The morning sighs
with hoarse, guttural caws.
Crows twirl and cartwheel backwards,
like charred scraps of newspaper
caught in wild feral, wind eddies
above a raging bush fire.
Goosestepping gulls
enforce their feeding-ground territories
with threats and violent gestures
their beaks snapping shut
like rust-corroded, iron gates.
Looping caterpillars
form a Congo line
across the blistered bark of trees
while ants drag dismembered wings
along cracks in the pavement.
A magpie bludgeons
a snail against the stones
until the shell gives way
its pale body spilling outwards;
a molluscan sacrifice
that satisfies the hunger pangs
of a black-and-white starving bird.
Worms writhe blindly,
torn asunder
on the hot sunbaked soil
attacked by hordes of bull-ants
lake tiny matadors in torero corrida,
sparing with capes and lances
as they torment the helpless,
doomed, and dumb, succumbed prey.
The morning sun rises,
guilty as charged!
without pity or cause,
without mercy or motive,
to silent, stark applause,
as nature pleads for survival.
Tumbleweeds traverse silent plains,
Their journey shaped by wind and longing,
Unbound by roots, always moving,
They carry the stories of deserts,
A dance of freedom across sunbaked earth,
Each turn a testament to resilience,
No home, yet everywhere belongs to them,
They rise, tumble, and embrace uncertainty,
Strength found in the motion of winds,
Nature’s wanderers, never defeated,
They teach us to let go and trust the journey,
To find beauty in unfamiliar places,
To discover ourselves within the vast unknown,
And celebrate the courage to keep rolling forward.
Flowing in a summer breeze
Long feral scarf out a convertible mustang
Wildly free across sunbaked sky
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2026
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.
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.
Speak…!!!! And God will honor your faith and make every good thing…so! Amen and Pressing-on!
There is…a spring
that runs through our desert
it tends our aridity…
arrests…our drought.
There is…a spring
that waters our dry frames
and alleviates…our brittleness…
quenches…our parch.
Without it...
we would curl-up and crack
like sunbaked, dry bones...
that have no more marrow.
The name of this spring…?
Love.
The source of this spring…?
God.
EZEK 37:1-14
jmsbell-6/29/2024
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.
Follow the red dirt road.
Take it slow, walk it,
this is not an exploration
nor a pilgrimage,
it is a short tour around
the beginning of an idea
and its end.
Move along
past the few rural homesteads,
pass beyond the shacks
and the weather-beaten
tumbledown cabins,
the double and single wide
not so mobile homes
with their rusting trucks.
Hurry past the gypsy encampments.
with their gangs of wild dogs
until that dirt road ends
in a dry long uncultivated field.
This is where the dust
covers the old road maker
and beside his sunbaked bones
see how his maps and plans
are rolled up tight
never to be unrolled again.
Crux is a craggy, seasoned, sunbaked fisherman from Missouri.
Never one to speed up a story, and never in any kind of hurry.
He has no grandchildren of his own, but likes my daughter Grace.
Grace is three, and loves to run her hands over bristly whiskers on his face.
I never saw this side of him before, my mother said to me, but I had.
Don’t you remember when he used to come and visit with my Dad?
They would stay up all night laughing about wild tales of the sea.
And who was feeling his bristly whiskers? That little lad was me.
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
Farmland
David J Walker
I am
The dreamland
Of the farm
The zauberhaft/magic-craft
Found in the brown dirt
Beneath the feats
of farmers
I am
The farmhand of
The sacred farmland
Often found
Ground into dust and
Blown by the wind
Into the next county
I am the dirt ground into grime
and found
beneath the fingernails
of farmers
having coffee
in town
at the corner
coffee shop
eating eggs and
smoking unfiltered cigarettes
I am the pungent perfume
Of turned earth
Wetted with moisture of
Morning dew
The balm that soothes and heals
the sunbaked brown skin of the earth
I am packed caleche printed in
Tire track dirt road ruts
That leads farm families from
Rural isolation to
Civilization
Covered in asphalt & concrete
I am the mound
Covering the graves
Of long-gone farmers
That Jesus saves
For Himself
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
Sometimes when life falls apart at the seams
Just sit by yourself and begin to daydream
Think back, if you can, to pleasurable times
Chill for a while and rest the mind
Daydream about life and the people you love
Gaze at cotton clouds and blue skies above
Think back to your youth when times were good
Return in time, if only you could
Sit by a tree with wheat straw in hand
Enjoy Mother Nature's beautiful land
Fresh air and the smell of flowers
Sunbaked land and misty rain showers
Forget your troubles while you can
Enjoy your surroundings and colorful land
A beautiful day can clear the mind
Of past problems and reckless times
It's a sunfilled day, time to relax
Settle in on an upbeat track
Nothing dark or grey appears in view
How you proceed depends on you
So when this poem ends in a while
I hope the words create a smile
Take this at heart as you go on your way
You decide what happens today
William L Pickard
2022.
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.
The lion speaks toThe sunbaked wry windsToast the savanaWildebeest trampleUrging with bellows
Mousebirds, DrongosSweltering wingsNervously sitIn Baobabs
SnickeringHyenaJesting to
Laughter’sUproar
Wild
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.