It’s the warmth
seeping into my palms,
lifeblood of some ancient jungle god
drums take over as my heart fails
parrots squawk in the canopy.
That’s not my first sign,
though, on frosty mornings
windows etched with star-code
before the fire leaps behind the cold grate,
though it might be my favorite.

Or, the acerbic heat,
the nectar of Narcos
flowing thickly down my throat,
reaching beyond the tips of me
blazing aura, driving
too fast through the night
headlights off just to see if we can
fit eleventeen clowns
in this tiny space, maybe not.

Perhaps it’s ships sailing
new world to old and older
bringing precious cargo
of new-found spice
and old-school gold;
groggy mates try the
Indian trick,
chewing coca leaves
on starless night watches,
grinding different berries
at the dawn’s mess;
what heady scent,
what a black brew.
Shake out the t’ gallant,
you scurvy dogs, or
I’ll make of you but naught.

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Poetry, photos, musing

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