"scoria" poems - Hello Poetry

Burns Creek Climbing Chimney Rock. Dad and David Scoville In their mid 30s, Two men out to prove Their bravery, Their derring-do. Nervous, My Mother, My brother and I, Five and six, Necks craning, Wait and watch; Dad moves up and up Clings to the top. Inept and six, I stand below, Admiring my Father's Fearlessness. I am nearly blind, The myopic, thick-lensed gawker, Peering upward. The men climb down, Victorious, The day’s challenges Vanquished. Heading home, Choking dust. Old land, Deep ravines, Rattle snake domain. My father's old Ford Bumps over red scoria, Billows burning dust. Ancient land, Cindered clay, Open grazing land, Dry and hot. Memories churn From sixty years ago.

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Feb 2, 2022

Feb 2, 2022 at 9:08 AM UTC

don-bouchard

Chimney Rock 1966

Burns Creek Climbing Chimney Rock. Dad and David Scoville In their mid 30s, Two men out to prove Their bravery, Their derring-do. Nervous, My Mother, My brother and I, Five and six, Necks craning, Wait and watch; Dad moves up and up Clings to the top. Inept and six, I stand below, Admiring my Father's Fearlessness. I am nearly blind, The myopic, thick-lensed gawker, Peering upward. The men climb down, Victorious, The day’s challenges Vanquished. Heading home, Choking dust. Old land, Deep ravines, Rattle snake domain. My father's old Ford Bumps over red scoria, Billows burning dust. Ancient land, Cindered clay, Open grazing land, Dry and hot. Memories churn From sixty years ago.

40

You cringeworthy, evil pismire; Your father did surely miss-sire This personification of flatulence, The embodiment of self importance Overflowing with abject peccancy Devoid of any sign of respectability Replete with gross odoriferousness Horribly and infamously unscrupulous. You have reveled in misrepresentation And tried to elevate your calumniation Disinformation and deception exists As capitalistic dissembling persists. You’ve collected an evil government Built mostly of human excrement And have such a lack of veracity That you speak in constant mendacity. Sycophantic eructations of dogmatic bile Issue from your unsympathetic smile And your inauthentic glad-handed gropes As if we all of us are unbright gullible dopes That buy your fabrications completely While you pilfer and prevaricate indiscreetly. You are a Vaudevillian villain miscast as star, But most of us know exactly what you are. Deceit, deception, dishonesty; a tragedy But not for you, for us and our country. Distortion, evasion and fabrication the rules; You despair of any other kinds of tools. Falsehoods, fictions and forgery are your tricks. You demand we build with straw-less bricks Your erections that are planned to be palaces Filled with your giant golden carved phalluses. Those monuments, inanotomically correct, Established to celebrate and somehow protect A mountebank on the way to an overseas bank Claiming to eradicate the scoria he creates That decades of privation will not quite alleviate. But you, the Great Prevaricator, will always blame Other players in your sick, unconstitutional game Instead of admitting your complicity and guilt About the disgusting, putrid swamp you built.

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Jun 13, 2018

Jun 13, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC

brent-kincaid

THE GREAT PREVARICATOR

You cringeworthy, evil pismire; Your father did surely miss-sire This personification of flatulence, The embodiment of self importance Overflowing with abject peccancy Devoid of any sign of respectability Replete with gross odoriferousness Horribly and infamously unscrupulous. You have reveled in misrepresentation And tried to elevate your calumniation Disinformation and deception exists As capitalistic dissembling persists. You’ve collected an evil government Built mostly of human excrement And have such a lack of veracity That you speak in constant mendacity. Sycophantic eructations of dogmatic bile Issue from your unsympathetic smile And your inauthentic glad-handed gropes As if we all of us are unbright gullible dopes That buy your fabrications completely While you pilfer and prevaricate indiscreetly. You are a Vaudevillian villain miscast as star, But most of us know exactly what you are. Deceit, deception, dishonesty; a tragedy But not for you, for us and our country. Distortion, evasion and fabrication the rules; You despair of any other kinds of tools. Falsehoods, fictions and forgery are your tricks. You demand we build with straw-less bricks Your erections that are planned to be palaces Filled with your giant golden carved phalluses. Those monuments, inanotomically correct, Established to celebrate and somehow protect A mountebank on the way to an overseas bank Claiming to eradicate the scoria he creates That decades of privation will not quite alleviate. But you, the Great Prevaricator, will always blame Other players in your sick, unconstitutional game Instead of admitting your complicity and guilt About the disgusting, putrid swamp you built.

