Sedimentary Poems

Living In Utter Madness

These walls are made of sedimentary stone,
it's a desolate house with glaring glass windows;
they emanate the reflection of distorted images,
gulls twirl around it, their shrills have a dark tone.

How quickly I have aged by noticing these deep lines
across this face that was as smooth as a child's skin;
doesn't time ravage everything, leaving a bitter grin?
Whoever envisions only joy is startled by surprises.

Do we restrain ourselves or live in utter madness
to reject the dreadful thought of each abstinence?
Does pleasure alleviate fears in hopeless moments?
Wouldn't it be a refuge from denial to seek resistance?

This rapid existence has a deadline for glory or demise,
being alive is virtuous thankfulness to implement reason
and choose the easiest temptation or the hardest choice;
the decision rests on either: become a saint or a demon.

When the Tide Remembers!

The sea was a whisper before it was water,
cleaved through the wind.
I stepped into its silver mouth,
waves curling something pressing in
a wistful longing for a past I never knew.

Seagulls traced ethereal designs across the expanse
their wails scattered like fragments.
Somewhere underneath the foam,
the past was fossilized within sedimentary strata
waiting for my hands to delve deep enough to find it.

The tide came in more forcefully
and I thought of to how love in this way
always arriving, always leaving---
sometimes tender, sometimes intense enough
to split the coast in two.

When it ebbed, it left behind more than remnants of a disaster,
it embodied the ideal I sought;
calmed by the steady undulations of the sea,
gleaming in calmness;
as if the tide dredged up
on the verge of being forgotten.

Revisiting the Same Ground

(John Day Fossil Beds, 2018)

Revisiting The Same Ground

Over and over again
I find myself returning 
to the same thoughts, ideas, histories
but now with years more experience between
and years more depth
behind what were once words
so glibly recited.

Is this how we all learn,
parrots one and all, reciting 
lessons, sounds, songs and jingles
until they somehow
take on meaning
filled with the substance of Life
which at every turn
fill again a little more?

Tide-like the mind moves
in cycles of night and day, wake and sleep
building layers which erode
but never really go away
layers which in time harden to stone
sedimentary then metamorphic 
each supplanted by the next
in endless waves across endless generations.

And so we go
treading the same old ground
‘round and ‘round
haunted by glimpses of déjà vu
humbled by realization
we have been here before
without a clue 
how blind we really are.

(10/19/23)

Am I Anyone But Myself

Who am I
If not Myself?

Am I more than my namesake?
More than my cotton-candy-curls,
More than my clever way with words?

Am I more than my mother saw in me
When she felt the first thump of my heartbeat
as the fabric of the world
shifted to make room for me - 
Courageous, ambitious, curiously starved for knowledge of all things.

Am I myself without this title, without this definition of my traits?
Am I myself if I lack bravery, if I lack wit?
Am I myself if I fall short?
Am I myself even when my bones are ground
Beneath sedimentary layer after layer?

Am I myself even when my name disappears 
From the poorly inscribed pages of my books, 
Even in the absence of a mouth to profess all that I am
In 3 syllables or less?

I am the personification of careful articulation,
The hallmark of humanity's desperate attempt at creation,
A placeholder for all I can and will be.

Yet still, I wonder
Who am I when I'm not me?

The Noon Hour

Hot, humid, burning sun rays
 it's the noon hour smack in the light of mid-day,

the random moments of a Monday deluge of renewal
 back to work to the tied-down, set-in-place routines do all
 pushing back the weekend play and scenes that flee;

the grit and grime of hard physical work release
 managed, stressed, perspiration indiscrete,

the sedimentary desk chair resting weary feet
 sequestered uncomfortable and lean
 locked in closure at the old computer screens;

the phone tags to update this or that
 the pay scales uneasily raised then taxed
 paperwork printing to and from the fax;

just another day to start the beginning of the week
 mundane, ordinary, fatiguing, ever on repeat
 with the morning hours slipping past as we speak,

the noon hour 
 marking half the day, 
 complete.

Sedimentary Ambitions

Many think of time as 
pendulums and gears,

cycling spheres; orbiting
around, sun-ups and sun
downs; 

I once painted a clown-face
for the moon, not in a mood
to tone-fully crone – my co-artist 
thought me some non-romantic loon – 
at the moment, seeing herself a
lush custard with a spoon – 

My inclination to count only
Time's ticks and never the tocks – 
do you know, grains of sand are only
Time's little rocks? Specks of what
are left of life's challenges – seconds
out of boulders; my defense for 
sedimentary ambitions....

Stones

Stones 
 smooth and rounded pebbles now grown
 placed strategically by wind and rain
 washed clean, rough edges, 
 polished gloss reflections of time memorialized;
rocks
 once impaled upon mountains,
 long ago set free, released from earthen clay 
 sleek, lustrous serene entities transfixed
 by historic renderings forgotten;
sand
 gravel pounded down, crushed 
 strained by the source of life
 ocean waves, waterfalls, rivers, streams
 pushing, pulling, tugging along the centuries;
earth
 ground silt, sedimentary deposits
 renewed, refined, rebuilding, 
 returned to its origins
 ready, anxious, eager to renew itself.



for Anthony Biaanco's contest
Stones 8/7/21

Beast Retrieved

Beast retrieved
who vowed never
 strive...
Couldn't abide by words
gambled floods 
Livid lethal lava 
parched essence dwells
furnace no sedimentary
tar loiters. 

