#hill
A simple cottage
On a calm secluded hill:
Here contentment dwells.
~ Poetictouch
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 9:28 AM UTC
Once, on a green hill,
I met a sweet daffodil:
Lovely was her smile.
~ Poetictouch
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 11:06 PM UTC
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Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 7:36 AM UTC
I'm getting older in a few days and I'll be sober
sober from the euphoria of disney fantasies and delusions-
the delusions kept me going but when reality kicks in,
I'll surely discover that delusions are not the solution just a fragile facade.
Last week I saw my lost friends so I called my Ma,
I couldn’t bear to relive the suicidal fantasies and the drama,
even though I'd still prefer the embracing feel of a coma.
The smell of a vanilla candle keeps met tight,
because being a soon-to-be-adult is a lot to handle.
As death is creeping and waiting for an open handle.
Maybe because no one has ever told me,
that growing up meant losing your loved ones-
that growing up means working so hard until your back hurt-
that growing up means slowly fading into nothingness-
when you feel like your’e running out of time because you have
dreams to chase,
or maybe I'm just bad a handling these obstacles I'm facing.
I thought growing up would be fun
but all it's been is pressure,
pressure to succeed and be better than my peers,
pressure to be a flawless member of society-
but no-one said growing up would be fun
I thought it would be a walk in the park
but in reality, it feels like chasing a running hill.
When I was young, I always wanted to grow up so fast,
so that I could be an adult and free.
Now that I’m older I wish I could go back in time-
when I was nothing but a young child
yearning to grow up so fast.
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 4:58 AM UTC
i happy me ecstatic by happiness by bursts within
or mad at myself for the height of the hill?
brightness comes forward forward forward
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 6:09 PM UTC
A distant man stands
Upon the highest hill,
The morning sun surrounds him
And lantern smoke drifts still.
I've never seen his face up close,
Yet never thought to ask -
I've never felt the warm embrace
Of winter sun where he holds fast.
So up the hill
I dream to climb,
To reach the place
Where earth meets sky sublime.
The lantern glows
As daylight fades to cold,
And oily smoke rises,
Whisked like tendrils bold.
The Night
Through darkness now I trudge
And climb with aching will -
My goal sits gleaming
So tauntingly uphill.
But night wind howls its fury,
Bellows with wicked will,
Drives me stumbling downward
Until I'm at the bottom still.
Second Dawn
By morning light I rise again,
I grasp the earth with bitter grin.
Though the mountain towers steep,
I know that I will not grow thin.
Each handhold brings me higher,
Each footstep claims new ground -
The figure watching from above,
The seeker climbing upward bound.
The Summit
And when at last I reach the top,
I'll light the lantern's flame,
I'll watch the sun dance through the sky
And know I've won this game.
But as I stand here, looking down,
I see a figure far below -
An ardent soul who watches me
And dreams of heights they've yet to know.
The Climber
A steady man stands
Upon the highest hill,
The radiant sun beckons -
Another climber tests their will.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 7:54 AM UTC
and you wanna be happy with jmmy
you gotta get positive vibes
people out their are sad and angry
you do your job
and people are gonna be happy and calm
you do your job
you make money
but you get those vibes hard
that's the way you work if you wanna work with jimmy
"so you're saying if i work with you
i'll learn the value of a positive vibe"
if you work with jimmy
you gonna work hard
you make money
the people are sad and angry
eh that sounds just fine
Nov 22, 2025
Nov 22, 2025 at 11:53 PM UTC
We wish, we wished, we knew,
how the peace we make lingers,
magical thinking must not work,
but we were reared to really pray,
unceasingly, never failing to expect
to have, even as we uttered our amen,
peace enough to share,
by our own will
making our agreement amenable
in spirit,
and truth, as two parts
of all that ever may be, you and me,
in the way life happens where you and me live.
It is written, any judgement begun, where
ideas form words
to hold them in common, any truth
can be tested by its effect on a satisfied mind,
so when I say, spirit, you assume I speak of nothing
tangible in the natural, just something like a will
we let be today's good
in our local mind,
at the time,
to make us think,
before we use pre judged worths,
a dime, or a penny, today, ain't worth a wooden nickel,
-- I just remembered
when I was thirteen… Coke machines in Texas
sold bottled Cokes in six ounce bottles, for a Nickel,
and two empties garnered six cents, enough
for a soda pop and a piece of bubble gum.
That's how much things change in the space
of one measured neighborly Jubillee.
