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A tumultous storm is passing the valley
and I am stuck in the midst
nowhere to hide and nowhere to go.
I try to walk towards home with my rainbow coloured umbrella.
My abode on the hill nearby,
and an uphill task to go,
the gale is growing stronger
i just can't slow.
The heaven has been unfriendly
not answering to my prayers
I slipped a million times as He wanted me to scare.
The strong roots of the trees have held my hand firmly
not gushing me down
as a true friend in poverty.
The rain spoilt my umbrella, the seven colours faded
I faced the heavy drops as my parasol betrayed.
Toiling to crawl up
the rain was failing to stop me from going upstream,
the nimbus this time is ghastly than ever
but i will have to return to my dear ones
albeit bruised from head to toe,
none to hear my scream .
Both rain and me are bleary and had to pause now,
the firmament is clearing up with the sun, peeping through the clouds
and I am nearly near my hilltop house.
The sky was happy to see me alive and
gifted me my rainbow umbrella as return gift from above,
I tasted glory in the rainbow from the hilltop
and my abode.

Bina Mukherjee
How does a rainbow tastes like?
TIZZOP Sep 2020
today's my birthday, 500 piece of cake
my heart racing, rapid heartbeat, amg baby
don't look for me, i'm waiting in the snow,
or under miami's sunrise, nuns are now sinning

lyrics for dogs, i want to come right now,
more powerful than a coup d'etat
tizzop is like the klitschkos, jebote
talking yugo like boki, but remain german like turbos

all is melting, it is frankfurt am main
my heart racing, riding the amg, baby
you can book me now, gig on the hilltop
you ain't gotta look for the snow, bo

rubix cubies full of magic, sensational gadgets
the crowd is filling the castle and stars
are raining down, you close your eyes
you close your eyes. escaping into the night
Frippin' into the night...
annh May 2020
'Actually, my friend in Taranaki makes the stars. I combine them with my own elements and string them into garlands,' wrote Makery. There was an element of apology about her words. As if she’d been rumbled. As if someone had confirmed the voice of self-doubt that whispered in her ear, 'Who do you think you are, calling yourself an artisan?'

Stringing things together is applied artistry - whether it be words, Scandi-style stars, or fairytale mushrooms threaded on candy coloured twine. We are all hunter-gatherers who construct our creations from discovered elements. Some transmute received knowledge into constructed knowledge. Others beachcomb lexica for found syncretic treasures. All aspire to contribute to the infinite compendium of human self-expression, to create something which says, 'This is who I am.' With the silent addendum, 'I hope you like it.'

'Creating is living doubly. The groping, anxious quest of a Proust, his meticulous collecting of flowers, of wallpapers, and of anxieties, signifies nothing else.'
- Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays
Colm Jul 2018
Thoughts which echo
Like the sounds of Ray LaMontagne
Through the somehow and the same
Bounce back and off these northern stars
And slowly fall
Down beneath our feet, this hilly plain
My heart it's like paper.
Debanjana Saha Dec 2017
How nature blooms
Is a precious experience to pause
And watch
In the oasis of fog, mist and wind blowing all over
Chills & thrills exposure
of the ambience
speeding through the roads.
It feels like heaven
Full of love, with a kiss of the first ray of the sun
I took a deep breath
as much as I could
Sensing the myself alive
In this beautiful dreamy land
a sense of belongingness
Saying to myself that
yes, I do exist.*

-19 Dec, 2017
This on the early morning where I watched sunrise on top of a hill. A journey which is worth thousand times more than anything.
A reality check to feel life all over again and learn how to appreciate smallest things in life.
Seema Aug 2017
The hilltops from home,
Look like an old man's beard.
Bushy all the way.
Tracks are setup for hiking,
Beautiful scene from above.

5-7-5-7-7 syllables
no less than two hundred souls lie
        clustered along the shoreline
        lowland they call a town.
there where the hilltops look
        below, where salty waves
        in unending sequence
        lap the rocks.
the foam floating still is fading
        and the icy gloom of night is gone.
the tug-tug of the diesel engine
        interrupts the balmy silence
        of the sleeping town.
        here is a variant
        (or is it?)
        on new island soil
        tread one another foot.

away now from the busy hum of
        factory, from the hurrying trucks,
        daredevil drivers, the unwelcomed
        whistle of the morning train,
        from the strained scream of the
        lumpia vendor, from the sophisticated
        melody of nightclub music, from the
        alms-begging cries in crowded sidewalks,
        from pretending graded glasses seeking
        sheep-skin, high-pressured ticket seller.
        away form the honk-honk of waiting
        limousines, the haste of presses
        accommodating headlines, the cackle
        of the radio announcer.
        it takes a sea to part the two,
                and many others more, yet the
                watery distance do mend the broken
                piece-part of the broken whole.

broken by the water barrier, part of
        the broken scheme – a stray mass
        the grown untamed.
blame it on the ills of war, a frenzied
        sickness, a cancer-growth.
        a callousness undisguised
the city’s pleasure is a farmlife’s
        leisure and these
        in different garbs exist.
not even mindful of the worms
        that eat up the human heart,
        like a rotting fruit.
with colored goggles
        the hue is blood-red and shady black.

o city of pain,
vineyard of desire
o burial ground
        where lay bedfellows
        they who came, stayed, gone,
where stumps and leafless trunks
        are bare to the sun,
        breathless and devoid.
while fingers are busy
        counting metallic coins.

no, not a flood shall cleanse
        this wild and wanton fleshliness,
        nor upturn the barren farrows,
        not the rise of the tides
        nor the fury of the winds
        not even the whiplash of a strong hand.
the deluge in every clayey figure
        in the farm and furnace.
the going up beyond the worldly
        watermark of the passing tide
        that is man.
the man
        the self
                is the starting point
                from which the line
                        of the circle revolves.
                        and in our chambered brief hours
                                of aloneness, shall speak
                                a shrill deep-seated voice
                                to which we shall be all ears
                                        and shall tremble.

— The End —