Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

Volcanic Lake


Around the rim a heavy rain that falls.
Slow and burning and heavy their she swoll.
It made no difference to the underbelly
of the clouds their dark side up.
Birds hung low and you so throaty had.
Green saplings shed their own leaves.
The button of a rose that grew from rocks.
Beneath the ink well of the sky the storm
grew still.
And love is sweetened by each breath she took.
The white sand she sits beneath her hips.
Is broad and wide.
And sliding down he fell inside and died.
She took him by the hand and kissed him there.
The only way to see the dusk
and silver twilight stars and paradise.

Submitted: Sunday, July 28, 2013
Edited: Monday, July 29, 2013
Listen to this poem:

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Volcanic Lake by Is It Poetry )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. Shipping Container, Marshall Gass
  2. Smell the Flowers, Joseph Narusiewicz
  3. Low Performances, Lawrence S. Pertillar
  4. Trivial Pursuits, Lawrence S. Pertillar
  5. "These doodles help me...", Jeff Gangwer
  6. "In a manner of speaking...", Jeff Gangwer
  7. "Can I just...? ", Jeff Gangwer
  8. SLEEPING NIGHT, Egbe Chris
  9. Doorways / Points of Access, Jeff Gangwer
  10. "...on the hook", Jeff Gangwer

Poem of the Day

poet Edmund Spenser

Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My love like the spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]