"vesuvius" poems
1705
Volcanoes be in Sicily
And South America
I judge from my Geography—
Volcanos nearer here
A Lava step at any time
Am I inclined to climb—
A Crater I may contemplate
Vesuvius at Home.
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Calming seas breaking Avalanches
And boiling volcanoes
Close encounters and
The everlasting
Embrace of Vesuvius
Desperate to touch the
Sweet sweet shore
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
My Prize for Waiting
~
*tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able
my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping
no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests
but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction
the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps
the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^
woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry
so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete
and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place*
3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019
~
last nights scrap
***cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration***
inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
"Stop It!" shouted the man
who was dressed in a ***** pin stripe suit,
eye glasses half askew on his nose,
ski-slope haircut sported since his youth.
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the hundredth time I felt it's sting.
I stood there, patiently and quiet
caressing my double bass violin
my secret seventh grade lover;
she had **** curves and a deep, soothing voice.
I stood there, impatiently and quiet
waiting for Mr. Heidrich to finish the lesson
focused on the third seat violinist
whom played without feeling, again.
I stood there, overbearingly anxious
tapping on the shoulder of my wooden BFF
my rendition of the William Tell Overture
A performance worthy of a Grammy!
The man in the ***** pin stripe suit,
turned and looked at me, scornfully
his half-bald head turned beet red
body shook violently like an earthquake!
The energy released from his gullet
would have made Mount Vesuvius jealous
fiery vocals of curse and rage
would have made the evilest of demons run for cover!
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the 101st time I felt it's sting.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
There was an Old Man of Vesuvius,
Who studied the works of Vitruvius;
When the flames burnt his book,
To drinking he took,
That morbid Old Man of Vesuvius.
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There are so many sides to me...
A perplexing mixed identity...
A spliced yet whole menagerie...
Of characters...
To meet each one...is to be undone...
Touched...without flesh...
I am Vesuvius...just below the surface...
Molten malice merging...swirling...
The narrow Nile...
Meandering mildly...coaxing vexing perplexing...wildly...
A temptress...a child...a bitter diatribe...holding...no...unfolding...
This story...non-benign...
And this is where you come in...
Tumultuous tide...your raging winds...
A course-less calamity...to pursue...
That is not me...THAT...is you...
Unbridled...and unabashed...
Alas our toxic story line...how well embittered did entwine...our love...
Dangerous pursuit...then...you took root...
Off with the loot...
Of my misfortune...
I attempt to fold...
Forfeit my resentment...discontentment...
My own deliverance from you...
You disappear...no...transform
Retreat...from your chaotic norm...
Another type of magic trick...to capture my bewilderment....
Fully...
Fooly...
Folly...
Tears tremble on edge...carried swiftly from ledge...where they teeter...
Behind each one...is held an ocean...
A watery well...
Endless emotion...
Navigating features...dodging dignities plea...
WE...
Toss the currency of love into the depths...
Whisper wishes on the wind...
The downward dance...a wishes chance...
The murky bottom is but wishful thinking...
I should be rich off the wonder...
That put asunder...Our love...
I am Vesuvius...
Just below the surface...
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
I have touched and been felt
up the one side
around another
fed grapes by naked nymphs on
Mount Vesuvius , well, almost, it
is in my head along with Sunflowers
painted by Van Gogh,
Poems varying from Dylan to
ELO
telephone calls to home
from Vietnam,
or memories of a log cabin
on Silver Lake in the middle of Michigan.
Or is it all made up?
Funny looking back through so many years,
it is all so clear,
or is it?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
(As seen from Sorrento)
The blue of the sky dips sharply
to meet the ocean, a panoramic view
broken only by Vesuvius puncturing
the horizon. It rises a thousand feet
deadly in it's beauty;
it stands for all to wonder.
Proud and powerful, yet unconcerned
it sleeps; daring to be woken
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
A band without an audience
Two thousand years of history
An amphitheater
Vesuvius still is trembling
It always echoes through time
Eternity on the run
I hear **down, down. Down, down.
The star is screaming**
It shares its greatest secrets
Its always us and them
**And in the end
We're only ordinary men
How do you feel?
And if your head explodes with dark forboding too**
From the dark side of the moon
We'll set the controls for the heart of the sun
And call to you across the sky
We end to become echoes again
Vesuvius
Still
Trembles
At the glory of our music
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
my fury is vesuvius
and the heat will spill over
and destroy your light
light of pompeii
pompeii of the old
old darkness rises anew
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
you looked me in the eye and it was clear -
as my fingertips traced the outlines of your veins
(i can feel the blood flow)
i realized that you were already flowing through my own
(it makes me feel alive)
you were my heartbeat, dancing slowly inside my rib cage
(it felt like our favorite song)
standing firmly on my mind, calming my soul
as you slept underneath my skin
so if you are my peace, my tranquility -
then why are there moments of dreadful silence
(the calm before the storm)
when i can feel the fear rattling deep inside my bones
(*it whispers run, run, run*)
if we are supposed to be one and the same
(*don't you dare look back*)
then why do I feel like you are my Vesuvius
(he will bury you alive)
and I am your Pompeii?
