Nature Reflections

Joan’s poems play with words and invite you to hear and sound them on your ‘big screen’. There’s a rhythm, beauty and depth to be shared. Let the images take you to your realm of impossibility.

Listen to Joan’s May, 2013 blogtalk radio interview that considers ‘kicking up some spray’ in the youtubing world with a blend of word/movement/music:

The 2014 North Shore Writers’ Association Poetry Prize-winner, ‘Pink Water-lily’

Night-blooming Pink water-lily,  

            Nymphaea pubesens or hairy nymph,'we're always in varying stages of bloom'

                 opens her latticed ladyfingers

                       and fills the darkness with fragrance.

                           From muddy anchors, heart-shaped shoots

                                  lift up a round-leafed dais

                                         where she  fleetingly lingers.                       


                                                 She will not strut down

                                                        Light’s harsh catwalk.


                                                          I would be as cultivated,


                                        when to open,

                            when to deflect bruise and blemish;


         when to clench

against fear.


she does it all



Why, I’d hybridize and prize her,                          

while she, passes by my stigma

by way of her p…o…ll…e…n…   'we're always in varying stages of bloom' 




When one wonders, one ponders why.

‘I wonder if you could answer my question?

I was just wondering if…’

The astonishing awe of wonder.

The key to wonderland is our own curiosity…

Just wanting to know.

This spectacle for amazement is here, present.

S’wonderful, s’marvelous, s’what I want to see…’                       George and Ira Gershwin

‘Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I       may be in, therein to be content.’                                        Helen Keller

‘Wonderful,  Counsellor…Prince of Peace’                                 Handel

‘Star of wonder, star of night, star with roya.l beauty bright…’

‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are.’

Whether through a child’s wondering eye or our own… let our breath be taken away.

In the Eyja:    The Eyjafjallajokull Volcanic Eruption

When the Eyja-land’s mountainous icecap       Volcano Bromo, Indonesia stock photo

Shakes loose its entrails,

Our own are loosened, and

We pour out.





Is a cantankerous pot

Left too long to simmer.


The cauldron tips

In a flood of rock and gas:

Spewing, suffocating, poisoning,

In a ferment of boiling anger.

Spilling over land/sea and skyscape,

Eruptions plume and pulverize,









Side                                         to                                             Side


Cracking                                 Shocking                                  Shattering


Shocking                                  Shattering                                 Cracking


Shattering                                 Cracking                                  Shocking


When the storm clouds blacken,

Molten shadows

Obscure sense.

Thunderbolts belch

And we see ourselves


In a nervy network;


Spit and spilt on our own uncertain flight path.

Careening toward the abyss,


Wondering in awe.

Did its cataclysmic dis-ruption

Broaden our horizon?

We reach, strain, and groan to comprehend…

Humbled in the Eyja.Volcano Bromo, Indonesia stock photo

Revised from North Shore Writers’ Anthology, ‘Still Running’, used with permission, Rogue Literary Press, 2010 by Joan Boxall, all rights reserved

Moonlit Dance

“Dance with me,” Moon’s languid look                 colorful fantasy landscape stock photo

Rests on Palm, and she,

Skittish under his luminous spell,

Taps restlessly.


Her tympanic tapers,

Lustrous ones askew,

Chatter and connive

Across his radiant view.


Hair spiked and tousled,

A nervous schoolgirl’s wiles;

Stray strands wisp and fidget

Under his soulful smiles.


“Dance with me,” Moon beams,

But her fluttering lashes demure.

“You are the essence of Flora!”

Still myriad fans maneuver.


She, with moon-varnished mallets,

Arranging her billowing crinoline,

But Gust uplifts and sweeps her

Away from the enraptured simpleton.


Moon unwaveringly bathes her

Yet all to no avail.

Wind cuts in and dances her from

Moon’s spotlight  pearly pale.


Gust twirls her til she’s giddy

Encircling her every whim.

Veil upon veil, the rival’s wand

Casts out any notion of Him.


She welcomes his zephyr with a waltz;

His breeze, an erotic ballet.

Her hula, his waft; her reel, his gale;

Secluded under cloudy duvet.


What happened to our lunar orb

Obscured in layers of cirrus?

Shadowed and elusive

Behind a cumulus-nimbus?

colorful fantasy landscape stock photo

He, so distant an amour

Still makes lovers swoon.

In his tender, dreamy lighting,

He’s his own aloof lampoon.

Adapted from North Shore Writers’ Association Anthology, ‘Still Running’ by Joan Boxall, all rights reserved, used with permission,  Rogue Literary Press, 2010


Slacktide is where we go

When the shortest day

Kisses the North Shore,

Cursorily, its icy lips

Take off our lugubrious watch.


As winter solstice

Drifts the sun and moon,

We are pulled by a tide

Beyond our control;

Swept by its gravity,

Its ebb ‘n’ flow.


Inviting observation,

Feeding our senses

With mindless awareness, we’re

Ready to turn:

Incoming, inflowing

Freshening the customary.


The rise ‘n’ fall

Draws us from our un-well

Carries us away,

To merrily swim

Against it,  enabled

To redraw the map.


Riding the wave,

Dodging the rush,

Floods of memory

Detach, disentangle

In the delightful surge

That loosens the wintry bonds.


Turn it.

Let it rip

Our weighty seriousness

In two

As we peer intertidally

Along Hawaiin shores.

Adapted from ‘Wintertide’, Lynn Valley Literary Society Anthology, used with permission.

Joan Boxall,  all rights reserved, ‘Winter Woes & Wonders’, 2009

Late Snow

It arrived as Spring

Was deciding

Whether to come in

Or wait.

He who waits is lost!

‘He who?  Phooey!!’

With Its door open a crack,


Winter coldfronted.

‘Not so fast!

I’m not finish-sh-sh-ed…nyet!’

And down it came:

The fluffy blanket of frigidity

Frosting sprouts and shoots,

X-raying for one closer look.

Each filament, a delineated limb

Outlined in frosty, white contour;

Sharply contrasted

Against the threatening dullness.

Every shapely stem, sprig or spray;

Defined, outlined, distinct.

Each a chalkmark on a greyboard,

Etched with Its long, bewitching claws;

Unobstructed construction lines.

‘Yes, the foundations are set,

I like it,

It’s fant-arctically n-n-n-ICE:

My trademark:

Still life-less-ness…

Bring on the animators!’

Adapted from North Shore Writer’s Anthology, 2009, Rogue Literary Press,

used with permission, all rights reserved, Joan Boxall















Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *