Long Basalt Poems
Long Basalt Poems. Below are the most popular long Basalt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Basalt poems by poem length and keyword.
Power points of dimensional spinning graphs are largely placed in cement viewfinders in aerated office space with dome foam chairs. Dome foam chairs are the salt of seats and seating is considered important for lengthy discussion tables whose droning voices appear to form no conclusion yet get salaried by the milliseconds. Thousands and thousands of bold shining gold bullion bars mean thousands of printed bull speeches. But leeches sit on beaches and sip nectar out if the environment they consider their haven. It is never really demystified, added up, or fractioned the carious deeds instead they are multiplications that divide and fracture causing much disharmony in a mustard coloured cereal bowl with many crunching sounds. Cresphontes calls crethus and cynortas then danaus appears in a silvery crown on a semi misted horse. For to be a simpleton at that time was to sport a dimple on ones forehead and bow easterly but only when a westerly breeze was chatting to northern flames. The burst of southerly inclines meant the little trotting army could approach from every angle and therefore a fisherman or shepherd could be made very alarmed and run around flailing arms in the air shouting aloooooo alllooooo alllooooo but no apologies were made to these innocent harmonic workers of the lands. Blup blup fishermen and Barr baaa basalt shepherds left their careers and began work on the structures that would stand to signal power. Processing plants of today are akin to planktonic paintings upon the grounds and are an eyesore to behold. Many an eyesore is many an era in waste. Napoleonic Neptune numbers nurturing ninety nice nimble nymphs nautically. Beam then. Go on beam. Great big grin. Split level chin wobble. Fantastic isn't it? Z autobiographical Z at seven jumping tennis balls in a stew pan to thirteen moons on motorbikes. Z xxxx z
Form:
There was a Ringer in the Basalt, Tiger Davis was his name
As an acrobatic stockman, he was gifted with some fame
On the station quite a hero, but a maniac in town
He didn't win too many, but a fighter of renown
In the Pub he'd get a skinful, then look around the bar
While anyone would do him, preferred bigger ones by far
Come up with some great wisdom, like, what yer looking at
If you said, aint got no label on, then he'd take off his hat
I remember seeing him one day, Picnic Races at Oak Park
Wouldn't say that he was full, but sure did have a spark
He was drinking in the canvas booth, when a sideshow bloke came in
Tiger looked straight at him, with a crooked wicked grin
What yer looking at, the standard greeting that he gave
At this point you could fight or run, very few did cave
They got to scrapping on the floor, neither could stand well
Fights like a Ringer, Showman said, can someone ring the bell
The Barman brought a water jug, to douse and cool them down
What he forgot and made it fun, was the lip around the crown
The water flew up to the lip, flew backwards from the rim
The scrappers they died laughing , the soaked Barman looking grim
They stopped the fight, went to the bar, imbibed some more cold beer
They were the best of friends by now, that was very clear
That's how it was in days gone by, a grudge was surely quelled
When the blue was over, animosity expelled
'Ringer', is the Australian name for a Cowboy in Queensland. True story I was there, I also was a Ringer, in my younger days. 'Picnic Races' are a gathering on a Station or Outback town. 'Oak Park' was the name of a cattle property, in the isolated north of Australia. The races would be held over one day, but the celebrations and gathering would last a week or more. The 'Booth' was a canvas tent, used as the bar.
Inspire me....
Even as I attempt this
Iambic nonsense
How can silence,
Emanate from chaos:
It's direct opposite?
A pure contradiction of concept...
Crashing, cascading.......
In a metaphoric ambiance of emotions,
Anger infused like an avalanche of retribution...
Unstable, fluctuating and unpredictable
Just like when the Centre cannot hold
Shhhhhhhhhh.........
There is a silent voice saying
Be still............
Chaotic, disorganised, shambolic and in a condition of total disarray.
Mesmerised, enthralled, spellbound or hypnotised.....
Kush-in, drunk-in, high on some pills of ecstasy, while you chill in cloud nine or
In a state of total mental confusion,
Like when the Falcon cannot hear the Falconer
Shhhhhhhhhhhh...
Listen,
To that silent voice saying
Be still......
When things fall apart
Hold the centre.....
Don't allow an avalanche free flow
Basalt, untamed and waxed......
Be inspired inspite of contradictions
Think before you act,
Ruminate before you speak
Chaos, chaos is the dance hall,
But the DJ maintains the tempo of the songs
Chaotic is the market place
Yet the trader never miss her balance
Chaotic the Arena might be
The gladiator is ever focused
Miss the general's call on the chaotic battlefield and you are gone.
Tis Iambic contradiction of sophistry,
An attempt to awaken the tiny voice of reason
That always question our silence while we are to speak
And
Our speech while we should listen.
©Chigbo S. Peter {April 2017}
Red planet in the dark,
Iron Oxide lights your spark.
In search of great, there is not much greater,
then the planet of valleys, deserts and craters.
Spots of white look not unlike snow,
but, in fact, are storms and cyclones.
A surface scarred and cut by time,
holds a soil of Alkaline.
Cold and quite, howling wind,
Carbon Dioxide is what you'd breathe in.
Plains and highlands vast and smooth,
contrast craters the size of moons.
simply a face made flaccid,
beaten, meteor impacted.
Storms of dust bellow and swoon,
traveling to an unwritten tune.
An Argon sword, atmosphere built,
with carbon dioxide playing the hilt.
A Terra of martain Magnesium mass,
is it Basalt, or Silica glass?
Avalanches slope with a streak,
with weak gravity and slide to a heap.
Gullys carved from water of old,
lines can be seen where a sea met a coast.
Surveying mars is a difficult task,
about half of the time there are failed spacecrafts.
But despite all that, we now have a team,
of rovers exploring since 2003!
They have seen much of Mars, as far as can go,
though the poles are of ice, and the weather is cold.
But still, we have maps, and data and more,
we've explored the red planet like never before!
Peroxides and oxides provide color schemes,
it's possible life had seen what we've seen,
it's possible mars might invite human beings,
because anything's possible, when you have a dream.
Looking down I can see
so many different possibilities
wondering which I shall pick
and with it then what I shall see
smooth pink stone with pits of white
will it fit in my fingers just right
that I might flick it with the crack like a whip
to get the perfect gyroscopic spin
has it mass that it might fly
many times as it skims
kissing upon the water where
ripples will spread in growing rings
or perhaps a kidney shape
bisected by a streak of white
bigger that more power might have
that longer then might be its flight
wonder I at a stone oblong
black and white and quite small
perhaps it's basalt mixed with lime
would it then keep its spin
here a stone with finger notch
of dark gray with salmon swirls
somehow draws and holds my eye
I want it not into the water to fling
so many lie here from which to choose
gold and salmon grays black and white
smooth and round or angles tight
I wonder which to give flight
as I lay in dark of night
waking from the fading dream
with bleary eyes upon the clock to gaze
to see the minutes slip away
slip do I from fading dreams
into the night awakening
with hours long before the dawn
seeking sleep that alludes me
'tis there meaning that I should
deeper thoughts into which to plunge
hidden meanings for me to find
or just confusion of fading dreams
The beach at Orca Praia – Funchal Madeira
The powerful deep blue ocean
Expends its tidal force
Pounding down upon sea pebbles
With thud and smash so coarse
Watching from a vantage point
From the horizon to the shore
The lines of sea swell building up
Growing bigger more and more
Low, rumbling ocean rollers
Waves curling with such symmetry
Then the breakers quickly form and crash
Tossing up a plume of spray of sea
Incessant surf on shingle
Swash, swoosh and susurrate
With that endless marine motion
That will never dissipate
The waves break up and flatten
The tidal rush now gone
As the pebbles roll and rattle
Against each other as they tumble on
The roller spent, the wave now dead
Or that is what it seems
Then the backwash slithers downwards
Sluicing pebbles like big grey beans
The unending flow and ebb of tide
Today a calm but restless sea
Incessant waves wash and whoosh
So soothing it can be
But at other times she’s not so kind
Or benign to beach or land
Dashes disastrous desolation
With a fury on rock or sand
But for now I stand and wonder
At Mother Nature’s gentle reach
And watch and taste and listen
To the ocean on that basalt beach
COLORBLINDNESS
I had a confused childhood cos I was colorblind
But still I was the logical and persistent kind.
