Short Sunbaked Poems
Short Sunbaked Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Sunbaked by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Sunbaked by length and keyword.
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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
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 ::
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.
Summer smashes into Spring with violent heat that leaves the air in a hazy daze. All of the tender, green rain-draped brilliance of young foliage giving way to the drab, sunbaked drowsy green that swelters and gasps for rain all through Earth's yearly simmering. Boiling and drying in invisible and malicious rays, all green tends to brown and lush tends to shrivelled. And so shall oppressive the weight of this season be. Yet, Autumn comes.
The lion speaks toThe sunbaked wry windsToast the savanaWildebeest trampleUrging with bellows
Mousebirds, DrongosSweltering wingsNervously sitIn Baobabs
SnickeringHyenaJesting to
Laughter’sUproar
Wild
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
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.