volcanoes erupt
all true life stops and wonders
am I next to go
and why not
let them;
my son is asleep in the car
the radio plays
the skies are grey
the windows are nearly shut
a delicate breeze converges with
our transcendence
we are being transported
as he possibly dreams about
another football league he wants to invent
or, as he mentioned before hopping in the car
he wanted to leave the tennis early
to write his own song at home
he wants to relate, impart and begin his goodbyes
as the gale invading the vehicle is like the
tempest of ideas burgeoning his mind
i pull up to traffic lights and
i wonder if such joy exists in
the other cars
around us
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Flowers; a painless, healing, prescription of treatment
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
Happiness; gives sharp antithesis of lifes oblivion
Tectonic; the plate layer produces a fiery quill of lament
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Waving; a molten brush of colors, results cascadian
A surgeons gift; to be given, a unique scalpel of torment
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
Emotional eruptions; give way to a physical custodian
Islands of hope; from a mind, of seas with dubious intent
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Feelings so igneous; venting becomes it's guardian
A healing phase; melting purposely cooled stone indent
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
A cinder cone; written to perform acts so tragedian
Dormant, till; the next event of this calderas' fulfillment
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
Dormant Volcanoes
Do not shut down forever
But make their wait's worth
The pressure boils under the crust
to the point of no containment.
It simmers and flows through the entire ground
infesting the tissue around it.
When it gets to the point that the walls
can no longer hold up they crack.
And some of the pressure gets through to the surface
and the steam cannot be held back.
The danger too often is not seen by the ones
responsible to keep out an eye.
People get hurt who should have been warned
and told to get out of the way.
The volcano it doesn’t pay attention to others
Its pressure and heat have no guidance.
Others must watch and keep track of the thing
To help us avoid the explosion.
How many volcanoes are there worldwide
Roughly fifteen hundred, that leaves me wide-eyed
Hope they behave
Don't want no close shaves
Here in my Canada, we've got nowhere to hide
…I know, it's all you expect from me when you set my volcanoes free...
Some people's reactions are like volcanoes erupting
Their personalities are explosive with words quite cutting
Not aware of their actions
Focused on their passion
For all other topics, their minds are shutting
Grandma never told me in her stories
How the volcanoes are formed.
Grandma's God created only good things
The green, the sun, rivers, life...
God created Adam's and Eve's heart
From the calmness of Pishon river. *
But without nobody knowing
Fires started erupting in their hearts.
Life is like a river on fire these days
Do you feel something burning inside you?
Small or big, yellow or red...
It’s burning, but we all show a calm volcano face.
Volcanoes opened their heavenly calmness
To embrace the pains and flames of our tears...
Ages together it’s embracing our confessing hearts,
Grandma never told me about volcanoes...
-----------------
Note - The Pishon is one of four rivers (along with Hidekel (Tigris), Phrath (Euphrates) and Gihon) mentioned in the Biblical Book of Genesis. In that passage, these rivers are described as arising within the Garden of Eden.
Earthquake erupting volcanoes,
And a summer snow storm,
Will anyone heed the warning,
The earth is continuing to warm.
We kill in the name of a deity,
An allegedly merciful being,
And very regrettably,
Don’t cherish the short time we have for living.
Grown men playing a child’s game,
For the obscenely big buck,
And if you are extremely good looking,
You have all the good luck.
The arts are abysmal,
Music is at best humdrum,
The movies are intendent,
For the blind, deaf, and extremely dumb.
Can this madness ever stop?
Will the hatred ever end?
This is the internal conundrum,
We are doomed to repeat again and again.
Like the flowing rage of magma
it drapes across the land
sweet and sickly smell of sulfur
Making love to noses up high
down low alike
Lake of fire bubbling about and kissing the kingdom
of the frightened, their fiery smiles blossom
A flower
Singular in its purpose
It buds and pollinates
the rest
Like the flowing rage of water
it sweeps across the land
crisp and clean smell of fresh and new
Tidal waves making love to the land
the noses are full
they come clean in the wash
Eruptions echo endlessly.
Spewing forth vile thunder.
Electricity excreted from the bowels of the world.
Pandemonium prevails in the distant lands.
Seismic semblances silently shatter safety.
Doom, Death, Destruction.
The electric volcanoes herald the end of Lotus.
*Not written by me*
*Written by a poet known as "The Black Moon Beckons Destruction" look out for more of his
poems in the "Destruction of Lotus" series.
electric volcanoes spit sweat upon the frame
diseased alcoholics are the only ones to blame
clocks unfurl at awkward angles gasping help me please
i sit upon a jagged floor scabs rot and fall beneath my knees
shapes of bitter chemistry meld slowly in my brains
take some rope a wooden horse and softly end the pain
intergalactic voyages burst stealthily into pungent flame
ignorance of shattered hearts and jars is the reason why i came
battered fists pound faces blood splurts and meadows freeze
jumping joints reflect stunted scars succinctly silent seas
final verses asphxyiate disgusting rancid stains
final lines never sum up enruptured feeble rain
Once in a while, Mother Nature goes mad,
When this happens, all living things get sad,
For when she is angry, things start to get bad,
Volcanoes, and twisters, and earthquakes are glad.
Mother says to her children, "You're free to run wild,
For at this point, I refuse to be mild,
These humans are ruining my beautiful gardens,
And I refuse to give them all pardons."
So we have weather that really gets tough,
Volcanoes and twisters really show their stuff,
And it's sad but the weather, men cannot control,
No matter how much he has made this his goal.
So poets and people all over this world,
Try to be nice or you may get twirled-then swirled,
For Mother Nature may decide to start fighting back,
So she can hold together and mend all those cracks.
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.