Whittling kindling is what honed knives are for,
I watched old men do it, and found it works,
look ahead to a winter fire easy to revive,
with shavings from summer whittle sessions,
making peace where none was when I woke up,
the whole world under old war rules running on,
but, while Jubilees are, done while considering,
just imagined, how debt erasure functions,
allows us freedom from
wrong reasons past.
We have all seen the size of Earth,
we all know our only neighbors are here.
We are a chosen planet, not a chosen people.
And on this planet, good people, make useful peace.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 2:50 PM UTC
I invite you to the greenfield,
At the corner of hope and love.
It rests upon the hill,
Overlooking a lake of blue water.
We will be in the company of
A solitary nut tree, heavy with fruit,
An old picnic table carved with scattered letters,
And a chorus of bees whispering to wild pink and yellow flowers.
A beautiful sunset will cast its light across the greenfield,
While the sky shifts in confusion—orange, red, and pink.
A blue butterfly dances, delighting in the gentle breeze.
A playful squirrel nibbles on nuts,
While a nest of birds sing in anticipation of visitors.
Together, we shall let nature read our minds,
Feel our hearts, and speak our words
Through its muted language.
Hussein Dekmak
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 6:32 PM UTC
We can not outrun a donut rolling downward..
That’s why losing weight is an uphill struggle.
But donuts can’t run up a hill, only fall behind.
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 6:51 PM UTC
Shady sunshine falls on a bright green hill
Chubby cheeks and ringlet curls
Frolicking around fat squirrels and dandelions
Spinning on a rope swing,
A blurry canopy of trees and laughter
Big smiles make us feel young
So we frolicked and danced
under the sun.
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 2:47 AM UTC
The hill I will die on,
Is that most battlefields aren’t worth dying on.
Some people see a mob,
And grab their pitchforks and their torches,
Without even understanding,
What they’re fighting for.
Perhaps they love the bloodshed,
Perhaps they love the gore,
Perhaps they feel righteous indignation,
And are adamant to settle the score.
It could be some primal need to fight,
Or some could be sure that they’re right.
Either way, I don’t see the point,
I understand that sometimes a war is just,
Most times, it feels like a bust.
A waste of money,
A waste of time,
A waste of precious human lives.
All for what? Some measly land?
How greed corrupts the righteous hands.
So the hill I will die on,
Is that some battles aren’t worth fighting,
That they aren’t worth the pain.
The lives they ruin,
The families they break,
The friendships covered in contusions,
The human souls that are broken and bruised.
All for what?
May 7, 2025
May 7, 2025 at 10:30 PM UTC
The wagon rode, laden with dreams,
Of clear happiness and fairy love.
His path was hilly, full of trees.
But he rode brightly inspite of.
The wagon rode and galloped slowly
Without any troubles and fears.
The sun shined to him tenderly
And forest gave him pure cheers.
The wagon rode and breathed a peace.
He went so breezily and calm.
It seemed that nobody again,
Never and never do him harm.
The wagon rode on tiny rocks.
And now he have to started home.
His home is sunless and no cheers.
His home is gloomy catacomb.
Apr 1, 2025
Apr 1, 2025 at 6:27 PM UTC
Up on the hill there's a plastic tree,
Are you here with me?
Is it another dream,
Or are you close to me?
Let’s set out at sea,
Spree to where you're close to me.
Cause you are my love,
My medicine that turns me into a dove.
When you're close to me,
In the submarine,
Does anyone know, love?
Or is this another dream?
If you can't get what you want,
Then come with me.
Close to me,
Like the plastic tree.
Up on the hill sits a manatee,
Drifted far from the sea.
Sitting with the plastic tree,
Are you here with me?
Just looking out for the day,
Just a dream but wont you stay?
Cause when there's a plastic tree,
You're close to me.
Feb 9, 2025
Feb 9, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
Paved roads of cars that roam
Are sure to grow weary on my bones.
And there’s a high hill close to home
Onto which I seldom venture alone.
How I recall those many days of yore
When we’d go fresh out in the morn;
And up that hill now far across the globe
Would stare for short eons into the fog.
