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Bristling green rice plants,
Make waves reaching the far hills;
Wind’s jugglery spooks!
If spirits can walk the earth after life ends,
Or even before, to soar in flights unhindered
By physics, let me dance then!
To reel, arms out, on a vivid green lawn
In a garden before a comfortable house,
Where lush flowers grow and summer reigns,
Touching rows of Constable trees that tower, emerald,
And violet-shadowed even at noon or painted
In twilight, soft before a rising moon.
I would skip over roads and find that field
That lies, protective, above the Connecticut,
Watching as it winds lazily northward.
Then, being sure that all is right,
That the corn is tall and full,
I would speed up to a rounded hill
Above a Victorian barn in Leyden,
Ten acres of rye grass for the cows.
I would stand at the summit and gaze
Far away, down the sleeping valley in its haze,
To the little towns and glittering in
The sun, my alma mater, towers
Of attempted wisdom, of spires and dreams.
Then I might then bathe in a little lake
Where I once romped with friends
After a wedding, **** and laughing
While puzzled farmers watched and leered.
As before I would flee to the river that wound
Down between the hills, splashing through
Pools in shade and sun, basking on smooth stone
Whose marbled veins glow in the canyon light,
Remnants of an ancient era, of pressure and time.
Then on I’d go, bounding from one hilltop to another,
Turning north from the cesium-laced Deerfield,
Passing Vermont’s border to stroll the streets
Of Brattleboro, Putney and Newfane.
I might find a canoe and glide up the West River,
Somehow floating above the rapids and dam,
To rest on the flat water as the sun sets,
Skimming lightly, watching the trout rise
To sip dancing insects or hear the splash
Of a bass as it flicks the surface with its tail.
And then I would sit with the ones I love,
Silently, breathing in the mist that rises
As the sun slips below the hills;
Sunset-colored, elliptical echoes
Catch the low swells like waving glass.
I would wait here until morning returns,
Not ready to leave this beauty or the world.
Reverie about the places I love.
flying high in my feelings
fearless and breathing
distorted and jaded
memories faded
from the end of time
alice in wonderland
flying high in the dark
on the way to
never land getting
lost in my innocence
in a perfect disarray
colours go astray
and later fade away.
© rainbows and sunshine 2018
agalwithwords Aug 19
I have not written anything since long,
Somewhere I have lost all the songs.
To rekindle my love for the rhyme,
Here is to my romance with an alpine.
 
I have been seeing you for some time,
Your beauty is just so sublime.
In summers or in winters,
You give me a special comfort.
 
When I step out of the door,
I turn around to see and adore.
No matter how I feel inside,
Looking at you fills me with pride.
 
In summers, I can see the dolerites,
Reminds me of the past it writes.
It screams with all its magnanimity,
To wear your scars with vanity.
 
In winters, whenever it snows,
And the cold air that flows.
Even though it makes me quiver,
I love the splendour it delivers.
 
The snow covered rocks on the top,
Makes you look like an old pop.
With your experience of ages,
It can fill up thousands of pages.
 
I will continue to admire you till the time,
You have welcomed me with a shine.
In a strange land of uncertainty,
You made me feel at home Kunanyi…
Whenever I look at you I fall in love...
Lady Luna Aug 5
An emotional block somehow filled
with depths and walls,
hills and holes
you can't climb over or out of.

Yet I manage to float over it all.
Fluid in movement like the water that forms in the skies
and nourishes the earth,
like the water that molds the fire
into stable grounds for life.
Title subject to change*
May Elizabeth Jul 16
There is a green sweater sewn to fit an old man,
Cigar smoke and stale coffee hang in the air.
Only a bright sunlight dances across the hills
Pouring in through the window and onto the rotting wood floor.
What if we find new places,
Escape the distant memories,
Memories deteriorating like the room we stand in.
Your hand in mine we can walk away,
We can walk away from your old sweater.
My friend, the hills are ours,
If only the roses don't bite.
I wrote this as an exercise for a class :)
TD Jul 13
I watch as the roaming sea
(whose wandering rivulets unravel
posthumous biographies
with nuances corroding
the mystery of untouched sands)
fills rivers with muffled words.

My eyes travel
(distances beyond our curdled whites
to shores whose cultured tones
roll like restless hills
lamenting their broken lines)
with ships and dying sunsets.

You are venturing
(to dive in mermaids' coves
revealing their buried tales,
wrapped in murky clouds
of tenebrous veins)
and I am content

--to whisk a limpid hand
(in churning waters' waves
reflecting your seeking gaze
and the wanderlust
that simmers)
through my most desolate sighs.
Sweetly roll the summer hills,
Swept up by silky seeded grass,
That bends above the lark’s soft nest,
Beside the tracks of milky cows
That once grazed content,
            And then ambled on.

Gently roll the summer hills
That start the Alleghenies,
Crowned by standing timber
Not felled by pioneer;
Where coyotes sing their hunt and ****;
Where deer hide their spotted fawns
           In stillness and in hope.

Onward roll the summer hills
That drop to dusky rivers—
Fed by streams of winter melt—
Which shelter scaly fish
Marked by a shining rainbow,
Who twist through murky waters
      To pools of cooler depths.

Sweetly roll the summer hills
To sounds of lurking thunder,
While clouds suspend their misty flight
To drench the farmer’s pasture,
Culled from rock and limestone beds
Amended by the fodder of horses
        pulling old-time plows.

I walk the hills, along the paths
That scramble through the boulders,
Left by glaciers in retreat
And shrouded now by laurel,
I climb to make the pinnacle
Before the sun drops lower, to breathe
        the evening’s clear bright air.
Wass Jun 18
Swathes of swollen, rolling hills
With chops of fluffy, dry grass scattered over. It’s nice knowing they’re also not perfect, no one has cleared away they’re loose ends.
Silver, bumpy cloud fluff is grasped and pulled along through the air.
Blowing wind is picking up planting a chill on my arms raising the little hairs like baby fuzz.
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