Boreas, the North Wind
I am in Iceland, 90 miles from the Arctic Circle,
walking through a gorge in a valley between
European and North American plates. Fierce
Boreas funnels its headstrong wind right at me
tears my knit hat off my head, rakes my hair.
I’m in Rekjavik, at the city’s highest point
walking half-way between Hallgrimskirja Church
and Leif Eriksons’ statue when Boreas sends a gust
ripping glasses from my face. I chase them across
the square, miraculously retrieve them intact.
The is a land of extremes, powerful geysers,
roiling rivers, cascading waterfalls, high mountains,
floating icebergs, volcanoes, poised to erupt, lava
flows, one thermal Blue Lagoon, acres in size
defies frigid air, soothes sore muscles.
This is a land ruled by the North Wind Boreas, erratic,
hungry, sleeping rarely, it is terrifying, exhilarating,
raw as life itself.
Saturn waits in the cold quiet of space,
A sentinel wrapped in golden rings,
Its pale light leans over hidden moons,
Each orb dances in elliptical patience.
Storms turn on its vast gaseous surface,
Cloud bands swirl with silent secrets,
Ammonia crystals shimmer in the upper haze,
There is no ground, only layers upon layers.
Shadows of rings sweep across its pale yellow,
A crown of icy debris, ancient and unbroken.
Enceladus glistens, flinging geysers skyward,
Titan cloaks itself in an orange mystery.
Saturn whispers stories to distant spacecraft,
The wind is measured in hundreds of miles per hour.
Light takes more than an hour to reach it from our sun,
Patience is written into every orbit.
It is both beacon and enigma to astronomers,
A world of hydrogen, helium, and longing.
If we listen, the planet hums with unseen music,
Its beauty is the silence between the stars.
High tide, the waves crash anew
Like geysers out cracks waters spew
Cleansing all that's been subdued
Treasures, rainbows bring in view!
Antiquated pipeline geysers ravage starry nebulae, blast ash. The hurricane bankrupts reed origami masts. It splits overripe pomegranates. Wild animal guitar buzzes, echoing through shattered valleys.
Electrified abdomen dowels bobble and quiver. Balloons, gemstones, hot coals ululate. Feral cello cherries frost and educate potholes. They mold cracked roads into jagged mosaics of fire and ice.
Fractured aqueduct sprays liquid yogurt galaxies across the void. The tempest collapses bamboo paper cranes. It bursts ripe garnet figs. Savage harp lion roars. Untamed lyre berries chant anthems.
Oh, tundra vast, where winds do bite,
Where summer's day is winter's night.
A land of fire, ice, and sheep,
Of brooding skies that rarely sleep.
We thrive on lava, moss, and pride,
Though sometimes feel the world outside
Forgets we’re more than Björk and Cod—
Our quirks, our quirrels, our Viking squad.
We’re quiet folk, a tad reserved,
With humor dry, and smiles conserved.
But toss us in a thermal pool,
And see us giggle like a fool.
The sagas sing of ancient might,
But let’s be real—our greatest fight
Is finding sun mid-April gloom,
Or not discussing weather in a room.
Our horses prance with double gait,
Our language traps the tongue of fate.
But if you try and twist a word,
We’ll clap—then mock you. (Yes, you heard.)
Our homes are cozy, clad with turf,
A shelter from the glacier’s surf.
Yet in our hearts, a paradox:
We’re mighty trolls, and fragile rocks.
So here’s to Iceland—quirky, bold,
Where glaciers carve and geysers scold.
A tundra tough, yet tender too,
A land of dreams—and “aðeins þú.”
Gossip
Miracle Man
8/30/2024
Like Geysers, tongues spew,
indiscriminate tales.
Void of moral thought.
Do serial killers do head counts
Why are spaceships aerodynamic
Why is loud in cloud
See at the back of a hospital is that the backwards
Surely a plaster is more use than time on wounds
Every sad comes with an ad
How many sides does the sea have
What do rocket scientists say when something is easy
Does that mean that 2 birds in the hands is worth 4 in the bush
Can you get half a hole
Shouldn’t geysers be waterrisings
Is a Tom really small
The pencil is mightier than the sword
cause that nobody is John ing Wick
How could you light a candle at both ends
Well I suppose if it was balanced on a glass
Every cat I have had must have been on their last life
Wish there was a room full of mush
Time is loads of ships
Fleeting
What do you get for 2 kings and a queen in chess
God save save the….. what is it this week
2 soon
In the words of Queen
Matter really nothing me to
See if you have a..never mind
Put the rifle back
in that shattered bag,
don't want to forget
traumas from my hell.