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
(Plaster cast at Pompeii)
[THE TOUR GUIDE]
*“Ladies and gentlemen, here we are at Pompeii's
fabled Thermal Baths where heated water was
passed through duct work in the walls. One can
imagine Nero himself stopping here on one of
his visits.”*
[BONITO]
Bonito stepped out of the bathhouse and looked up.
Vesuvius rumbled - shaking ash and fire skyward.
Breaking into a run he sought the south road,
glancing back anxiously at the
vast dark cloud billowing down the mountain.
*"The principal city roads were recessed
and wagons were required to have standardized
wheelbases and clearances to fit in channels cut
into the stone. Follow me please to the residential
area.”*
He gained the road and his feet
pounded the stones of the “via stabiana.”
The cloud multiplied and fell on the city.
Ever deepening layers of ash clogged Benito’s path.
Heart pounding in his chest he lengthened his strides.
*“Leaving the opulent villas with their spacious
atria, we now enter the market area where we
shall see a display of remarkable interest. During
excavations, empty spaces were discovered in
the ash deposits.”*
The rising ash captured his left leg.
Bonito inhaled the fiery air and ******
forward into a burst of falling soot
but was unable to finish his stride.
*“Archaeologists poured plaster into the voids
revealing the outlined bodies of Pompeiins
trapped in their final moments. Take, for example,
this man caught in mid-step with no time
to escape the life choking dust.”*
June, 2006
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
Early morning
and I arose-
Without warning
you'd propose
to dose me sweet,
and you'd persist
to give a treat:
and so you kissed.
Your roses bloomed
around your pearls
and you resumed,
while my toes curled,
to kiss me soft.
(And although I lay,
I stand aloft
In early day).
Rupture *
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
I met him one night in December...
close to Christmas Eve
When I walked in he had
candles lit and some
scotch for us to drink
His peepers are dark and squinty
His laugh is warm and lovely
His voice is satin spiked with honey
He drinks purple-graped-red-wine
He resembles Dionysos
Nature as a male
He works with cryptic messages
Amalgams and
his speach is a rainbow of
different languages
Could of sworn I've met this
man in some dreamy
distant place...
Palaces of concertos ringing
when I study his copper face
I had a restless wistfulness...
A particular soulful malnutrition
That eventually dissipated
in our bathtub conversation
I swear I would cross oceans
In the hope that we might
meet again
I understand he has a habit of
diving into fountains...
He dances with gypsies on
the street
Sometimes I fail to see how
someone as worldly as he
could like someone like me
I call when he runs by Vesuvius
I want his extra time
I always forget the 7 hour
time difference but...
when we talk it makes me smile
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 12:02 AM UTC
adam and eve took the forbidden fruit
and were banished from the light of heaven,
the great warrior achilles was defeated
in his pride and grief on the grounds of troy,
mount vesuvius erupted and at once pompeii fell to ashes,
joan of arc was burnt at the stake in the name of her battles,
rome plunged to its failure upon the arrival of vanquishers
these are some of the greatest falls from grace,
and although time is filled to the brim with such,
the world had never seen an undoing quite as great as hers—
**she saw his face,
she heard his song,
and the rest became history.**
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 2:47 AM UTC
As the halo icicles melt
From the slender fingers of the trees,
They reassemble themselves
As sharp shards throughout my hair
And make me feel enshrined
In the Snow Queen’s palace;
Although slightly confused
As to whether her spell has worked on me.
For rage bubbles up inside of me
Like the volcanic lava of Vesuvius
As I carefully remove the icicles from my hair
And attempt to reassemble them
Into miniature castles,
Under the Queen’s command.
But then once the Vesuvius of my mind
Erupts,
Innocent soapy bubbles float out
And children shriek with laughter
Leaving Pompeii safe from harm.
But the ancient people worry anyway
Since historically-speaking,
Molten lava is scheduled to surface.
Should I then worry?
It hasn’t yet singed my pores
But rains have attempted to fabricate themselves.
Yet something has managed to hold them back.
I am not so grateful.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
It was the middle of December and you made sure to turn on your fan before you went to sleep.
It was the beginning of January and I suddenly understood why you kept your fan on as 'I love you' rolled out of your mouth like the smoke that loomed over Pompeii. You choking on your own words was a red flag. I guess the smoke was too thick for me to notice.
