caesar.
alarms ring, as you feel reduced in their eyes.
You got the wrong change at the cafe,
so you ask for a fiver.
later on,
your banquet awaits, golden and sunbaked.
stewed for months, in rich and creamy crop of the land.
taking your throne, in the cool shaded flank in your garden of eden.
A cup of soup and a bag of crisps.
these grand odysseys still raise up those same emotional epics,
as moments in youth locked in the past.
like lying on a blanket at the very edge of one of the seven sisters.
alas, you are still perched upon oblivion,
cup of tea in hand.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
this deviant moment
exposed to light of day
unable to mute my words
they tumble out and roll round
like a car full of clowns in the circus
all color and no content
one rolls back to me
gets in my face
eyes red with its irate feelin
puffin on a greasy cigar
it makes all kinds of loud noise in the back of my head
trying to guilt trip me out
keeps me awake half the night
this deviant moment
flows like a charm for him
flows like cheap wine
when the friends are near and dear
price don't come till harsh light of day
face up in the mirror full of denials
full of regrets
full outa steam just shuffle through the moment
knowin that you'll get to the track on time
just gotta get the ole mutt movin
and the dusty road from here to eternity
never seemed so unsteady as it dose today
the deviant moment
was her magical hour
was her moment to shine in the
artificial sun
she had acceptance speechs written
and a dress picked out for her own red carpet stroll
she had studied all the books
and gotta pretty good bead on this whole motherhood thing
gonna name him 'seattle'
its was gonna be her magical moment in
the artificial sun
the deviant moment
was his break from the harsh road
it was his moment to loose himself
and just be
and that nirvana was in her arms
that moment was in beauty of her affections
but the carving in stone don't melt like ice
not freely given
but who can name the price of what its costs to the soul
they can ask but you can never 'plain to em
what the give takes out of you
step to that road be prepared to give up ever lookin back
the deviant moment passed between em
left them both changed
but she never will see it the same as him
shes trapped back there in the one horse mountain town
and hes shining on a sunbaked beach
in the cool cool moonlight
of a southern sun
the deviant moment
leaves us now
with her blanketed in snow
leaves him with regrets like children at your ankles
pulling at your legs ever demanding answers
to questions you never even heard
leaves me with thoughts bout going back to sea
bout sailing till iv lost all memory of this place
and her fondling the hands of time
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
on ruby jacobs walk, a
small girl
asked us for money for ice cream.
she eyed our cones
yours, lemon
mine, strawberry
with a child’s hunger
glinting and opportunistic
as she held out her palm for coins.
i was not yet accustomed to the shapes and sizes,
to a dime being smaller than a nickel,
and in any case wanted to preserve them for souvenirs
so we shook our heads and walked away.
a year later, writing this poem,
i learned that ruby jacobs was a local restauranteur
who, as a boy,
illegally sold ice creams
for a nickel on the boardwalk.
a nickel is the larger coin
the size of a ten pence piece.
i know that now.
the wide atlantic rose from a sloping manicured lawn
star-spangled,
like everything here,
the airborne flag
above a wide pavilion
a fanatic wedding cake topper
against the blood-blue sky.
i slipped
out of my shoes and let
the white sand burn my feet,
and jaggedly fill the spaces between my toes.
the atlantic held open its arms
though we weren’t, as we imagined,
looking east
looking home
but south to new jersey, across the bay.
the gnarled boardwalk was a
song of the twentieth century
a roll-call of mass-market capitalism
here in the city that didn’t invent the concept
but certainly perfected it:
hot dogs
amusements
ice creams (we’ve covered that)
fridge magnets
baseball caps
i bought an espresso cup with a picture of the president
and the caption:
‘huuuuge!’
i stopped to take a photograph
of a space-age building from the fifties
which turned out to be
a public toilet.
later
from the sunbaked d train,
brooklyn spread out beneath us
the houses garnished with flags,
then the city coughed us up on seventh avenue
and night fell five hours early.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 7:51 AM UTC
A cold, dark desert begins
When a faint peach light saunters over the horizon
& climbs the sky,
Leaving darkness to shadows and graves.
