Sandra and I talked about rocks and rock-hounds, those who see something in every rock. She gestured toward the landscape: “This was once a lake, those hills part of the shore. There’s lava up there.”
The Stranger: Sandra
The Word: Lava
The poem I wrote:
Like a boy unfurling
into man or stone,
this lava rock
splits its memory
between desert and water.
What used to be,
it is. Pick up the past,
handle it softly.
The Challenge: Do you have a poem in you on this word? Write one here.
December 5, 2018 at 4:35 pm
It found its home in the kitchen
that grayish bar
with the texture and name of volcanic rock
Lava soap
for hands like my father’s
with thick blunt fingers
familiar with grease and oil
unafraid of paint and dirt
hands that built and fixed
drilled and wrenched
but once washed
could still take hold
of a small girl’s hand
on an evening walk
December 7, 2018 at 8:20 am
Island Life
It wasn’t long ago,
maybe yesterday
that I was lava on a downhill,
the world, wispy grass,
soft wood coconut trees.
I smelled of sulphur fumes,
vented an ash plume…
Red-hot me.
It wasn’t long ago
that the air cleared,
ivory clouds
floated shadows
on my path.
I saw the ocean,
grey and waiting.
There is no downhill
from here,
only sand
that remembers life as basalt,
and wonders how it granulated
so quickly.
I wonder, too.
How to collect soil from the wind,
lure seed life to my crevices,
protect it there,
in sight of the ocean.
December 10, 2018 at 10:12 pm
Fever
Hands in my lap
I watch as your
Body writhes
Lava burns through dilated veins
Restless
Sheets soaked
Eyes bright–
Fever breaks–
And, glassy-eyed, you settle into stone.
I, the ocean around your island, contort into currents
To spoon you in your sleep
December 14, 2018 at 9:03 am
So Much in Love
A single lava lamp
sends thousands of
sparkles dancing around the
tired off-white walls
splashing colorful primary-color dots
on cast aside
velvet bell-bottoms
threadbare tie-dye
polyester un-mentionables
while the lovers’ passions
erupt with
lava-like rhythm
pulsing with the sounds