It was February and the lava began scorching my fingertips with each muffled 'I love you.’ Some people tried to run, I chose to melt to death.
It was March and I was hoping you were only cauterizing my wounds, protecting me from something more harmful. I was wrong. Nothing is more harmful than a natural disaster.
It was April and you had cremated me to ash. I realized your false ‘I love you’s were what caused the tectonic plates to shift.
It is May and I am still reminiscing on January.
In June I hope the fan in your room keeps you cool enough from the volcano that you are.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
Fair is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore,
Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies;
The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore,
As clear and bluer still before thee lies.
Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire,
Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps;
And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire,
Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps.
Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue,
Heap her green breast when April suns are bright,
Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue,
Or like the mountain frost of silvery white.
Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree,
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,
Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,
Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow.
Yet even here, as under harsher climes,
Tears for the loved and early lost are shed;
That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes,
Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead.
Here once a child, a smiling playful one,
All the day long caressing and caressed,
Died when its little tongue had just begun
To lisp the names of those it loved the best.
The father strove his struggling grief to quell,
The mother wept as mothers use to weep,
Two little sisters wearied them to tell
When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep.
Within an inner room his couch they spread,
His funeral couch; with mingled grief and love,
They laid a crown of roses on his head,
And murmured, "Brighter is his crown above."
They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet,
Laburnum's strings of sunny-coloured gems,
Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet,
And orange blossoms on their dark green stems.
And now the hour is come, the priest is there;
Torches are lit and bells are tolled; they go,
With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer,
To lay the little corpse in earth below.
The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry;
Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play;
The little sisters laugh and leap, and try
To climb the bed on which the infant lay.
And there he sits alone, and gayly shakes
In his full hands, the blossoms red and white,
And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes
From long deep slumbers at the morning light.
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I feel
Yes, I feel
That sometimes it is necessary to be cynical
There just comes that breaking point
Where you have to get out of your maddening mind
Face your own reflecting image in a mirror
And say those few words
Those few words that hold the truth
To your million faulting thoughts
"You're not as bad as you think you are, Gladys"
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
I am Vesuvius.
Beloved and seemingly sturdy and strong and safe.
People mill around my base,
Planting their food and livelihood in my soil.
People trust my seemingly sturdy and strong and safe appearance,
Not even considering the danger within me,
Until I erupt.
The swirling, boiling magma and the intense pressure form a deadly combination.
Everyone around me, everyone I hold dear is gone.
Everyone who talked and played and worked and lived near me is gone.
Everyone who utilized my resources.
Everyone that trusted me is gone.
It is then that I realize something about myself.
Inside that seemingly sturdy and strong and safe exterior,
I am toxic.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
Oh, brave new world,
What the **** is this
Phenomenal metamorphosis?
I was cocooned by Kafka in Prague
Drank too much absinthe
Shocked by Tesla in Budapest
Shot by Serbian snipers in the rabbit hole
Saved by Jesus in Rome
Had a hell of a time with heathens on a party bus
Walked the rim of Vesuvius
Met a gypsy princess
Came home to mama's basement
Finished reading The Names by Don Delillo
Went back down to Florida
Where I lived with grandma in Spring Hill
Fell deep for a siren
An angel who saved my life
Had a nasty fever dream
Hell broke loose and I wrecked my car
Flew back to Los Angeles
Went to church and prayed
Stayed and worked for the family business
Explored Hubbard's cult, smoked *** and played
Too many sins to mention
I must confess the motherlode
No human here is much like God
How sad it is to know I'm in control
A butterfly pinned down in hell
You can reflect your face or soul
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
My whole adult life,
I've been running into people
unexpectedly on street corners
and having somewhat profound
conversations in odd languages.
Consider the guy I spoke with in broke *** English
at the bus station in Jacksonville,
or the girl from Kiev I happened upon in
a very expensive gentleman's club in Seattle.
Herat was also a very strange place to find
oneself in, Dari and Pashto and Russian and God
knows what else might be run into.
The wonderful thing about all of the
ridiculous places I've found myself in at
one time or another over the very hungry years
is that no matter what language or background
we came from, if there was ***** we got along.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
grit sand conglomerate binds
friction holding - heel steady
tottering
navy lace snags
upon brick dipped in night
save for - street lamps poignantly
establishing form to
lips seeking
to traverse the topography of your structure
tongue craving - salivary essence about mine
my curls remember being dragged
across,
- then –
pressed firmly against the brick
snagging
on vertical groove and red clay
your pelvic bone
ground deep – pressurized
into dust against my own
Serotonin, oxytocin fuse
Blown -
Neural patina – thick
Pompeii to Vesuvius
Diffuse
Carbon filament lattice
Clings - to
ancient couple
cuddling
in ashen grave
Compressed densely
Perchance time will compress this grit
creating friction under sole.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC