12-07-2015, 03:38 AM
Version 4
[I am surprised at how stubborn I am on this. this is attempt #3 to type this in, I hit the wrong button twice and it disappeared. Anyway, thanks for patience on number of revisions and how long it's taken.
In mid drought the dark parking lot
extends starkly from the boy and heats
his face, the sun on his head.
His neck bent, brow on forearm, he pokes
listlessly
at the dried stick
of a dead worm
cooked by sunrise.
The direct sun yields no shadow,
and there is no wind to move the
toasted pine needles.
His sandy sweat sits on him with
no where to go.
Bree of cicadas at the edge of his hearing
draws him over, through a copse of trees.
Here a hidden spring boils up pure white sand
suspended in clear lens water.
The water streams past,
as it defines the relief
of its shoulders well.
Cold water sheathes his skin as he reaches in.
A sudden wet wind turns leaves over,
beckoning the rain. And it rains
it rains, it rains.
Puddles form then rivulet into the stream and it rains
harder, faster, so hard
He thinks he can swim through it.
Up he swims, through the rain
over the trees
past it all.
[v3: it's changed so much not really sure where it's going]
The silent air rises off black pavement heated
by an afternoon sun that yields no shadow.
The parking lot extends starkly beyond
the feet of a sad boy who sits, neck bent.
Drops of sweat that fail against the heat fall
near the brown hollow stick
of a worm glued by its dried mucous.
Rare winds slide a little sand and toasted
pine needles in the cracked empty paved lot.
Bright sun lights everything to an afterimage of itself,
overexposed and bleached.
He knows he has lost or forgot
some innate essential piece of his being.
As his face lifts, sounds cease, the wind dies
Nothing happens.
[version 1]
The bright black pavement bakes back silent heat,
Pulling reluctant drops of sweat
Which drip impotently down,
Drying and leaving its salt on the ground.
The sun has left dried pathos --
The remains of a worm, now a hollow brown
Stick between paving stones; glued
To the pavement by its desiccated mucous.
Rare, humid winds sometimes move toasted
Pine needles in the sandy lot, the roasting
Heat only stirred. Everything
Is an afterimage of itself, radiantly shining.
Nothing happens. The motel fronts heavily
Curtained windows, colored in burnt umber
With oranges. The window unit wearily
Labors in the darkened musty room.
A low low buzz, more sensed illusion than real
Leads around the corner, and in the brush is revealed
The cicadas singing their coarse sibilant song
Defiantly hopeful, gathering around the hidden pond.
The light blue of the spring strikes you first,
A shimmering clear decal stuck here against
Expectations; negating the starke thirst
of the sand. Plants, trees hide along the banks.
Although just a small boil, its shoulders
Define the relief of its banks well. Sand
Dances in the water so much colder
Than expected, tickling your hand.
There is a depth here you can just barely sense,
But cannot see or measure.
It comes upward while it connects
To and from the greater whole.
[version 2]
[Okay, here is revision #2. I plan to add back the spring at the end eventually]
The air is still, silent, rising,
heated by the afternoon sun directed
so it yields no shadow. The parking
lot extends starkly beyond
A sad boy who sits, neck bent, drops of sweat
impotent against the heat
fall near the dead dried hollow stick
of a worm stuck by its dessicated mucous.
Rare wind slides sand and toasted
pine needles in the empty black paved lot;
bright sun lights everything to an afterimage of itself,
bleached yet glowing.
He knows he has forever lost or forgotten
some innate essential piece of being.
Sounds ceases, wind dies
Nothing happens.
[I am surprised at how stubborn I am on this. this is attempt #3 to type this in, I hit the wrong button twice and it disappeared. Anyway, thanks for patience on number of revisions and how long it's taken.
In mid drought the dark parking lot
extends starkly from the boy and heats
his face, the sun on his head.
His neck bent, brow on forearm, he pokes
listlessly
at the dried stick
of a dead worm
cooked by sunrise.
The direct sun yields no shadow,
and there is no wind to move the
toasted pine needles.
His sandy sweat sits on him with
no where to go.
Bree of cicadas at the edge of his hearing
draws him over, through a copse of trees.
Here a hidden spring boils up pure white sand
suspended in clear lens water.
The water streams past,
as it defines the relief
of its shoulders well.
Cold water sheathes his skin as he reaches in.
A sudden wet wind turns leaves over,
beckoning the rain. And it rains
it rains, it rains.
Puddles form then rivulet into the stream and it rains
harder, faster, so hard
He thinks he can swim through it.
Up he swims, through the rain
over the trees
past it all.
[v3: it's changed so much not really sure where it's going]
The silent air rises off black pavement heated
by an afternoon sun that yields no shadow.
The parking lot extends starkly beyond
the feet of a sad boy who sits, neck bent.
Drops of sweat that fail against the heat fall
near the brown hollow stick
of a worm glued by its dried mucous.
Rare winds slide a little sand and toasted
pine needles in the cracked empty paved lot.
Bright sun lights everything to an afterimage of itself,
overexposed and bleached.
He knows he has lost or forgot
some innate essential piece of his being.
As his face lifts, sounds cease, the wind dies
Nothing happens.
[version 1]
The bright black pavement bakes back silent heat,
Pulling reluctant drops of sweat
Which drip impotently down,
Drying and leaving its salt on the ground.
The sun has left dried pathos --
The remains of a worm, now a hollow brown
Stick between paving stones; glued
To the pavement by its desiccated mucous.
Rare, humid winds sometimes move toasted
Pine needles in the sandy lot, the roasting
Heat only stirred. Everything
Is an afterimage of itself, radiantly shining.
Nothing happens. The motel fronts heavily
Curtained windows, colored in burnt umber
With oranges. The window unit wearily
Labors in the darkened musty room.
A low low buzz, more sensed illusion than real
Leads around the corner, and in the brush is revealed
The cicadas singing their coarse sibilant song
Defiantly hopeful, gathering around the hidden pond.
The light blue of the spring strikes you first,
A shimmering clear decal stuck here against
Expectations; negating the starke thirst
of the sand. Plants, trees hide along the banks.
Although just a small boil, its shoulders
Define the relief of its banks well. Sand
Dances in the water so much colder
Than expected, tickling your hand.
There is a depth here you can just barely sense,
But cannot see or measure.
It comes upward while it connects
To and from the greater whole.
[version 2]
[Okay, here is revision #2. I plan to add back the spring at the end eventually]
The air is still, silent, rising,
heated by the afternoon sun directed
so it yields no shadow. The parking
lot extends starkly beyond
A sad boy who sits, neck bent, drops of sweat
impotent against the heat
fall near the dead dried hollow stick
of a worm stuck by its dessicated mucous.
Rare wind slides sand and toasted
pine needles in the empty black paved lot;
bright sun lights everything to an afterimage of itself,
bleached yet glowing.
He knows he has forever lost or forgotten
some innate essential piece of being.
Sounds ceases, wind dies
Nothing happens.