The chaffed branches of bushels,
Barely lingering along the threshold of life,
Find solace in crawling growth
As the glow reaches dusty twigs,
Making them as networks of smoker bronchi.
Faded green cacti hold posture sharp,
As totems of harsh-landed culture,
Serving as solemn landmarks
In a flatland of mixed dust and rock,
They stand tall
All for a breath of young desert air.
While quiet hue spreads,
Passing each towering rock & mountain,
Even quivering lizards,
Waiting to be sunbaked,
Change to pink-yellow glow
& scarcely move
As the sun soars above
sizzling rigid scales,
Until the glowing horizon becomes a burning, lit land
Under a radiating Arizona sun.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
I crest the sand dune
breath catching in my chest.
A sigh of relief,
my eyes consume the sight.
The ocean is so blue.
So vast.
So loud, yet
quiet. White noise.
Joy bubbles up into my chest,
onto my smiling lips
and squinting eyes.
My senses buzz with satisfaction.
The smell of sunbaked sand,
of the salty ocean air on my tongue.
The wind is cold and the sun is warm.
The sand, scalding hot on
the surface, but cool once
I bury my feet deeper.
Peoples voices and seagulls calls
are muted by
the waves crashing against the shore.
The weightless blue sky,
The deep blue ocean,
and the soft white sand.
Simple enough, but
I can't look away
and I want to stay.
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 2:30 AM UTC
From your old calloused hand
To the last living strand
Of hair that sprouts feebly
Like black sunbaked seaweed
With earlobes enourmous
And eyeballs a-milky
These wrinkles put dimples
all over your flesh crawling
in mongst the shadows
Of large concrete buildings
And root in the gutter
For edible matter which is
Torn in your hands by
Pain-quaking fingers
And prodded and poked
Into toothless dark places
Where bleeding black gums
Weary of smiling
pound out the mixture
Into acid bile.
I pity the monster
That crawls from your lips
When your life is no longer
And your tongue is for eating
I pity the blackbird
To peck out your eyes
That eyelids unmoving
Cant shield from the dangers
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
My sunbaked hands, that are worn in places, handle the grapefruit moon. Juiceless craters embellish the surface that is smooth to the touch, but ¾ it’s natural size, as it has been prematurely picked from the tree above. Flatlands an Amazonian green, resembling the most courageous leaves that journey to find the purest sunlight, with polka-dot peaks that resemble the tint of dewy summer grass in the shade. There is a hole where once stood a pylon that connected the moon to the universe it knew. The scar’s mark forms a pupil and in it’s orbit I see nothing but the incomparable eye of a chameleon. While it twitches and inspects the world, tiny white rovers scuttle across the glossy hide of their new-found planet and big black bugs invade. Bugs! I drop the moon, as it is infested, and recoil as it hits the ***** concrete floor of what is known and rolls into what is expanding.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
*She shrinks running on the beach
winds reach her hairs dancing free
smaller she grows far out of reach
around her prance the waves wildly.
Her limps all gone, gone is her ache
she’s now again a pristine child
with sandy footprints skin sunbaked
she catches me in her love beguiled.
In the saline wind her coppered face
stoops for treasure of wave washed pearl
in enslaving thrall of love’s wellness
years wind her back a little girl.
Soon she will be back with worn out shells
boast of her finds from the seashore
never knowing in those moments’ windy sails
she unlocked in me a long locked door.*
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
...There is no element, in existence,
equal, to me,
with the force,
and polarity, of you.
Take me...take me, further in.
I will not,
I could not...ever, resist you.
My will, is hammered carbon;
yet, this contract, of the soul...
it is ironclad.
Draw me,
into the tensity,
of your unbroken field.
Does your ghost, hover
like magnetite,
at the northernmost point,
of its own compass needle?
Does your shadow, dwell
in its arrowhead shape?
Does your heart, steel,
its directional pull?
I cannot pass you by,
but to be drawn,
into the divine gravity,
of your embrace.
Sweet...so sweetly,
do you hold fast, to me.
My lips, shudder,
tremulous,
with an irrepressible urge
to glue themselves
to the nectarine sweetness,
of sunbaked flesh.
Take me...take me, further in.
Leech me, of resistance.
Break me, of my defenses.