41

Unloving thou is but Sisyphean, Like scoria craves mixing with sea salt. Thus akin to night and day we're but twins Whose burning candle is never to halt. But ever brighter than snow veiled mountains, And perpetual as the golden Amaranth, Yet as pure as heavens silver fountains, Thrice fairer than the moon of the May month Or the sea's mighty glow against the moonlight. Always in full spate if she’d be a stream, To draw us in a realm of sheer delight Where daylight to fade shall be but a dream. So true love is a gem precious than gold Both young and old in their palm crave to hold. ©Kikodinho Alexandros Jumeira, Dubai 22 October 2016

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Oct 21, 2016

Oct 21, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC

KikodinhoAlexandros

Unloving Thou Is But Sisyphean (Sonnet 002)

Unloving thou is but Sisyphean, Like scoria craves mixing with sea salt. Thus akin to night and day we're but twins Whose burning candle is never to halt. But ever brighter than snow veiled mountains, And perpetual as the golden Amaranth, Yet as pure as heavens silver fountains, Thrice fairer than the moon of the May month Or the sea's mighty glow against the moonlight. Always in full spate if she’d be a stream, To draw us in a realm of sheer delight Where daylight to fade shall be but a dream. So true love is a gem precious than gold Both young and old in their palm crave to hold. ©Kikodinho Alexandros Jumeira, Dubai 22 October 2016

17

Eastern Montana Badlands 1930s.... Coal where one found it, Scoria hills, Layered lignite Waiting near the surface. Burning lignite beds, Smoldering centuries old, Scarring and turning clay to scoria, Crumbling rock, Testimony to lightning fires Beneath the hills. Crude mines backed into cliffs, Pick and shoveled coal Free for the risky taking Heated homes. Coal caves, Low and gaping, Horizontal shafts. Wagons first, then Trucks backed in. Crowbars and picks Brought lignite ceilings Crashing in rotten shatters Mounding, sometimes burying Trucks below. My father told me How he helped Chris Ginther, Deaf coal miner, Hammer holes, Insert charges, Long fuses, trailing. Old Chris packing holes, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping... Lighting fuses, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping. My father said he'd yell "We need to go!" Old Chris Seemed never to hear, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping, Until finally... Sauntering out Before the rumbling Thump. I can see the two, Chris and my father, Just a boy, Lost in lignite clouds, Coughing.

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Jan 28, 2022

Jan 28, 2022 at 9:21 AM UTC

don-bouchard

Lignite

Eastern Montana Badlands 1930s.... Coal where one found it, Scoria hills, Layered lignite Waiting near the surface. Burning lignite beds, Smoldering centuries old, Scarring and turning clay to scoria, Crumbling rock, Testimony to lightning fires Beneath the hills. Crude mines backed into cliffs, Pick and shoveled coal Free for the risky taking Heated homes. Coal caves, Low and gaping, Horizontal shafts. Wagons first, then Trucks backed in. Crowbars and picks Brought lignite ceilings Crashing in rotten shatters Mounding, sometimes burying Trucks below. My father told me How he helped Chris Ginther, Deaf coal miner, Hammer holes, Insert charges, Long fuses, trailing. Old Chris packing holes, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping... Lighting fuses, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping. My father said he'd yell "We need to go!" Old Chris Seemed never to hear, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping, Until finally... Sauntering out Before the rumbling Thump. I can see the two, Chris and my father, Just a boy, Lost in lignite clouds, Coughing.

