Best Sunbaked Poems
A sunbaked pile of dead sticks in the ground
I’m a divine oversight, it would seem
Hundreds of long spines poke out all around
Yet inside resides a colorful dream
I’m a divine oversight, it would seem
Look past my thorns, though they do seem countless
Yet inside resides a colorful dream
Deep down, I’m hiding a beauty boundless
Look past my thorns, though they do seem countless
Moisture kisses my roots in the springtime
Deep down, I’m hiding a beauty boundless
To this kindness, sprout tiny leaves sublime
Moisture kisses my roots in the springtime
Chlorophyll captures hard radiation
To this kindness, sprout tiny leaves sublime
Transmutes into my dream’s pigmentation
Chlorophyll captures hard radiation
My plumage explodes forth with colors bright
Transmutes into my dream’s pigmentation
In proud defiance of sun's bleaching light
My plumage explodes forth with colors bright
I sprout a thousand flames rose tangerine
In proud defiance of sun's bleaching light
Brush bold orange on the baked desert scene
I sprout a thousand flames rose tangerine
Hundreds of long spines poke out all around
Brush bold orange on the baked desert scene
A sunbaked pile of dead sticks in the ground
3/27/16
For contest: A Pantoum, A Poet's Choice
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Beneath a perpetual sky
Longing to perceive nature’s sigh,
In lanes of sparkling morning dew
Before ‘Draughton village’ we view.
Thunder lightning hoarfrost and hail
Sunbaked days when coasting the dale,
‘Bolton Abbey’ stone throw from home
Muscles taut, like a garden gnome.
West wind howling hard to face
When 'Crindles Hill’ did slow the pace,
Delightful scene when on the crest
Downward cruise gratifying rest.
This green bike bought from ‘Uncle Cliff’
Dreams fulfilled with chain driven diff,
Simple, yet it was nature’s plan
This childhood journey that began!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
SENSITIVITY
They’re all ignored by us, but they have feelings too :
A black gravestone in New York, down in the world,
Recalling its halcyon days as a part of
The impressive strata at Palisades Park.
The statue in the museum of Androcles and the Lion
Daydreaming - oh, for the good old days just lying sunbaked
On the beach surrounded by
Fossil shells and shrimp at Sables d’ Olonne,
With the feet of the famous resting gently on you.
And the marble fireplace in our living room -
He can still see in his mind’s eye
The Carrara quarries in bygone days…..
Why, some of his great-grand-daddies were
Hacked out of there and taken to Rome for the Via Appia.
Oh yes, stones have feelings too.
My carved ship-of-the-line from Nelson’s navy
With her masts and spars and decks and cabins
Lies awake at night thinking of her days
In the pine forests of Norway; and next to her
This old cedar jewellery box, with intoxicating
Smells of the coast at Prince Rupert
Where she lay on the beach for weeks
Before the saw mill changed her shape and sent her to me.
The new sapele door in our hall spends hours
Wishing for his buddies in the jungles of Uganda
Where the ants would tickle you
Half to death with their constant scurrying
Up and down your branches, building this or that.
Listen closely and he’ll boast that some
of his relatives ended their days as propellers
on German zeppelins, I kid you not.
Everyone has to feel special.
And what about those unassuming steel forks in my drawer
who can still tell stories
Of their days as iron ore in Finland,
And how their brother Ernie became
A bumper on the President’s limo (supposedly).
Or my wife’s copper bracelets with their pathetic tales
Of being shipped from Cyprus
and remelted into ingots in Bimingham.
I have overheard the wings of a 747
Recollecting in the hangars at night
How their existence as bauxite in Jamaica was so idyllic,
“Wit all dat reggae and smokin’ and god knows what, man.”
They too have their memories.
And, man, de smell in dat hangar!
Miles of broken, sunbaked seashells,
resembling pieces of porcelain of lesser value,
lying across a populous beach subdued by misty blue,
as hungry sea-gulls pounce the fiddler's crabs..
The beach entertainer draws huge crowds;
singing funny songs and making comic skits
by spicing up his unique modus operandi,
and modestly mocking his modus vivendi...
He has never made lots of money,
but settles for dollar bills to earn their sympathy;
dressed in tight and colorful ministrel's attire,
he amuses the public with his monkey-shine...
And he pulls out his fiddler and the crowds go wild,
awakening, by its high-pitched sound, a dope fiend,
who has built a temporary shack threatened by the blowing sand;
He puts on his sunglasses and disappears in the groovy sunshine...
The beach entertainer follows him, leaving everyone behind
saying," Sorry, brother...I didn't mean to wake you up, the bum turns around taking off his lenses.
and exclaims, " Music doesn't fill an empty and aching belly...and cheer up a feeble mind! "
" Here's all I got...take it and get something to eat!" He says stretching his hands.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
submitted into "Premier VII Open Poetry Contest," Rob Carmack, Sponsor
ARRIVING AT EL PASO © Sara Etgen-Baker 2025
Some 20+ years ago, hubby and I took up roots, moving across the entire state of Texas for the hope of a better future. This poem attempts to capture my initial thoughts upon our arrival. (Yes, our future was better.)
The road, a ribbon of asphalt, unfurls beneath my tires,
each mile a memory, each turn a question—
what does it mean to arrive?
The sun dips low, casting long shadows over the desert,
here the horizon bleeds into the sky—
a canvas of ochre and rose.
The Franklin mountains rise like sentinels.
I wonder what pilgrims have crossed these rugged trails,
what hearts have beat against the same blazing sun.
The air is thick with dust and promise,
the scent of sunbaked earth
mingling with the faintest trace of rain.
Dust dances in the twilight,
and I am caught in the rhythm of it all,
the pulse of this border town.
El Paso, where the Rio Grande river flows,
a silver ribbon dividing yet uniting
two cultures, two languages, two countries.
I stand here in the embrace of El Paso,
feeling the weight of possibility and
the quiet promise of tomorrow.
Twilight descends, stars emerge~
tiny pinpricks of light
against the deepening blue.
I am a traveler in a world,
one that feels both foreign
and achingly familiar.
The weight of arrival settles on my shoulders—
not just a place, but a moment,
a step into the warmth of a new beginning.
Alas, I am a sojourner, a seeker of stories
finding my way in this city of
bridges, border crossings, and arrivals.
DESERTSCAPE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
along the border, Franklin Mountains loom
near sunbaked Chihuahuan Desert
majestic, serene
cacti arms raised
in silent supplication
to sky-bleached bone white.
wind whispers through ocotillo spines,
speaks of resilience,
of life clinging to the edge of forever.
a hawk circles against vast canvas,
observing the stillness,
drawn to the deceptive quiet
serenity blooms, a fragile flower
nourished by solitude,
a reflection of the soul's own thirst.
WATERFALLS, RIVERS AND DROUGHT
The frenzied forces of cold, icy streams
detonate explosively on the rocks below.
Their rapid currents wreak havoc
on logjams caught in crevasses beneath
the mist and rainbowed spray.
We blink in awe to see this
spectacular remonstration
of pretentious power abruptly
become whirling vortexes
of descending splash downs.
But then, almost as quickly, this despoiler settles
and begins to accumulate in multitudes
of rippling bubbles and froth
immediately bleeding onto the embankment
promptly losing much of its potential goodness
swooshed as sucking sounds
into the wild soils of the firmament.
What survives roams free and for awhile
flows in any direction, with no beginning, no end
as the river turns into riverlets
Eddying on without any selected steering.
The rains that used to drip down from the mountain top
cry to see the diversions of the most glorious river
dissipate and dry up knowing that the drought
which has appeared can not adequately supply
sustenance to a parched soil.
For that sunbaked soil to be reclaimed
the river must continue to extend its reach
and water the seeds of new growth.
and use its silt to fertilize the new life
that waits anticipating its turn
in creation's timetable.
CAK 6-04-2012 Revised 6-18-2013
Miasma Ripening
by Odin Roark
The chaff of greed
Feeds the consumer-compost,
While urban disquietude
Marches in lockstep.
Decomposition rages…
Choked roads of sunbaked gridlock,
Spider web into house upon house,
Creating cubic-waste upon cubic-waste,
Richer,
Poorer,
Fancier,
Shittier.
Drive by Reality…
Poor eye the rich,
Rich eye endless wants,
Avarice-bloated ticks of debt
Cruise side by side,
Beamers in the middle lanes,
Teslas in the fast lanes,
Phony nails,
Phony tans,
Corporate coffee,
Frilly coffee,
Strip mall yoga,
Storefront Scientology,
Think it…
You can buy it.
“Parade” the operative word…
As flesh and blood window-mannequins
Masquerading as humans,
Bedeck themselves in ugly clothes,
Garish clothes,
Supplied by the ever-surging China.
Just as toxic denial continues,
So too the enslavement’s rising stench,
Its ripening enticement lingering,
Its seductive aftertaste addictive,
Oh, so addictive.