Shatter this separation,
that pulses fiercely, between us,
and pin me, to the core, of you.
Keep me, always...
yours, alone;
yours forever...
and worlds, may end,
castles, may rubble.
Entire civilizations,
may fall, to ancient ash,
Before these lips,
could ever dream,
of leaving, you.
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 3:35 PM UTC
don’t tell flowers
you love them.
wilting daffodils will cry,
sunbaked tulips turn their gaze,
and beneath the pinkened sky chrysanthemums
hide shame in yellowing beds of weeds.
in the new age your bursting fingers fiddle helplessly with a broken plug.
you’re all swollen tongue and swollen heart and swollen organs in a big bag of bones.
no one has loved you since, and repeatedly in three years of foreign language,
we remind ourselves of our broken mind, broken body, broken roots,
an oak tree that has been standing for too many years and is rotting at its core,
all its rings eaten up by termites.
loathe love, hold onto your bitterness, you’re starbucks hot chocolate.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 4:21 AM UTC
cladding of a miniature kite
flying low
nearly raking treetops
figuring out all the stupid crap apps
vying for attention
flashing waste of unnecessary things
peck.. peck.. at indulge crumbs left
berried stalks on a pavement
deep fried horror slow ingest
impoverished smiles answer sewer cracks
sift through detritus of sea sludge
trickery wishes weeded out by force
probe eyes drill into sunbaked back
from across wrenching chasm scream
tearing of brown paper heard from toothless vagrant
hide a peek into auburnt stuck starfish
stand on violent edge
treble want not nearly seen
rocking wicker chair on solid balcony
light breeze fondles sweated head
curls o'oblivion study of gripping truth
I place within your palm
a miniature__kite
of such extent
its face can be hid forever
within the depths of you
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
It's dust, mostly
the kind that burrows
deep into the creases
of his forehead
and hides inside
the crinkles
around his eyes
It's forever stuck
to the soles of his boots
and never rinses out
of his denims
in the river,
not entirely
And it finds a way
to roll with beads
of sweat in dripping
lines exposing
parchment skin
but somehow never
penetrates the ring
around his head,
preserved forever
by his stetson's brim
And it's also ashes
from chaparral
and tumbleweeds,
lit up in circles
where he camped
leaving a trail
of where he's been,
like breadcrumbs
swept away in a
restless breeze
It's the creaking sound
of leather in his saddle
and the rhythmic
thud of horseshoes
pounding sunbaked ground
It's the wind in his face
that grits his teeth
and squints his
glassy eyes
It's standing in the stirrups
to fly above the racing plain,
keeping balance
with the whipping mane
It's the endless sky,
and the horizon
that never fades
But mostly,
it's the dust
that he holds
in upraised palms
slipping through
his fingers, disappearing
from his touch
in the wild and still
untamed range
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
I saw her there, standing in the shade
of a thicket; birch trees in the failing
Autumn. The long grass caressed her;
the wind stirred her hair. Lovely she, in
the failing Autumn, there, on the cusp of
winter. Lightning; storm on the horizon.
Green eyes lifted to catch the rain, falling,
there in the nearing distance. She breathes
in, out, her eyes fall closed as she tastes the
air; rain and soil, sunbaked in the past heat of
the noontime. Grass, wafting upwards. The
trees stir; the shadows of the leaves flit across
her form, face uplifted to the rising storm. Her
raiment snaps, back and forth; the winds uprising,
howling forerunner of the coming storm. Her hair
streams back, a midnight pennant, running out all
behind her. The roaring of the winds upsurges in its
splendor, its howling crescendo reached at last; The trees
bend, backwards in the gale, graceful in their dying,
leaves torn and scattered, out among the plains, and
across the rippling grasses, soaring in the ecstasy of
the winds. She stands, there, in the moment before the
storm, straight she is, and tall, swaying as the trees wherein
she stands, pale in the twilight. The wind howls in wanton
abandon, wild and glorious; rain strikes the waiting earth,
the grass bends in homage, down before the fury of the torrent
descending.