I would ask mum what color - maybe brown?
No, she’d say - it’s beige,
Well, I didn’t know any French then. . . .
Or she’d say - it’s natural
So, I said, are black, blue, green, yellow unnatural?
Ok she’d say - it’s fawn
How do I know what colour a fawn is?
Well son, it’s kinda biscuit colour
Did she mean chocolate biscuit or coconut?
Ok, you can call it - stone-coloured, son
Did she mean white limestone or black basalt?
No, she changed her mind - it’s more like oatmeal
Ok, so what colour is oatmeal?
Well, kinda biscuity-natural, son. . . . .
And not to mention the problem with
Lilac, heliotrope, purple, pinky-mauve, lavender, heather,
But the worst was wine-coloured. . . did she mean red or white??
And don’t get me started about
Lemon, mustard, cream, daffodil, and.. . . .
I think I went colorblind just to avoid all the confusion
Of shades of colors in profusion
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Olajide Adelana's Contest Color Blindness
Light a chord progression of sulphur, silver and mist
Set it serpentine and weight the tail
Fixed upon jewel eye, begin your pass between upright columns
Dimly ribbed it clasps the shallowing shadow
Growing pale from black with furrowed intent
Aware of depth of tone and grains of structure
Static lattice encompasses plasmonic manuscript
Fang undoes the bolt, the door swings free
Creaked cacophony emitted by hinges three
Like clouds fast cross the peaks
The serpent's scales weigh the dream
And the tale it does hiss comes measured equally
So step onto stair of basalt or granite or gold
And wind in this labyrinth where the vines are old
And the gourds are hollow and the insects are flat
And the feathers hover and silent are the bats
And amongst the orbs of platinum is but one graphene cube
Which suits your purpose if you wish to pursue
The wake of your chords, the snake rattles the gourds
The charm of holophony ringing true
Your palm presses on corners, volts engage focus
Electric blue now this room adorned with crystalline crocus
Spirals span from your heart, emblazening your view
Of the throne in the centre, humming for You
I miss you, already
Your rough beauty
How you pretend to be wild
Being already postmodern.
The swings in your mood
Welcoming and repelling me,
Caressing me, bringing me down.
Your invitations to dive into sins
Gluttony, sloth, lust and death -
When in fact, you were bringing me back to life.
A part of me is kept with you
Taken by the roar and fury of your waters
Against the Moles
Against your basalt towers.
Kept in the flight of the lapwings,
Of the swallows
In the height of your trees
In the stones on the corner of the beach of Cal
In the shyness and candor of your people
In the insensitiveness of your guests
In the sincere passion of one of your sons
With pearly blue marbles for eyes
Who never tires of telling about your beauties
Remains with you, a piece of me
Stuck in the whistle of these very waters
When they calm down
Washing the sands
Shaking the mussels
Shhh ... shhh ... shhh ... shhh
One day I will come back to see you, Torres
And make myself whole again.
Torres is the first city of Rio Grande do Sul State, the most southern state of Brazil. I've fallen in love with it.
Mist feathery drifts
last night’s breath loosening
above basalt slopes of Huatung
Pacific swallows trace morning brushwork
over Fuli’s rice paddies
new green scented with rain.
Xiuguluan River flows jade mountain-born
among ancestral stones
white willows in Ruisui weep
dew-kissed
cycad fronds catching first sunlight
Leaf pearls gather on my thatched sandals
Walami earth holds stories in its coolness.
Bihe Pond rests hidden in Wanrong’s stillness
waters reflecting the tribe’s quiet prayers
Bamboo leaves in green and gold
crested mynas gather in quiet repose
wind moves with the chime of a temple bell.
Ancestral path wanders into the Central Range
oolong tea clouds drift
above Qilai’s blue ridges
A white egret lifts over Guangfu’s terraces
air clear as poured Longjing.
A bulbul calls
blue magpie glides
the slow unlayering of day
Huatung Calligrapher’s span warm to newborn light
time unspools—
bright
unmeasured.
Light widens
dawn follows Yu Shan’s shadowed valleys
the world in quiet promise
soft light
drifting into morning.