Short Basalt Poems
Short Basalt Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Basalt by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Basalt by length and keyword.
volcanic
activity
liquid
magma
cools
contracts
chisels
rasps
measured
patterns
settling to
hexagonal
colonnade
morphed
entablature
unique
marvel
unsigned
sculpture
Rivulets of ice hung greedily
to the barren, brown, basalt,
like ribbon-candy in a baby’s hand.
The sweet, wet, drool oozed from Mother Earth,
like a frozen curtain draping the mist scattered day,
hiding the promise of spring.
A 55 gallon barrel
Full of pulverized
Oyster shells
Mixed with wood ash
And sawdust
And porklard
55 gallons of
Pulverized oyster
Shells.mixed
With basalt.
Alkalinity
Alkalinity
Mind the
Bushels bouiz
Mind the
Bushels!
Pines dressed in pearl hues-
bleached cotton sky. Plumes carve
night shades into taint
of crushed bones. Stone
basalt tools grind glacier till
into pallid skin
colored clay, shaped
into ornate bowls that cradle
crow ossein. Hunter.
Ocean gales and tidal shift
Pounding
Basalt and sandstone mountains
Boulders
Rocks tumble into pebbles
Mighty trees
Uproot and splinter in Neptune's fury
Under my feet,
Crumbled remains of life
Ground to dust by the unrelenting ocean
Walking barefoot on tiny shards of glass
The rivulets of ice hang greedily
To barren brown basalt
Drooling downward steadily
Like ribbon candy halted
a crystal ooze assault.
Sweet sap cascading readily
frozen curtain seldom parted
clothe the breast of earth joyously
leave in mist oh mistress tart…
pierce not the lingering heart.
Laborer and oxen are drawn
to slumber and to toil.
trodden fields of dawn
through basalt seeded soil.
A consistent daily chore
broken and blistered skin
farming out of folklore
the spirit from within.
An iron age passes by,
ploughed by tools of wood
Faces etched, livelihood.
(The traditional farmers of Nicaragua)
She snaps like a brine tendon,
spilling embryo chords across the basalt shelf.
Tongues of nacre split her sides,
each vertebra strung with gravid silence.
Kelp-blind, she threads the continental rift,
her fingernails seeded with unfinished continents.
Magma foams in the pouch of her pelvis,
grinding up vowels like crushed coral.
My heart is basalt and greenstone
becoming Catoctin to bones.
I'm the presidential retreat
at the top of the Blue Ridge chain.
I'm a drone financial fortress
waving ol' Glory stars and stripes.
I pledge allegiance to the Republic
under sound bunker walls three miles thick.
And if you love this darling world,
and have the fear of God within,
you too can be become Catoctin
on the carcass of Algonquians.
Remnants of Winters tendrils
reside upon the bare basalt cliffs.
Cornrows of ice cascade
washed by relentless rain.
Down pours the mana
of Spring, the Bride,
berating the laggard Winter;
expunging the beauty of ice.
The sunless muted morn aids
Winters grip on its crowning glory;
braiding wayward wisps of white
into crevasses.
The last, lingering, lustful
remainders of Winter.
The day before Spring begins.
soft feather
bog winds whisper on heather
where the soaring eagles fly
high
stones upright
stand frozen long to incite
from high cliffs leaning on sea
free
lakes misty
blue morning shrouds reeds twisty
slow swans turn into cloud tuft
fluffed
breeze saline
blows on Moher cliffs marine
grey waves pound on basalt stone
lone
bay twilight
white gulls traverse with delight
dark night folded by wan tide
dyed
TIDE IS OUT
The iodine of the seaweed smells
And the rattle of empty seashells
Trouble not the whale’s sleep
While crabs scuttle to the deep
TIDE IS IN
Shriveled seaweed in basalt crevices revived
Fish skeletons washed under the rocks
Boats slurp and plop out of the mud
Hungry breakers eat afresh the land
..................................................
Other poems of mine, similar to this, are available at
https://www.fictionmagazines.com/magazines/five/
From cradle to grave the sun baked
the skin leather, un-oiled
and rain did not fall
for Isis with held her tears.
From the bloody care of womb
children popped like bread from
the oven of women, the urns of life,
earthen were their colors
ocher, saffron, and
some as black as basalt, rich…
with a Nubian glow.
How the small ones squeal
at the wadi’s edge.
How the toes of man and beast
dance at the skirt of mother Nile,
sensuous, rippling with the wind,
or placid in the doldrums of summer sun.