The lightning cracks in the darkling sky,
the thunder roars in violent time; the storm falls
in the failing Autumn; darkness comes
in the clouds obscurity, ebon in the raging heavens,
and all was lost there, save the wind, and the rain,
and the darkness of the storm.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
I saw her there, standing in the shade
of a thicket; birch trees in the failing
Autumn. The long grass caressed her;
the wind stirred her hair. Lovely she, in
the failing Autumn, there, on the cusp of
winter. Lightning; storm on the horizon.
Green eyes lifted to catch the rain, falling,
there in the nearing distance. She breathes
in, out, her eyes fall closed as she tastes the
air; rain and soil, sunbaked in the past heat of
the noontime. Grass, wafting upwards. The
trees stir; the shadows of the leaves flit across
her form, face uplifted to the rising storm. Her
raiment snaps, back and forth; the winds uprising,
howling forerunner of the coming storm. Her hair
streams back, a midnight pennant, running out all
behind her. The roaring of the winds upsurges in its
splendor, its howling crescendo reached at last; The trees
bend, backwards in the gale, graceful in their dying,
leaves torn and scattered, out among the plains, and
across the rippling woodlands, soaring in the ecstasy of
the winds. She stands, there, in the moment before the
storm, straight she is, and tall, swaying as the trees wherein
she stands, pale in the twilight. The wind howls in wanton
abandon, wild and glorious; rain strikes the waiting earth,
the grass bends in homage, down before the torrent
descending. The lightning cracks in the darkling sky,
the thunder roars in violent time; the storm falls
in the failing Autumn; darkness comes
in the clouds obscurity, ebon in the raging heavens,
and all was lost there, save the wind, and the rain,
and the darkness of the storm.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
distant foothills in the pre-dawn haze
draw my memories back to youthful exuberance
pond fishing under clear sky
creak tromping in the search of the perfect agate
pockets full of jasper and quartz
as if pebbles were treasure
pleasurable day-dream
measure of peace –
wafting peppermint
transports me to a snow covered logging road
schnapps and a trap line
bobcats lured with carcasses tied to trees
scent jar in a vest pocket
and a 22 ruger on the hip
smooth clean strokes
hide on the shoulder
another carcass in a tree rinse and repeat –
long barren abandon railroad
lacking ties
lies
cinder rock sunbaked
sage and Juniper
mule deer and pronghorn
lonely cottontail narrowing avoiding
hungry coyote gaze
sunsets cast purple shadows
orange and pink streaks stretch the horizon
flat backed in green grass
smiling into infinity
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
faded roses on the wallpaper
leaves bent back in an imagined wind
fingerprints of a thunderstorm cling to the wet image
she says it was a lovely thought that gave birth to such beautiful drawings
that any child could see many adventures to be
in such lovely daydreams
a place where the child of her heart could run free
decorated with faded roses
celebrated by teddy bears and tea sets
on long summer afternoons in the beautiful sunshine
while brothers and others chased firefly's
like days of old aeroplanes
dogfighting daredevils in the forever blaze of glory
swashbucklers that save the day and win the girl
ride off into the sunset
tv screen fades to black
faded roses on the wallpaper are all that remain
sunbaked in the passing years
a lovely thought that gave birth to our childhood
a swift dream
faded away
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
I wanted to write
Something perfect.
But,
“Pobody is nerfect.”
Every sunbaked afternoon,
And rainy day,
Every crunch
Beneath my feet
Of salt and snow,
Every deap breath,
On my way
To an hour of safety.
Did I ever tell you
That I liked to
Stare intently at
The fiber art on the wall
Of the third floor waiting room?
There one that looks like a waterfall,
One that looks like eggs,
And one that looks like
An angry speech bubble.
I remember being young,
And not telling you
The whole truth,
Then growing up,
And shifting uncomfortably
In my chair
While being more honest
Than I knew I could be.
You had a white electric tea ***
On your windowsill,
Kept company
By a stack of colorful mugs,
(The orange one was my favorite.)
I recall sipping tea with you
When I had a cold.
Pobody’s nerfect.
Who is “them”?
Feel your feels.
I am a mountain.
I talk a lot,
And I mean a lot...
I’m sure
You already know that.
But I don’t have the words
For years
Of smiling,
Crying,
And bad words,
Growing up,
Smeared makeup,
My first job,
And learning
To love myself.