56

Amber conduit seeps through the glaring abysm in haste, smothered by tar-pulp of the midnight wound, disheveled corona; bled into contrast, dithering; thrusting scoria into the eve, intoxicated by gasoline vapour; obsidian-wretch, night crime pining of cheap indulgence; bottle-cap snare, miasma fleet whining - lament, pavement tessellation; cosmopolitan unrest

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Aug 3, 2014

Aug 3, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC

TheDenouement

Lapis Brink

Amber conduit seeps through the glaring abysm in haste, smothered by tar-pulp of the midnight wound, disheveled corona; bled into contrast, dithering; thrusting scoria into the eve, intoxicated by gasoline vapour; obsidian-wretch, night crime pining of cheap indulgence; bottle-cap snare, miasma fleet whining - lament, pavement tessellation; cosmopolitan unrest

8

O grandmother, though we are Pakeha you had great mana. You lived close to that taciturn volcano, One Tree Hill, and its scoria scars were like the lines on your face, etched out by the evolution of that city. And, grandmother, you remembered the beginning of the cycle with the lucid vision you could not afford on the recent past. I always wanted to tell you that I loved you, grandmother, with a sincerity you would feel long after you passed through the gates of heaven. To tell you that when I was a child, I believed you would be here always, but then I listened closely to the silence between your words and I knew you were weary of this world. You were the last bridge connecting us with a pioneer century and I feared we would lose ourselves if ever we lost you, but we never did for in our children and in our children’s children we will see the face of Ruby, the dark-haired girl.

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Feb 24, 2015

Feb 24, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC

andrew-m-bell

RUBY, THE DARK-HAIRED GIRL (1887-1987)

O grandmother, though we are Pakeha you had great mana. You lived close to that taciturn volcano, One Tree Hill, and its scoria scars were like the lines on your face, etched out by the evolution of that city. And, grandmother, you remembered the beginning of the cycle with the lucid vision you could not afford on the recent past. I always wanted to tell you that I loved you, grandmother, with a sincerity you would feel long after you passed through the gates of heaven. To tell you that when I was a child, I believed you would be here always, but then I listened closely to the silence between your words and I knew you were weary of this world. You were the last bridge connecting us with a pioneer century and I feared we would lose ourselves if ever we lost you, but we never did for in our children and in our children’s children we will see the face of Ruby, the dark-haired girl.

20

Dry grass smouldering, smoke spiralling up the sky, nostalgia solidifying in the heart like rocks of scoria from boiling lava. An eerie feeling oozing through the pores forming drops of cool soothing light holding me in its albino hands. The colour of light – is it phantom white, or a potpourri of sensations? I remember, in my tender days all colours were red. An effervescent cherry-red radiance coloured the passions of my heart. Seven Seas confluencing in the soul, water throbbing in the expanse of the sea, sky emptying its azure desires in the sea, stillness at the heart of the sea – a placid cauldron of pure life! That day I met myself - the mystic in red radiance!

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Sep 18, 2018

Sep 18, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC

the-mystique-trail

Soul of a mystic in red radiance

Dry grass smouldering, smoke spiralling up the sky, nostalgia solidifying in the heart like rocks of scoria from boiling lava. An eerie feeling oozing through the pores forming drops of cool soothing light holding me in its albino hands. The colour of light – is it phantom white, or a potpourri of sensations? I remember, in my tender days all colours were red. An effervescent cherry-red radiance coloured the passions of my heart. Seven Seas confluencing in the soul, water throbbing in the expanse of the sea, sky emptying its azure desires in the sea, stillness at the heart of the sea – a placid cauldron of pure life! That day I met myself - the mystic in red radiance!

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