Kilahuea

2001
We hiked across lava fields
steam rising in the distance.
Kilahuea, birthing new shoreline,
slowly spilling into the sea.

Lagoon House was our delight
on beautiful Kapoho Beach.
Delerious with plumeria’s scent,
we swam wth sea turtles oh so close,
in nearby Champagne Pond.

2018
No longer content with shoreline,
Kilahuea’s temper rose.
Eruptions spewed farther, fiercer,
gave birth to graveyards deep.

Solidified lava, fifty-feet thick,
buried that beloved place.
Homes gone. Plumeria gone.
Pele, Kapoho’s sole resident,
silent in her new abode.

Photos from our stay at the Lagoon House in 2001. That’s me floating/snorkeling in Champagne pond, just beyond the house. We really did swim with the sea turtles there. And we took our children and their spouses on a lava walk tour — obviously Kilahuea was very tame then – although it was HOT and hissing and the hardened lava was very sharp.

 

Kilahuea’s angry eruption in 2018 and the result today. The beautiful home we stayed in, and that entire area, is now covered by fifty-feet of lava. The last photo is a rendering of Pele, the goddess of volcanoes.

Thank you Amaya for our dVerse Tuesday Poetics prompt — to address “birthing” in some way.

Tanka with polytoton

Shadowed moon flickers
on windblown cornstalk stubble.
Red fox stalks its prey,
hunting through snow covered field.
Hunter in wool cap takes aim.

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Frank hosts dVerse tonight, the virtual pub for poets. We are to consider the polytoton: rhetorical repetition of words within a poem, but each time used in a different way (cornstalk and stalks; hunting and hunter).  
I’ve used the Tanka form: 5 line poem with 5, 7, 5, 7,  and 7 syllables.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! Image from Pixabay.com

Greening

Shhh . . .
follow me.
Walk quietly
thru stately trees
dew-kissed leaves
green glistening fronds.
Inhale. Breathe in deeply.
Fresh woods’ scent fills lungs.
Eyes shut, listen to forest sounds.
Birds sing, scamper, dart overhead.
Shrubs swish softly as critters scamper.
Forest tranquility.

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I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the vitual pub for poets. The challenge is to write a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. The poem must include the word “tranquility” (or a form of the word) within the body of the poem. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Did you know, according to a British Council’s survey of 40,000+ people from 102 nonEnglish speaking countries, “tranquility” is the tenth most beautiful word in the English language?  

Photo taken on our visit a number of years ago to the Crosley Estate in Cincinatti, Ohio. 

Respite

Rocking my soul,
surrounded by lush forest
as lazy loons float upon the lake.
Leaves rustle occasionally
while wooden slats creak
back and forth,
back and forth.
My soul dozes carefree,
enveloped in Adirondack calm.

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Posted for dVerse, Open Link Night Thursday. Photo from our recent family reunion in the Adirondacks.

Calendar Crazed

March,
that month after February,
thirty-one days before April.
A season unto itself.

A time for bluster. . .
pushy blow-hard March winds,
nature’s  ill-tempered signal
she is ready to move on.

Impatient crocus tips,
tulip and joinquil crowns,
clamor beneath the soil
desperately seeking warmth.

Sun tries to abide.
Sharpens her rays,
pierces leaden skies,
melts errant snows.

And we, with pens in hand,
cross off calendar days.
Like Sousa leading the band
we march forward . . .

wanting so badly
to pick up the pace,
to quick-step
our way to spring.

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I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, asking folks to think about the verse from Ecclesiastes quoted below. It was set to music by Pete Seeger in the late 50s and became a full-fledged hit Turn! Turn! Turn! by the Byrds in 1965. We’re writing a poem about “a time to/for ______.”  Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time, so you can find the exact prompt there.
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven:  a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.”

Seasonal Ditty

Winter kisses.
Snowflakes on lashes
tip of nose
caught on tongue.

Winter fury.
White-out curtain
howling winds
sleet and ice.

Winter warmth.
Wooly mittens
snuggle downs
‘neath gramma’s quilt.

Winter leaving.
Snowman drooping
puddles form
days grow long.

Winter gone.
Crocus pop-ups
daffodils shine.

5378634594_1149da7a53_b (1)De is hosting dVerse Quadrille Monday. She asks us to include the word (or a form of the word) “kiss” in our exactly-44-word-poem (sans title). Thought I’d go lighthearted today. Seems to me we can always use some smiles. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time….come on over for some smooching! Image from Bikes And Books on Flickr.

Midwest Winter

Frozen branches shudder-click.
Lonely sentinels
guarding empty Chicago streets.
Humanity hibernates
while nature wins this round.

One state over . . .

Country fields shiver deeply
as polar vortex rules.
Farmhouse chimneys puff outside
while Iowa hunkers down,
quilts and afghans piled on high.

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To our friends and family in the midwest, stay warm and stay safe!
Poetry form here: two tankas joined by “One state over” line.
First image from Pixabay.com; second photo is our old Iowa farmhouse we rented in the early 70s.

Music Returns

Earth warms herself
sun gazes more deeply.
Snow crystals liquify,
trickle downward
through softening hillside,
quicken to rushing rivulets.
Winter stillness disappears.
Stream babbles, meanders,
gains strength through shifting pebbles
as plant life regenerates.
Grasses wave to river’s symphony.
Nature steeped in spring song.

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Mish is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. “Steep” or a form of the word must be used within our quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Photo in pixabay.com