It happened on one autumn morn
The bright sun raked the sky
The two men stood and faced each other
One of which must die
The wind blew down the dusty lane
This bright an sunny morn
Along a quiet winding creek
A gunfighter would be born
The breeze then sent a puff of dust
A spiral in the sky
And to this day at Cripple Creek
Not a single soul knows why
They wandered into town one day
Nobody knew their names
Their low slung guns around their hips
Was their only claim to fame
The sun now hot this autumn morn
The setting not unique
Two men with guns about to draw
The duel at Cripple Creek
The breeze then rattled the sunbaked corn
Its' leaves a dusty brown
In a little patch near the gurgling stream
Not far from the edge of town
The crowd grew tense this sunny day
No words were even said
They waited for the telling shot
To see who would be dead
They faced each other
Twenty feet apart
One would be wounded, the other dead
With a bullet through his heart
The simultaneous blasts of the guns
Frightened a bird from yonder tree
As one man grabbed his chest and fell
The other took a knee
I knew I could out gun that guy
The wounded shootist said
As he looked down upon his prey
Lying at his feet quite dead
I really was the fastest
The living shootist said
He hit me good, look at the blood
As he also fell down dead
The crowd now hushed just turned away
With a memory they would keep
Two senseless deaths had just occurred
On the banks of Cripple Creek
Finally its October
The harmattan is coming
I can perceive it
Now the African autumn has arrived
The harvest is drawn nigh
The next morn
You see the trees adorned
With blending hues of orange and brown,
A carpet of brown leaves you see
Lying on the dry, sunbaked earth
Ready to render their orchestral piece
As you tread on them
And dance for joy to the rhythmical crackle
Of nature's music
The African autumn has arrived
On the 31st
October will stealthily leave us,
But presents he will leave us
Not under the old Christmas tree
But on the trees
Presents of differing sizes, tastes and colours
October has left us
If only we are clever
To seek the best of these present
This is an African autumn.
5-01-2014.
Warm air dances in the prairie
In a hot sunny day
Arid smell comes across the barbed wire
To harm my mind
Relaxing under the evergreen
Viewing the heat of the summer scene.
A rice farmer with sunbaked skin,
His old sandals secure the feet
From the drought land.
He looks up to the bright sky
And down the waterless canals
The shallow of the Mekong River
Mother Nature or the face of Destiny
Deal with the fruitless harvest
Have to beg to feed the family
Like in a few recent years.
Warm air dances in the prairie
Blurs the farmer’s shape
Then he disappears in the air
I grasp and uproot the dry grass
The nostalgic dream has just passed.
lubed flesh marinates
ocean spray greases white flesh
sunbaked bodies steam
The Braille of Cobblestone
Keeper of darkness,
of auras reaped from high seas,
vast is your harvest
of earth rumblings beset by molten tears
to charred obsidian made hard glass.
Such reflects primate-memory
once clamored upon by man and beast running,
dodging blade and spear
as wash water dumped from windows high
added slippery footing for predators ever lustful,
ever hungry,
ever historic.
At the high noon of one’s life,
we wonder among your melodies
amidst recent fabrications lining your path.
you the wrinkled skin of ancient masons
serve sunbaked feasts
from the past of pasts.
Your micro-canyons of irrigated seed and drift
send spirits aloft from grasses high,
reminding us that while calendars may crumble,
your stone of old remains young,
transcending the language of vowel and consonant,
acknowledging the touch of phantom eye to eye,
even whispered touches beneath a Nike sole
speaking the tongues of old,
echoing the murmurs of felled travelers,
the severed limbs of warriors,
the rivers of passion red,
polishing fossils within.
Still…
Others would fake Nature's setting,
even make ready counterfeit copies
to pacify the blind living without preference.
Such serpentine monsters of ignorance
whose Gucci laced feet now prance upon your offspring
sold into bondage, interspersed among the fakery
having not a clue of the Carthaginians
or Mediterranean isles of oar-navigated ports.
For like Rodeo Drive's cobblestone plazas,
where modern slavery prisons of today
masquerade as knockoffs once authentic for tomorrow,
your history is reaching fade out,
sans your hidden messages,
your quiet cacophony of silence
made orchestral for those who can hear,
those who dare see through the darkness,
those who can be moved and touched by
the brail of cobblestone.
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
Sunbaked to crisp this rag your hand enriched,
Hangs on a wire exposing tattered thread,
Rung-out depleted by tomorrows switched,
Lifeless without you, left, now lonesome bled.
Days wiped as months turned years following fast,
All while my focus rusts once where we were,
A rite of damnation pirouettes past,
Encircling sorrow’s waist with dizzy blur.
Spun as a ragdoll shook in infancy,
Watching my purpose, or the lack thereof,
Unable to cry so wide-eyed to see,
Shadows forgotten plunged searching your love.
Were you an empress I’d be worn a crown,
Longing for tears so my sadness could drown.
10/23/2016
Submitted for: Words Drowned in Tears Poetry