I hope you have
A tea ***
In your new office,
And your cat clock.
I hope someone else
Gets to grow up
With your help,
And remembers the things
That I remember.
I’m sure many already have.
Thursday’s were for breathing,
Tuesday’s were for closure.
I’m going to live my life
Carrying your words
Tucked behind my ear,
And I’m going to make you proud.
Thank you,
For the high speed
Emotional
Puberty.
-Layna
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 3:36 PM UTC
i walked in the wilderness
i walked alone
there were signs and portents
but they were shallow imperfections on reality's page
they were ink stains afterthought to a great symphony
a dust devil in backwater forever forgotten road
and as i walked i heard it spin past
i saw its track on the cracked pavement
but did not slow my steps
after all i knew not a single face ever born of dusts fire
she came upon me in the wilderness
she stopped me in my walking with a gesture
that was complex in its simplicity
that was rich in its lack of words
she asked me to think upon the need
i asked her with a single tear frozen in time
heated by the hearts sun
she painted a masterpiece there on
the sunbaked road
she used the world as her canvas
she used the color of her words as her paints
and what she showed me
beckoned me further in thought
drew the mind to look upon its on mechanics
and with her hand she made doves in the air
with her hand she made soft trees upon which they could live
i walked once in a wilderness
i once walked alone
in an unseeing way
striding forth to an unseen future
till she had come upon me
and gave my words wings
and gave my mind a key
that turned in the wilderness
and released me
she made me a brown turtle dove
living in a paradise of roses
by the side of a road through a wilderness
that has no beginning
no end
she said no need to walk the road
now that you can fly
gave my mind a key
released me
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Over the past four summers
I merely looked out of the
five bay windows of my
brown brick walled birdcage
to where primordial shadows
meet and dance in the street performing rituals in the
warm, wild & windy midnight
air.
I was only
a lonely observer.
But late one night deep
in the heart of the fifth
summer, I sensed an
odd strength surging
through
my weakened wings--
equally born of physical
and emotional pain and
desperation.
I quietly opened the
door of my cage, glided
down the driveway and
onto the street below,
enticed by warm blustery
and liberating midnight
winds under the strange
glow of moonlight through
translucent
sunbaked
and
cracked
clay
clouds,
no longer just admiring
the view of the dancing
shadows on the asphalt
floor through
windows, but actually
feeling the shadows of
those living branches
and leaves dance with
my shadow and
caressing my
hair
face
arms
legs
mind
and
spirit
as I did a
low test flight with
them for
only about forty feet
over and along the
back street below.
I longed to continue
my solo night flight
like a bird through
the midnight air in
currents of streets
and hundreds of miles
of highway where my
baby and I could head
across the
Sea of Change
and of Destiny
where we could at last
be truly free in our
hearts, in our minds,
and also physically.
But like a well-trained
domesticated bird
I reluctantly returned
to the large cage of my
mind where I continue
to dream of being free--
my
gentle
companion
and
me.
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 9:26 AM UTC
as i sit on the sunbaked bricks
my mind wanders back to what you said.
"you're rude,you haven't changed, nobody likes you, you are insignificant,
you are nothing."
It's not true. It can't be.
If i am nothing, why do i hear the applause of hundreds of crisp leaves in the wind?
are they clapping for me? or am i nothing?
If i am nothing, why do i feel the gentle wind caressing my face?
is it touching me? or am i nothing?
If i am nothing, why do i hear the birds crooning sweet symphonies?
are they singing for me? or am i nothing?
Is the gray cloudy sky crying heavy tears for me?
Or am i nothing?
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
~
Heat mirage on sandy soil
disintegrating cirrus left from the cool night
skittering horn toad flattens to hiss before
leaving the sunbaked earth
for shadowed hollow protections.
Large red-bottomed fire ants
carry back to a simple hole cuttings of magpie
they store foodstuffs for the hard months ahead
while cleaning the land of rotting bodies.
Hollow bones stripped of flesh
begin to bleach and crack
stiff winds pile feldspar and quartz along the western edge
of a bird long free from nest building and chick rearing.
Only a passing coyote gives the magpie body a second thought
before turning west towards dancing foothills. /
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 5:34 PM UTC