Jan 22, 2025
Jan 22, 2025 at 8:05 PM UTC
~for Jill~
“from your messages”
elsewhere scribed, a
confession that your comments
be challenges like cool
well water drawn, a
fresh mix and minx,
a two flavored scoop
on a waffle (or sugar) cone,
mmm call mine, flavors of
inspiration and aspirations
it’s 2:46am, one would think
that a deadrose would know
better behavior, but up is up,
and down down down-come
tumbling words, as usual,
each screeching hoarsely
“pick me, pick me!”
uncover your note of appreciation,
side splitting laugh in shame and shock,
that spellcheck has altered intent,
one day, likely a cause of a war,
or e v e n a new poem
peddle a rose
became
“pedal a rose,”
invitingly nonsensical,
my point exactly
but the awake-too-late idiot,
can’t stop me now ~ urgency
has mastered my common
sensibility, thus commanded
me to write and shine
somewhere nearby,(1)
babies be borning,
and flippers of coins,
old humans too,
be expiring on the
sell-by-date
some surrounded,
yet all surrendering
Angels sent to
both sides now,
to ferry them
back home,
their adventures
completed or a
preface begun
Oh
for the ferryman
to ferry them
across rivers whistling
hello my darlings,
to a new home,
with a clean
writing tablet
to inscribe their
owned
future or past,
making their case
for a future or a
memorized posterity
I am dancing on the edge
of that first category,
dancing tap before that ——,
unwilling to cross over
and the angel sent
with collection papers,
mine and JoeBideen,
can’t touch us yet,
while in the middle
of our latest composition
(ya didn’t know?)
where in the world
has this to do with
pedaling roses?
the angels offer enticements,
write like the great ones,
sit at the feet of Leonard & Sylvia,
get introduced to the author of
“Leaves of Grass,”
who will amend and correct
(using spellcheck)
your own new scriptures
for rules From Above,
are carefully careless,
and don’t care about
impossibility so
leap with me,
onto a bicycle of roses,
each pedal a petal,
each tire of woven stems,
our destination is
everywhere, our purpose
to bring scent to those
who still have need to
breathe, and those’d who have
ceased
being needy
forever
filling nostrils
with colors of roses,
and finding poems
on the floor, full writ,
purposely scribbled
and scripted for just
a jilly one,
(just like
this
one)
just lacking a title,
just lacking a name,
customed for a single
customer, now a custodian
of a new born baby
poem
ready to be fedex’d
to its new owner
and deposited in
the this bank here,
right here
so thank you for
revealing my
inadvertent typo,
and aiding in my
quest to bring it to
a new life,
but must petal on,
for new babies are
being born and need
wrapping in a
a bed sheets of white petals,
fresh happily donated from
living roses!
3:19am
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 2:43 AM UTC
Take the Fragrance from the Flowers
and the Garden will lose its Charm.
Take the Hands away from the Clock
and Time won't ring an Alarm.
Take the Violin, from the Symphony
and the Dance Floor begins to Sigh.
Take the Rain, from the April Showers
and the Ground will begin to Cry.
Take the Tidal Waves, from the Ocean
and the Waters will be Calm and Still.
Take the Landscape from the Mountains
and the Sun won't set behind the Hill.
If U take away My Heart.
The beatings are still there Within.
I'll Love U forever and ever,
As your Heart is neatly tucked In.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 8:28 AM UTC
It’s only a short straight hill
(First Poem.of the Year)
“I'm 69, newly homeless, and can't wait to start the journey of a creative life after being asleep for so long. It's only a short straight hill and I'll be on a path into a new life.”
Jeremiah B Xxxxxx Jr.
<?>
it is
4:11am
on the
first day
of a new
year.
a year
is a unit;
mathematically
measurable,
defined,
calculable,
divisible
by seconds,
minutes,
hours & days,
all artifices,
mutually
acknowledged.
you,
& others,
remind
me too easily,
that the
creative
is the only
path
to endless,
(a unit immeasurable)
reinvigorating
life.
your fragrant
optimium optimism
is stun
gun overpowering,
the ill defined,
but instantly
understood,
immeasurable
distance,
you foresee
to life better is
conquerable!
”only a short straight hill”
imbues me to lift
head, heart, arm
& unloved dried ink pen,
to pen,
to unpack,
to speak,
of all that
needs climbing,
over the
artificial lines
of the first unit
of time:
a new year.
thank you.
Sun Jan 1 2023
NYC
Jan 1, 2023
Jan 1, 2023 at 7:54 AM UTC
21/11/3
the grass on the hill
speaks nothing until
our ears open with age
and the demons dark will
loses meaning
the soft melody
of piece sends a thrill
to the harbor of will
and causes a self
into being
action a skill learned
from birth to grave
we pay not attention
to continous pain
and we travel
Jun 6, 2022
Jun 6, 2022 at 3:35 PM UTC
I was a child, then.
When a stormy sea
filled the air with hope,
and salt.
And there were hills to climb,
to sit with you
at the very top,
in silent darkness.
Where we held our breath
and lied to ourselves,
about what was wrong
or right.
The years passed us by.
