Richard King Perkins ll Debuts

Orchid Wanderings

When the most stretchingliest fingertips
no longer touch
the hand must fold,
turn inward on itself
finding comfort in cradle familiar.
Leaves of evening flowers
clutch themselves heavily,
lacking the beacon
for which they trellis
their essential beauties.
He stands,
ever so brushing streaks
from a mirror.
She is taken to knees
fingers latticed,
transmitting an impossible dialogue.
A fist hardens
into a divergent channel
of black orchids—


The sulfurous horizon glitters
with lacy fresh scintilla and boney spires.
A timelessness will pass
on mystic blue hooves
before sorrow and ivory perfection
resume circlets of golden languor.
Alicorn to onyx water,
a sleeping ocean is effaced
unchaste purity preserved
for coming sacrifice—
a sallow predilection squandered
in coronets of whitest blood.


To an undersized woodland
of sherbet and pastel, she comes.
Ritual herbs gathered in a pleated apron,
vitalizing her ancient medicines.
With a sachet of time, yarrow and bay,
tea of rosebuds, bath of mimosa—
she releases the energy of the seed,
the maidenhood of life, as one.
The resonance, the unnamable power.
Recreating abandoned pathways,
she maneuvers like a whisper in the jet stream,
soaring through remnants of a much lesser sky.


Like a violent specter
released from its grave,
a sandstorm erupts—
suffocating half our fighters
(who understood the risk)
but laying waste
to the entire robotic horde.
We cruise the dunes
in fumeless vehicles
reveling in victory
well into darkness.
The curfew is lifted,
my possessions returned to me.
All that I require has been kept
in a child’s playbox—
buried by a plastic shovel,
compacted forever beneath
scoops of falling sand.

Wash Away

Where does it hurt
when cardboard walls collapse
in a sodden pile around you,
snuffing the Sterno
soaking a scrounged meal
and your only change of rags?
Where does it hurt
when city rain is the cleanest thing
that’s happened to you
in seventeen months on the street
and lovers on the sidewalk laugh,
swinging arms together,
catching droplets on their tongues
while you cart your chosen scraps
through blind alleyways
seeking semi-permanent shelter?
Why is someone’s respite
always another’s ache
and some things so easily washed away
while other malignancies remain
which the purest effluence
will never penetrate?


As the remainder of the world
huddles from lightning and storm
we find a shallow depression
of grassland
swollen with warm rain
and spill to the ground
as flickering droplets of poetry.
Trembling with broken voice,
our artistry breathes a new form.
We are a smearing
of water colors
trickling beyond
a gilt framework
that will never capture us
and always long
for our return.

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He has a wife, Vickie and a daughter, Sage. His work has appeared in hundreds of publications including Prime Mincer, Sheepshead Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Fox Cry, Two Thirds North and The Red Cedar Review. He has poems forthcoming in Bluestem, Poetry Salzburg Review and The William and Mary Review.


About vision791

Pushcart nominee Jeanette Cheezum has been published on several online writing sites and in fifteen Anthology books and four poetry books. Three of these books have made the New York Times Best Sellers list. Awarded The Helium Networks Premium Writer’s Badge, Bronze Creative Writing Award and a Marketplace Writers award. Recently she has published fourteen ebooks at Barnes and Noble and Amazon. You may find a list of some of her work at
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