Optimistically optimises 
For future further
Luminous loop of life 
Clear inscribed circle 
Promises which to amend-
Shrunken.

I Hate Beginnings

I hate beginnings, plenipotentiary prattle, use-
less sedimentary-sounds. A preface and first chap-
ter betwixt the suc-
culent kiss, the marvelous mystery unfolding.

wash your hands, bobbleheaded-yes.
that was the third part. typhoid
mary, not important to this quiz,
yet she opened the door and peaked
through. i slammed
it
shut, rolled my eyes.

how yummy pages
that jump into the deep end
and we drown in ecstasy’s eaglet
nest. eggs cracking  cuckoos
collaborating.

long, drawn………..out
beginnings not
                   for
                   me

the setup goes on and on and
oh kind of like this steam

letting off

done

1/22/2021

Into the Badlands

Into the badlands we travel with hearts full of infinite hope.
Ecosystem in this national park fosters four hundred species of life.
Sedimentary layers of pink, tan and white look like soap.
Into the badlands we travel with hearts full of infinite hope.
Oglala Lakota people named it land bad as they learned to cope.
Ghost dances are performed there around indigenous fires of rope.
Black footed ferrets are chasing prairie dogs who understand strife.
Into the badlands we travel with hearts full of infinite hope.
Ecosystem in this national park fosters four hundred species of life.

Written 10-25-2020
Contest: Pick a Title Vol 24 Triolet Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh

Dreaming of Colorado

A reached out hand, was the whisper of a breeze 
A firm clench across the smooth skin of my old Nebraska girl
A ruthless pressure digging at my sedimentary soul, holding it draped upon her heartland plains 
Devils of dust spew upward with blinding grit 
Eternities of prairie bend at the claw of her breath
A soaring ghost through an urban sprawl of Omaha along the vehement river, where I have forever remained 
Never able to unhinge the bind of her tiresome, loving grip 
Unknowing of all past her motherly land 
Until I hear a maidenly echo crawl through that vice of a wind, mountainous and sincere 
Tempt me, enchant me westward, do the sirens of tranquility from a girl named Colorado 
Her beautifully rugged imperfections that rise from her colorful skin beseech my eyes of hazel to be laid upon them
She’s the medicine I crave, the miracle I need to loosen the iron hold of my old Nebraska girl 
To explore beyond my horizons
Colorado, I’m bound for you

Grand Canyon

Tremendous vastness of Grand Canyon,
the earth drops away in escalation
reveling rims of canyon elevations.
River is slicing rocks
exposing chasm of gorges.
Chiseled by water 
vertical walls of rocks
are descending into abysses.
Canyon rims of mountains chasm,
eroding and falling down
in sediment and loose rocks.

Sedimentary rock layers,
walls of rocks towering at the banks of the river
wonder of nature –
Earth abruptly is dropping away,
forming different life zones.
Raging river is washing away
rocks in colorful sediments.
Dotting, splashing and bouncing
is water cascading in ribbons
reflecting sun light
through the beauty of enchanting might.

In the chasm of valleys and gorges
only river and rocks,
water is cascading,
without a trail on the river banks,
bellow meandering
with sediments and minerals

Sand petrified
and sculpted by
chiseling river –
colorful sedimentary rocks,
containing iron, copper,
shining crystals and minerals.

Grand Canyon –
crowning mountains,
cathedrals of nature –
changing colors 
with sun light passing -
astonishing, scenic wonder.

The Lunatic Holy Man

The Lunatic Holy Man 
Hole in the ozone layer
of his sense increases. 
He mutters to the tomb
of his father, while 
clumsy expressions
flash on his face.
A hundred fools
watch him with awe.
It’s paradoxical 
they chant holy verses.
He has a big 
sedimentary belly
formed from offerings.
He heals the insane, 
rustics say,
patting on their crests
or tying black cords 
around their waists. 
There’s a panacea 
for peace for many
in his absurd mantras.
He became a holy man
after his dad’s death
with the privilege of birth.
Lunacy adds charm
to his character.
Fame is sometimes 
a friend to folly.
Even the distant mother
comes with her daughter 
for a cure.
There’s a relief in belief.

First published in my book, "Kanoli Kaleidoscope" (PunksWritePoemsPress, USA)

Gone Are Those Days

By Parizo Van Thulare 

Hard as a rock of sedimentary 
Groundwrecking  as a C4 from the millitary

It was head over heels 
Sometimes the clouds went nine 
Emotions were on the line
The rain was on strike 
Nothing was fine 

The Forging of feelings
The Wiping of  tears 
The walk of shame 
Pain with no gain 
Endless hours of tossing and turning  

Gone are those days 
When i felt caged in love 
Gone are those days 
When you  gambled with my thoughts 

I used to think you are one 
I sacrificed so much but i was taken for none 
I was wrong ,Love is not a disease
You become vulnerable when you misuse it 

Those days are gone dear
You wont see me near

Last Night

Five summers past, Varkala was to be a geopark
Three of us today are walking its streets in the dark.

Between buildings and trees are hidden birth rocks
Of a vulnerable cliff,

We are hunting for the cinnamon bush lark
Who have found a new habitat on these soft sedimentary rocks.

To save Varkala, we drew out a chart
With dots to show where to place garbage and dumps
With pointers to not dig the cliff,

On the slopes we drew lines to demark
From where water should drain down
Leave the cliff as before, dry and stark.

We hope to find out land's birthmark
After we give Varkala a bright new start.

• Short Sedimentary Poems
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