Short Sunbaked Poems

lubed flesh marinates
ocean spray greases white flesh
sunbaked bodies steam...

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Listen to poem:

Progress of Pilgrims
David J Walker

Poverties refugees 
In portions of wealth 
for the making
Sunbaked promises 
	Cotton spun gold
Such are the 
stories told 
For the taking 

In the slim shadows of
Mills that turn wind 
into water 
soil into fodder for
		cattle

forgotten graves 
mark the progress of
Pilgrims on a
Caliche highway to heaven...

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It was there 
        within a crack
of a sunbaked  sidewalk
--a beaten trampled upon path
that i placed my brittle soul
within a gritty soiled ground.

Passerby, your foot so close
to the fractured light --
i see your sole but lost my own

soul.

Is the reason why i choose 
that the thumb of rule is to be
that i watch the walkers 
           -->leaving me.

:: 1-13-2016 ::...

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Sunbaked brick, a rosy hue,
Straw roof, a tangled, golden nest,
Big blue blanket, sky so high.

Two dark shapes, a silent pause,
Shadows stretch on dusty ground,
Blooms like scattered bits of joy.

Gray mill wheel, worn and old,
Stream whispers, a silver line,
Mountains far, a sleepy haze.

Swirls of paint, a joyful fight,
Van Gogh's heart, a burning flame,
Picture sings a world is reborn....

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The lion speaks toThe sunbaked wry windsToast the savanaWildebeest trampleUrging with bellows
Mousebirds, DrongosSweltering wingsNervously sitIn Baobabs
SnickeringHyenaJesting to
Laughter’sUproar
Wild...

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Out of the wind,
the brown carpet is marked
prosaic like petals swept away
My snowdrops weltering in the winter 
not even dead heading
can help their blind eye stalks 

I feel like a pebble
roughened at the edges
and Im gifting no one
Mother nature has unearthed me
My eyes remain shut
I finger past the muddy morass
I feel blazed over
from the cityscape of lingering dreams

Not even the recurring home
joyous and warm
feels my pockets
I am a sunbaked bun...

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Stalks crackle,
cars thread the slow-burn.
Straw, insect legs and fumes
get into the lungs of trucks,
make them talk backwards
like the devil on Sundays.

Bygone and by-passed farmers
leave their tractors,
run across the highway
into abandoned barns.

Eventually the fire eats itself -
hay wisps
float away into forgetfulness.

No one burns corn stubble now,
but the smoke can be seen
moving beneath the sunbaked sod
where ghosts still sullenly
fork-over long-blackened reeks....

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