Long Sunbaked Poems
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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!
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.
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.
A heron watched me
from painted rushes,
brush-stroked by a man
who lived in a wagon
lacquered with stars
and road-dust and wind,
who sometimes drank too much
and thundered.
They say he wandered for years,
trading canvases for bread,
for gas, for silence—
until his heart gave out
beneath a turquoise sky.
His wagon still sat out back,
faded scallops of red and gold
peeling like secrets
no one quite remembered.
Inside, the air was musty
and warm but cooler
than the desert outside,
as if time itself
had drawn the curtains.
The woman behind the counter
looked up without surprise,
as though she’d been expecting me
for years.
Wearing turquoise rings
on every finger,
she spoke in a voice that cracked
like sunbaked earth.
I found a Camel lighter,
dense plastic, off-yellow,
cool in my palm
like something meant to be forgotten—
but it still worked.
Next to it, a metal vase—
tall, cylindrical,
with etched art deco rings
and a nick near the rim,
perfect to hold my brushes.
The heron stood in a leaning row
of secondhand paintings,
its eye fixed on something
just beyond me.
“Painted by the wagon man,” she said.
“That one never sold—
he kept it by his bed.”
So I bought it too.
That was years ago and I
meant to come back
but never did,
and now the store and wagon
are gone—
but I remember its goofy name:
Xemidoofnac.
The vase still holds my brushes,
stained with work and waiting.
The lighter sleeps in a drawer
with old marbles and foreign coins,
its flame long gone
but still sparking memory.
The heron hangs in the hallway,
eye still fixed on something
I haven’t reached.
And sometimes, when the house is quiet,
I wonder if he knows—
that someone came,
and saw,
and bought a piece
he meant to keep—
in remembrance.
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
Across the sunbaked plains, a hush descends so deep,
A million eyes turn skyward, secrets the heavens keep.
The moon, a silent dancer, steals the sun's golden rays,
And day surrenders softly, to a cosmic ballet.
No human hand conducts, yet a symphony takes flight,
A chorus of clicks and whispers, bathed in the fading light.
Citizen scientists rise, with smartphones held on high,
Capturing the corona's dance, a fleeting glimpse of the sky.
Crowdsourced data streams, a symphony of dreams,
Unraveling solar secrets, in the corona's diadems.
Prominences unfurl, like flames in silent prayer,
A scientific canvas, painted on darkened air.
Millions become one, a web of minds entwined,
United by the wonder, in a knowledge we can find.
From classrooms to rooftops, a shared and curious quest,
Demystifying the heavens is a collective, human test.
Drones, like fireflies, paint the twilight scene,
A mesmerising ballet, where science and art convene.
Light dances and twirls, a digital display,
Mimicking the eclipse, in a technological ballet.
Stories take flight, on social media's wings,
A tapestry woven tight, of the wonder that eclipse brings.
A child's first awe, a scientist's delight,
Shared in an instant, bathed in celestial light.
The sun, a phoenix reborn, reclaims its fiery throne,
But the echo of discovery, forever will be known.
The Great North American Eclipse, a citizen science spree,
A symphony of knowledge, for all the world to see.
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
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
The Erebus Experiment
The Lewis effect......
Oyster flour by the ton
mixed with phosfus and sulfur
and ground iron particles
mixed with acidic oxide
to make a cheap version of natures
"Air-eye-Kore-Reccion Metomorphosisation"
CaCO3Plus Acidic Oxide
The Making of Stone Jam
Rubberey Otters Mold
to make the Sealion Envy
make the dishes squeal
and all crustains sing
clam up lobster guy
the dooral supported fishes
sand in your brittez
all ya'll sunbaked
giant prawned diamonds
24 caret gold
smooth talking woman
pour slurry into
the mold
don't cast bo demons
don't sound up no hell
we're all Gods People
we wish ya'll well
yeah we wish you well
ooh:ooh;ooh!
Gal in the pink Bikini
got dogs all around
towelling off front of many
people
only to lay nack on the ground
Pretty enough to get attention
sexy enough to be lefted alone
smart enough to see tommorrow
tell the guy to leave her alone
she said she was thirsty
ten fools bought
her drinks
three more got her a sandwich
thats how her freinds get there food and drink
but it's alright
we all having fun here
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