Volcano Woman (Series of One-Lined Poems)
Hershil is the second youngest writer I have collaborated with in my adult years. He is 18. Go ahead and think on that a bit.
Bursting in the flames, her head pokes out, happy to meet the onlookers who viciously stare at her in distaste, discouraged by her eruptions of grandeur.
Her hands provide shelter to decades of fallen woes, calcified in the corners of her heart, wishing only to be released at the perfect moment; a gush of hot love.
With only seconds remaining, she spits up newness, careful to keep the sea free of its bile, encouraged to share past generations with the instant of NOW, she loses herself in the clutch of today.
To shift the trajectory of windy waves, she stands; to add her warmth in those waves, she stands.
Don’t stop: let her flow, the love for gracious, the hate for rude, respect for worthy and disrespect for the unfit; let her blow.
Hot and molten stream of her wisdom, purifying the air, as well as land, by evaporating the impurities and burning the evil.
She is calm as well as violent, a forceful combination of exquisite headache, we bow down to her, knowing that at any minute, she could explode.