August Poetry Compilation
The Sunstroke Monthly Poetry Compilation is a collection of poetry submitted by Sunstroke readers and staff members. Take a seat, light a candle, grab a cup of tea, and dive into the intricate words of our community.
For The Love of God I Want to Write a Western
For the love of God I want to write a Western --
be a Real Life New York Louis L'Amour --
I want to listen to The Chain and spin my head around backwards
and color the brush trail in deep greens and blues.
I want to spend the rest of my life at the Magdalena rest stop
down the I-25 south to Tijuana
just a ramshackle outhouse on the side of the highway
barely big enough for a toilet
but, I think, big enough for me.
I want my howl to be indistinguishable
amongst the coyotes'.
I have always seen myself as a star-crossed desert dog,
with freckles.
For the love of God I want to get a sunburn and not care --
I want the spurs of my boots to clank with every step --
I want to have polished their leather myself.
I want the desert to wash over me like it does Trevallion --
I want to see the oasis in the distance,
the that which is not there,
and I want to clamber toward it,
reaching across the dunes towards the Land of Nod,
stumbling into the mirage, devastated,
in awe of spending my last living moments
amongst the unkempt mountains,
the brown recluses,
the godforsaken tumbleweeds.
Sent from my iPhone
Easy as water
By Rylee Amick
“Well then we are back where we were”
Are
Suddenly:
My eyelids stutter over peculiar
melancholy
Cries
Of the unheard
lived
Distant and austere
cries
Over forgotten lands
steps in footprints
Muddied and strange
flooded Longing
leaks tears,
the presence
Of an old friend;
absence,
Startles
as it occupies a new/old body
Being
Yet -
time doesn’t tear;
release tattered freshness,
minds heavenly hell
so here’s where thoughts swim:
they learn to taste
once more
wants so fresh
Lips sting,
burning the flesh
falls to earth
rising-
and the fingers meet
touch
and the lighting
fire
That never was put out;
that never was begun here,
Comes again
returning
You once said our time has begun.
what you failed to see,
Is beginning again-
as eyes to look
swiftly stole breath
‘Breathe’
you say
as though it’s easy
Easy as water
Looking-Glass Love
You tear through my calloused heart
graciously
pushing through the wreckage
to strike a match for this old, withered wick.
The light inside of me
was gone for so long
I began to feel at one with the shadows.
Your eyes take the shape of your spirit,
sparkling like golden rays reflecting off a morning balcony,
warming, soothing, like the first cup of tea we shared in November
where I began to realize the nature of Love is a transcendent, all-encompassing
cosmic pull
towards the man sitting across from me
with the two of pentacles in his hand.
The light inside of me was gone for so long
but now you tend to the flame.
Forgive me if I look to you
to see my shadows illuminated in the dark.
You are the sun shining brilliantly onto my lifeless celestial body
and when you look at me I hope you see
your own light
reflected back to you.
Man of magic and mystery,
find me by the midnight clouds
where the moonlight meets the sea.
Let us float away into the ether
until our bodies become the cosmic dust
from which we were created.
By Jailli
Altered
Personhood
i understand my fragments now.
back to my beginning, i go.
losing rings in leaf piles,
tracing my bubble-lettered name on freshly painted walls,
digging holes under reality’s fence(s).
again and again and again
i pretend the stars are blue and violet,
their light a secret code for a single agent (me),
and i will unfold their secrets in entirety.
shreds of my history are old bags stuck in brambles.
please come back to me,
to myself.
now the rock in my backyard is a hole to hades.
on halloween i will dig and dig and venture to the depths of my demise,
back before midnight.
water begins tasting stale,
another cardboard box plagues the stained floor,
dust fills bottles with sailboats and i explore the glass rim of their little earth.
these are slices of my historical quotidian,
these memories are only mine.
they burrow in my veins and…
i am pinned to the mist of my personhood.
Waves
Cold Atlantic, the same thing
said in many different ways:
you are a miracle.
The sea in summertime, lost by the waves,
severe thunderstorms headed our way
and welcomed by the crowd.
Lowering body temperatures and expectations,
blue skies turn grey and the
Earth turns. A day at the beach. An
afternoon rescinded by the glorious storm.
Thunder and lightning. Wind (so much
magnificent wind). Heavens give a gentle
warning, sand thrown onto sidewalk,
horizon harboring clouds and controlled
chaos, patience visible in the slow retreat
from the shoreline. The ocean moves
rhythmically, still rocking and rolling
as the rain begins to fall. A calm before,
a promising after. Amusement on
the faces of surfers, swimmers, skaters,
and children. Good times at June’s conclusion,
smiles and laughter flooding the streets,
happy people gathering in droves
to watch the scene unfold.
Summer Rain
Warm summer rain
Is like longing,
Waiting too long for something
And losing your excitement.
Warm summer rain
Is like finding an old love letter
In a dust-covered box
In the back of your closet.
There is a sweetness
But a staleness.
Remembering part of yourself
Yet feeling an emptiness.
Warm summer rain
Seems like something is missing.
A coolness,
A darkness,
Or a sadness.
I wish some things had a bottom
I’m staring down the bottom of this
glass pool, holding my lungs in my hand.
it feels the same: touchless, tiptoeing. a tepid breath,
adjacent to the warm buzz in my skin. if you let it,
this is life when it’s tactile. this is when you
wake up with mortality on your mind
drink up
fall on your feet
bless you
at some point, the beach gives way and
I’ll admit to sinking, I don’t think I’ll fight that.
the ocean exerts its clarity at the continental drop
I don’t think I’ll mind being told this is all there is
riptide pulls me under
riptide drag me to the
volcanic vents
where life should be abundant
the bottom isn’t so bad. here, love stays
in the guts of shrimp, in lantern fish
and marine snow
how far do I have left to go?
when they say it’s 300m deep, when
you found that jaeger-wreck, I’ve always thought
I could run that distance, all the way down.
I think I assumed someday I’ll get there
on my own time, knowing my endpoint /
vertical horizon, even if the ocean floor
ends up hungry and barren.
Sunday
By Anya Wiggins
Smells like the sweet stale aroma that lingers at the bottom of last night’s wine glass
The unrelenting passage of time bears down on the spirit with the crushing urgency of an airborne anvil
Treading and sinking through the waste-high viscous molasses of the last fleeting hours until the return to commodification, a reverse Pinnochio transformation as we flash from animus to object on the precipice of the cliffs over our chronological cage, cascading downward into oblivion.
One can only hope that during our descent through the temporal ephemera we snag on a feeling that can suspend our being in amber and immortalize an emotion; a frozen freefall through time and space crystallized within a moment.