Around Wollumbin

[Two for the price of one; see note.]

I live on an ancient shield volcano 

deemed extinct, honeycombed 

by the Northern Rivers. 

In its old basement

during explosive phases,

or when magma moved 

through central vents,

shales and sandstones 

were ripped away –

to be preserved as xenoliths, 

inside the cooling igneous matrix. 

                            ***

The rising hot basaltic magma 

absorbed, by assimilation, 

pieces of continental crust:

xenocrysts (mainly feldspar). 

We find feldspar bits

along roads, in creeks ...

Once I drew a crystal being

with wild orange hair

who came to me asking.

He said his name was Feldspar.

Wollumbin, aka Mt Warning (public domain).

The channelled drawing mentioned in the poem 

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1998:

Written for dVerse Quadrille 255: 44 words excluding title and including the word xenolith. A xenolith is a fragment of foreign rock trapped inside a larger, igneous rock.  I couldn't resist writing a second quadrille, as second stanza, to include the word xenocryst, an individual foreign crystal similarly trapped. 

It's partly a found poem, in that many of the words and phrases are used verbatim from a Google search about this area.  These geological terms turned out to be so musical, I couldn't resist including them!

Protest

These days (elderly) 

I no longer march.

Instead I email politicians.

They reply, promptly and 

non-comittally.

I post things on facebook too –

things I read and agree with.

They seldom get any response

though my friends are like-minded.

Has everyone finally

succumbed to despair?

Written for dVerse Quadrille #354: I Protest. 

This Modern Life

My energy provider does not 

use AI to speak to me.

I love their customer care! 

Patience. Efficiency. 

A polite human

who understands my elderly

confusions on details.

Also, the quality of music 

playing while I wait 

in the ubiquitous phone queue

is excellent.

A quadrille in response to Sanaa's Q. 252 at dVerse: exactly 44 words excluding title, and using  the obligatory word 'care.'   I came off the phone from the experience described above, to see this dVerse prompt in my email, so the above pretty much leapt into being. Apologies if you were expecting deep and serious poetry! (But, believe me, this matter IS serious.)

That Childhood Game

 

I remember the huge puff

that blew the dandelion seeds 

all 

off

to fly away on the air, 

and you had to

get the lot

in one whoosh.

I can’t 

remember why – 

any of it. 

Something

about love … ?

Do you think 

I’m getting 

old?

A quadrille for dVerse's Q251 Light Burst of Air

(A quadrille is a poem of 44 words excluding title. And including one compulsory word, in this case 'puff'.)

Great Mystery

 

After dancing with him in the forest

one recalls few details – only the speed

of reckless feet, the rush of wind

through flowing hair, the giddying swirl

inside firm arms holding safe, and 

the after-taste of ecstasy. (He has

many names, the Horned God.)

Written for Quadrille 249 at dVerse. (44 words not including title, which on this occasion must include some form of the word 'horn'.)

Uninherited

I remember my father digging, 

foot on the spade’s top edge

pushing the blade further in,

Grandma twisting her trowel 

into the roots of weeds, 

breaking their tentacle holds,

and tiny me screaming, running

from a thick gelatinous earthworm –

never to be a gardener!

Written for Quadrille #246 at dVerse: a poem of exactly 44 words excluding title, which must contain some form of the word 'dig'.

Also shared with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #236, where we are invited to be inspired by one of the following quotes by Margaret Atwood, May Sarton, and Rudyard Kipling, respectively: 
1. “Gardening is not a rational act.”

2. “A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs, like life itself.”

3. “Gardens are not made by singing ‘Oh, how beautiful,’ and sitting in the shade.”

The above wasn't inspired by any of them, having been written earlier, but seems to be right on theme anyway!

My Bones

The bones of my body

are reinforced now

with calcium injections –

effective. Despite the falls (I 

am old) my bones don’t break.

The bones of my long life, 

however – the scaffolding, 

the structure, holding me, 

enabling me – are words, 

poems. Without them, how lost …

Written for Quadrille $245: Writing Down the Bones  (a title inspired by my all-time favourite book for writers, of the same title, by Natalie Goldberg).

I have been a little unwell recently – nothing to worry about, but it has turned off my poetic inspiration for a few days, and I have indeed felt at a loss. Thank heavens (and dVerse, and in this instance De Jackson aka WhimsyGizmo) for the Quadrille form, to which I can seldom fail to respond. It is 44 words exactly, excluding title, and must include a particular word, this time 'bones'.

My Town

 

In my town, silence

deepens as the night

slows to late.

From my hill, I observe

streets and houses 

settling down to bed.

An occasional dog.

A passing night bird.

One or two homing cars.

Then it belongs

to me and poetry

alone. Mine.

A second Quadrille about silence (inspired by dVerse) in response to a request from one of the others who answered the prompt, who wrote of his town and wondered what others might say of theirs in 44 words. (I'm not sharing this with the dVerse group as a whole, as we were only asked for one Quadrille to address the prompt, and mine is the poem I posted here just before this one. But it's fine of course if they happen across it.)

Poetry and Duty

 

Conscience tells me 

not to be silent.

When poetry is duty

is it still a poem?

But in these times, 

being human 

gives everyone the duty

the imperative 

to speak against

all the kinds of destruction

by which 

we are taking 

ourselves 

into silence.

A Quadrille written for Shhhhhhh.......Quiet, Please!  at dVerse. 

(Quadrille: 44 words excluding title – which in this instance must include some form of the word 'silent'.)

Bird, in This World

 

Bird, in this world, this

world of today, becomes

a symbol of escape – 

if only we could

take flight, soaring

into high air, away 

from war, starvation,

terrorist attacks and

homelessness …

our green home no longer

safe. If the economy

don’t get you, 

climate

Written for Quadrille #243: Bird is the Word, at dVerse.

(Quadrille: exactly 44 words excluding title, and including a given word, in this instance 'bird'.)