Caterpillar dawn
creeps across the ocean
slithers into night’s domain
eating the dark
Chrysalis clouds and rain
obscure daylights return
but butterfly day
will spread her wings
ragged and soft to begin
stiffening into glory
Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Sun glints pierce my eyes
as we hit another wave
rise
slide into the trough
the apogee
our horizon is limitless
oceanic expanse
seemingly bereft of life
the unharvestable blue
then the cackle of dolphins
arrests our attention
away from the discipline of waves
Snub noses pierce the surface
laughing beeps beckon
closeby
then further into the swell
we hesitate and a challenge is issued
repeatedly
until we speed up and run alongside
then within
an enormous crowd
of joyous fellows
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Flying over cities is glorious
London’s furnace reaching for the sky
The nested curving of Amsterdam canals
England on Guy Fawkes Night
Firework chrysanthemums blooming upwards
Colouring the belly of the plane
Shimmering ice dazzling in the cockpit
So many planes alongside
Taking the polar route
Diverting around a war zone
Noting shell bursts far to portside
Glamorously frightening
Heading out across the Atlantic
Passing over container shipping
Waiting for Azorean volcanoes on the horizon
The miracle of heavy flight
Watching Jumbos lumber into the air
Carrying hopes and dreams
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
In the middle of the bright Atlantic
Floating on the swell between island volcanoes
Beneath reflective surface tension
Silvered gas bubbles catch the light
And, across the issuing rift
A long snake of data cable
Broken sheared twisted
As the gas breaks the surface
We hear voices
Blogs bubbling to the top
Instructions to buy or sell
A thousand tiny voices
Sparkling in the sunshine
Several parrot fish swim by
Next day when snorkeling
I fancy I hear fish blogging
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
This poem was published by the wonderful Helen Ivory on Ink, Sweat and Tears: http://www.inksweatandtears.co.uk/pages/?p=12491
Airport bubble
that tinny echo
of voices
Flight delays
a drifting of time
being stuck in place
Life suspended
until our
gate is assigned
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
There are never enough photos of Pico
Says he, as he takes yet one more
The light has changed again
And the mountain looks about to roar
We’ve flown over and around her
Driven along her lower slopes
But the best view is away from her
From little Horta’s shore
The mountain slumbers on
Fuji slopes gracefully curving down
She glows rose in the dawns light
By midday she can glower and frown
Clouds drape her and embrace her
Shadowing scree and walled-in grapevine
However far we travel away from her
Somehow that volcano is always mine
Copyright © 2015 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Re-blogged from 2015, about my favourite mountain, Mount Pico in the Azores.
Wind flaps the shade umbrella
Bats swoop to drink at the pool
The kayaking forecast is doubtful
Portuguese Man of war in sight
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Distant splashing, laughing voices
And all around a happy din
The constant singing of birds
I wake to see another ferry
Unloading
Across the tranquil bay
Mid-atlantic paradise
Sumptuous with life
Where I always want to be
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
The taut freedom of my swimming costume
The choppy ocean swell
I share the water with fishes and rays
Floating on the reflection of the sun drenched sky
The water embraces me, the breeze strokes
I float in a bath of sunlight
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Re-blogged from 2017, to celebrate visiting the Azores once more.
Large green leaves lean lushly
against crater walls
palm trees and pines jostle for space
Flowery grasses spotted with inevitable hydrangeas
(blue invaders of our hearts)
line the dirt road to the vent
At the carved curving stairs
our descent into a dreaming volcano
begins
Fumes fill noses and heads
Hades once writhed here
and scents it’s promise of return
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Another poem inspired by a visit to Furna do Enxofre, an empty magma chamber on Graciosa island in the Azores. Empty of magma, not fumes….
…the painting is my own, and one of several of the vent….