Geysers in my soul
only need to explode,
watch me hike tonight
on my satellites.
Why slaying the stars
& rigorously binding their light
for listening ears under the mango tree
to frame folktales for midnight song,
make a geysers of yellowstone
carrying fresh fetch palm wine—
put their tongues to taste the juice,
to kiss the faces of roses.
I tell you, they aren't the equation
where xy=0
the shape of a doughnut
set orderly for rituals—
the contents of misery.
for their body won't be yours
to slice an orange
to fill your sac
after greasing their dreams with frost.
The waves dash themselves
Against the rocks,
Sending geysers of spray
High over the seawall,
Half drowning the cars
That are creeping slowly
Through the sandy lakes
Forming on the road.
The wind screams
And pounds its fists in a
Tantrum on car windows.
The angry sea hisses
And spits a frothy foam
Onto the curling mountains of
Emerald and blue-black water.
A lone cormorant dips and bobs,
Appears and disappears
In the unaccustomed,
Roiling surface of the salt
Pond across the road.
Beyond, the trees whip and
Thrash their arms,
Moaning and keening
In the driving sheets of rain.
Pieces of their shattered limbs
Litter the roadway, and
A single strand of wire
Flips back and forth,
Sparking red in the gloom.
People park their cars
Away from falling limbs
And dash for leaf-strewn
Porches, chairs all spun awry.
They shed their dripping coats
And watch the raging storm
Wreak havoc, safely, from inside!
Yes, I smell sulfur
Brimstone seepage smothers me
Earth’s crust pizza thin
Mud pools like cauldrons bubble
Dante’s infernal region.
Underworld torment
Geysers vent their hot rage
I am thunderstruck
Extreme caution is needed
The inferno is waiting.
A trip many years ago to Rotorua reminded me of Dante's Inferno. The smell of sulfur (Brimstone) and bubbling mud pools all made me think of the Divine Comedy. I wrote this poem while the experience was fresh in my mind but it has been tweaked again to fit syllable count. These days I try to be accurate regarding haiku and tanka.
Awestruck by the beautiful America!
Gathering crowd obliged: admiring
Of vistas known so well by buffalo
resting - by thermal pools of color
Aqua-rainbow geysers spring aura!
(6/20/21 Yellowstone – the world’s first National Park)
The dimples on your cheeks
Like matching enclaves
On opposing sides
Of a massive, naturally formed
Rock formation in Arizona
Those Dimples are my home
I can spend endless hours
Tracing the cliffs
Tracing the walls
I sleep here as well
I am just a small pest
Just the right size
For those dimples are also my bed
I sit in them like a recliner
Positioned like a cursive J
To the corner of your mouth
I drink the water from your lips
While I await the first droplet of coffee
From then on, I spend my day
Exploring the formations of your mouth
Bare hand climbing up your lower bicuspids
Base jumping down to your soft pallet
Bathing in the salivary geysers under your tongue
In the evening, I return to your dimples
There is nothing like home
I use a stray strand of hair as my rope
I settle into the corner
Without a blanket
The fire burning in my heart
Keeps me warm through
The Cold desert night
Androids sleep on waterbeds of blue
Robots join them in hotel rooms
In this endeavor everyone is happy
Between the sheets prayers are heard
Imploring their makers to keep them safe
To make them soft, less heavier than they are
Prayers for lesser sharper parts to cut or puncture
Are solicited for mechanical guests protection
It is far too late to sleep or wake this afternoon
For then the geysers come to flood the day
Puncture noises, gushes of water spring forth
Rains of insanity that logic cannot explain away
The mood and linens soiled for the automatons
Flashing lights in red, whirring sounds of pain
Screams of danger ringing out in all directions
Would not craters on the moon be better
Make for a dryer accommodations selection
For androids and robots need their rest
Leaving humans behind to clean up all the mess
Tropical Love
Colorful petals, huge tender soft leaves,
Intricate patterns, the type spiders weave.
Gentle breezes, smelling the ocean salt,
Embedded crystals where the surf may halt.
Bright colored finches flocking through the air,
Loud racket is heard from a hidden lair.
Rainforest splendor, how precious it sings,
Tropical colors on butterfly wings!
Georges blossoms in an Edenic bay,
Colorful orchids take my breath away.
Gigantic geysers spraying in the air,
Lava is flowing, too hot to be near.
My passionate love, as we stop to rest,
Relaxing in comfort against my chest.
© Bjørn O. Wastvedt, 2017
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.