On that hill beside the ocean,
where we consummated
our long-awaited desires,
and I felt sparkles
on your lips;
The same hill under which
I found my reflection
in a muddy pool of water.
The grass beside it was so fine,
and so green.
A park bench at the top
of a sunset hike through
the native valley,
in full bloom—wildflowers
reflected our openness.
Sandpapery stubble
on your cheeks
matched the texture
between my thighs,
which I kept only for you
and nobody else.
The day I knew you would
never be back,
the empty voicemail box,
the repetition in rising
each morning, without you.
Mar 25, 2022
Mar 25, 2022 at 5:14 AM UTC
Paved roads of cars that roam
Are sure to grow weary on my bones.
And there’s a high hill close to home
Onto which I seldom venture alone.
How I recall those many days of yore
When we’d go fresh out in the morn;
And up that hill now far across the globe
Would stare for short eons into the fog.
Mar 21, 2022
Mar 21, 2022 at 8:24 PM UTC
Rhythmic
Tearing
Cow on grass
Settling rooks
Cross sky
All around
Sound playing
Scent
On wind
Descending
Sun
Gold leafing
The horizon
Obscuration
Veiling arc
And furrow
Crop
And shadow
Poplar lined
Fields below
Quiet here
Above
A moment
Passes
Contrast sharpens
Trees recede
Into darkness
Sun bleeds
Into Earth
Apr 18, 2021
Apr 18, 2021 at 7:18 AM UTC
Climb that hill
My teachers said
When they saw the words on the page
I climb the hill now
With the words in my head
And a notebook as my stage
Feb 12, 2021
Feb 12, 2021 at 2:37 PM UTC
At the top of a hill in a land far away,
stands a seedling alone; its leaves quietly sway.
It has nowhere to hide from the blistering sun;
there's no shield from the winds that frequently run.
Empty land – there isn't a bush nor a tree nearby.
It grows there all alone, but it is getting by...
On the nights full of rain and frightening lightning,
through a quiver of fear, it would stay there fighting:
"I want one day to grow to a big, mighty tree
with a trunk wide and strong that no wind could bend me!"
Its small roots would absorb murky water from storms
and by morning it smiles as a new leaf bud forms.
Leaf by leaf, day by day, this small seedling gets bigger.
Twig by twig, year by year; to grow large it is eager.
On occasion it would get a visit or two:
cheerful birds from the sky would come down to say Hi,
and a fluffy white rabbit would drop by, out of habit;
friendly ants, butterflies, and at night fireflies—
all would merrily chatter but too soon all would scatter.
With a smile, the seedling would request them to stay
but would always hear back: "I must be on my way!"
One day, curious, it asked: "On your way, where to?"
"To the woods down the hill, full of trees just like you!"
"Full of trees just like me..." no one heard it whisper
rustling leaves, as the air around it got crisper.
Leaf by leaf, day by day, it still grows but looks small.
Twig by twig, year by year; it's alone, after all.
Having grown tall enough, the seedling now sees it—
past the field down the hill—the one place all birds visit:
a majestic forest stretching wide—a green sea!
—with tall pines, mighty oaks, and other grown trees.
What a beautiful sight! It just can't turn away!
Wishes strongly the seedling, to be there one day.
It dreams of gentle sounds running through the lush crowns,
of the comforting shade that the woods surely make.
Stretching branches—now long!—
wishes it to belong...
Leaf by leaf, day by day, cries the seedling...
"Unfair!"
Twig by twig, year by year;
"Why do I grow out here?"
Very lonely, the seedling remains on the hill,
casting shadows dark, broad, keeping leaves very still.
Hoping that through the years, it will stop being sad,
and will once again notice that this place isn't bad.
It is there for a reason not easily seen:
for the birds and rabbits, it's a sheltering tree.
When they stop to say Hi, coming down from the sky,
they are looking for shelter from a summer day's swelter
or a comforting shoulder on the days that are colder.
Leaf by leaf, day by day, now an oak, it's grown tall.
Twig by twig, year by year; it's alright, after all.
On a very nice day, after cold driving rain,
in the grass, not too far, it saw something bizarre—
the sight so peculiar and oddly familiar—
a seedling so tiny it looked almost funny!
But the sun was hot—scorching, to the seedling's misfortune.
And the leaves were trembling, their form too much resembling
of the oak's lonely past. Stretching branches, lush, vast,
it protected the youngling that was, clearly, struggling.
In the comforting shade, it could stay unafraid.
***
At the top of a hill in a land far away,
grow a seedling and oak; their leaves quietly sway.
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 4:52 PM UTC