Monday, February 26, 2007

GeoPoetry

To master Geology and endless chronology,

A student must persevere and be stoic;

For the epochs and periods are all counted in myriads,

And that’s just for the era- Cenozoic.

My knowledge of Tertiary is really quite cursory,

Although it formed auriferous local gravels-

Which are known to abound, in the hills all around-

And the object of much of our travels.

I’ve found Rhyolitic Tuff, which is cream-colored stuff

Produced by eruptions gigantic

During Miocene time, when the average day’s clime

Was tumultuous, earth-shaking, and frantic.

One mustn’t be less heroic, to contemplate Mesozoic-

Going back to the period Triassic,

And the fossils vexatious, in the early Cretaceous

(Not to mention the intervening Jurassic).

To be really antique, one must quick take a peak

At the quite ancient Paleozoic-

When oceans of oil, formed in Permian soil,

And were folded in domes prehistoric.

The late Carboniferous, still not known as vociferous,

Enfolded the flora dendritic

In deposits voluminous- chuck full of bituminous-

Along with the hard Anthracitic.

Devonian I curse, but Silurian’s worse,

Ordovician I could never discern.

But Cambrian’s fine, it’s the end of the line

(going backwards)- no older ages to learn.

Now I’d be quite endorph-ic, if I could tell Metamorphic

From the Igneous and late Sedimentary;

So I make no apology, for avoiding Geology-

To me it is not elementary.

For every rock that is found, strewn about on the ground,

There’s a name just for it, listed way out there on the planet;

But just because it contains, both the light and dark grains

Doesn’t mean that it can be taken for granite.

I can scarcely resist the glitter of pale schist,

And in porphyries I’ve been known to exalt

But I’d rather dig warts, than sample more quartz,

Or carry home one more piece of basalt.

When prospectors find rich lodes to be mined,

Geologists are quick to explain

That mineral formations favor exotic locations

(If you understand the underlying terrain).

But explanations are hollow, that usually follow,

Miner and donkey’s stumbling on a rich tract;

Why can’t Geologists tell where the big Nuggets dwell

Before and not AFTER the fact!


Glenn Wasson





Gölbaşı (Turkey, Head of the Lake, 1971)

Wild ducks made a song to you

Swirling gracefully in your midst,

And the call of gulls was crystal-

As they wailed about your shore;

But you barely raised a ripple-

Taking all of it in stride,

While you softly washed my footprints

From your wealth of silent lore.

Can I sink into your silence,

Where the calm of morn prevails-

Leaving only time and solace drifting,

Like the foam along your beach?

Can I blend into the wavelets,

With their harmony of space?

I will seek your gentle movements,

Which may glide within my reach.

I embrace your glassy surface-

For serenity is your name.

Harold L. Overton