"foothill" poems
He had a red raised bump from writing too long
Now, I feel a proud resistance from my 36 ‘o clock shadow’s frill
Summer cicadas, on Cranfield Road, always sang their song
and the sun set behind our blue Appalachian foothill
Now, I feel a proud resistance from my 36 ‘o clock shadow’s frill
I got to shoot Dad’s 30/30 rifle when I was fourteen
and the sun set behind our blue Appalachian foothill
No other Bayless has ever seen Peru’s countryside eaten in fire and morphine
I got to shoot Dad’s 30/30 rifle when I was fourteen
but Mom has always been a vegetarian (except for some fish)
No other Bayless has ever seen Peru’s countryside eaten in fire and morphine
Cheese, fruit, and silence is our favorite family dish
But mom has always been a vegetarian (except for some fish)
Mimi and Leiron love cats and Pops and I on ink relied
Cheese, fruit, and silence is our favorite family dish
Mimi’s glasses, shaken by sobs and laughter, fell off when he died
Mimi and Leiron love cats and Pops and I on ink relied
his dead lips were painted a shade too red, inexcusably
Mimi’s glasses, shaken by sobs and laughter, fell off when he died
The trashcan in my room was filled with murdered versions of his eulogy
his dead lips were painted a shade too pink, inexcusably
Summer cicadas, on Cranfield Road, always sang their song
The trashcan in my room was filled with murdered versions of his eulogy
He has a red raised bump from writing too long.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:44 PM UTC
Enter Lizzy in the foothill forests & Loki up in the mountains
Both say their hymns separately initially.
Loki at the mountains
Loki: I am so happy of my freedom
Lizzy in the forest at the foothills
Lizzy: I can't imagine of a better situation
Loki moving down the mountain
Loki: But I want a true lover to mould me better
Lizzy moving towards the mountain
Lizzy: I now want a true lover to honor my feelings
They meet each other and conversation follows
Loki: How could I come across such a beauty!
Lizzy: Even I think likewise, you are so handsome!
Loki: Come, let's make love right now & right here.
Lizzy: How could you ****** me so easily, is it a magic.
Loki: My name is Loki, I'm the God here and you should fall into my arms listening this.
Loki transforms into his celestial form.
Lizzy faints seeing Loki's transformation as she realizes that it was the dreaded-scheming Norse God.
Loki catches her as she faints and takes her to his cave on the mountain.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
Aspen, stands by river,
Shouting out the noonday sun,
Dwarfed by foothill mountains.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
Aspen, stands by river,
Shouting out the noonday sun,
Dwarfed by foothill mountains.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
Curve of tangent brims on rune of cosmic quantum,
as sparkling rays reel through dew drops at dawn,
for green to enlighten creation by bounty of joy,
meadow grass seems to tumble drinking solace,
resonance of love sprees like beauty of blossom.
speckles of white crystal repose in home of blue,
eyes bespeaks of ethereal exist to seek beyond,
sun awakens earth to uplift from sheath of night,
as if hale of eternity expands to abound beyond ,
petal draws portrait of spark to inflame fragrance.
silence quells grief of soul to emblazon by the journey,
for each drop of tear to absolve guilt of own delusion,
light of love wakes heart to disown from quailing grace,
cry of call genuflects at foothill of warmth to yield unity,
synergy of art evolves to form by sanity of confluence.
Innocence blushes like cadence of hope to run a muck
quest still falters to know very principle of uncertainty
mystery baffles truth of reason to reason out belief
as tendered mellow soft weaves to gather web of love
yet don't we need to learn theory of quantum solace?.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
Aspen, stands by river,
Shouting out the noonday sun,
Dwarfed by foothill mountains.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
Aspen, stands by river,
Shouting out the noonday sun,
Dwarfed by foothill mountains.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
On this side of the bridge,
Between time and eternity,
A foothill to the Necropolis,
Rises the cathedral.
The remains of St. Kentigern
Maintain it, the founding Father.
The spire tops the cruciform
Pointing the way to Glorify.
Within, walls are embedded
With plagues, standards and swords,
Praising foreign campaigns
And distant expeditions
Of long lost brave hearts.
Pilgrims stand silently;
Tourists nod quietly,
Pointing at remarkable achievements
Of Empire, and the young,
Beatified on distant lands.
The fading banners protest:
For this I gave my all, my best.
The stones are cold,
The windows stained:
In the crypt, St. Mungo lies,
The foundation of all
That died.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
*Aspen stands by stream
Shouting out the noonday sun
Dwarfed by foothill mountains*
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
All my friends they smoke this things
And handed me a Chesterfield King- Jawbreaker from Bivouac
Lyrics I tried to memorize
with my friends, while *******
on the syrup crusted
mouths of glass coke bottles.
Singing loud and off key.
On the side of a Ralphs in the stagnant summer swelter.
The soundtrack song when being a punk skater
was a profitable venture,
and landing a kick flip was an achievable
wet dream.
When we could play Lane’s boom box
just loud enough to drown out the whimpering
from our sprained ankles
and scraped up knees
that left the sidewalks on Foothill blvd. so ******
The music we were hearing now,
was way beyond Sunday school.
It was the sound of the sixth period bell,
and rushing to Jeff’s backyard
to smoke his dads cigarettes.
As we got older
We tried to quit the smokes
and forget the lyrics. But sometimes
we’d still proposition people
on the side of that Ralphs
to buy us cigarettes.
When we succeeded
We’d sing that old song coughing, hissing, and wheezing.
-Kevin Theal
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC
My father walked on the roof
at night alone.
He used to come to his son’s home
seeking summer’s relief
from his nine month’s home alone
at the Himalayas foothill.
But he couldn’t leave the chill out.
His seven decades of mind
defied his frail frame
as he hugged the plain’s winter
without a woolen
painting summer on my roof.
Rarely I would be with him
but when he came down
he would speak animatedly
the constellations he had seen
the milky way
about the quarreling owls.
Wish I were there with him
all his nights on the roof
making four wandering eyes
looking at constellations
marveling at the milky way.
Now on some winter nights
I go to the roof alone
without my son
remember father
my heart aching in the thought
One day my son too would come
Alone
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child
that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks
My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.
after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,
writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes
light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once
Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
I sleep with the window open
The air, now chilled with autumn, rushes in to sap away my resolve
Waking me from troubled sleep
Covered with only the thin blue cotton sheet from my college days
Comforting, though it’s hard to gauge when last the warmth of another supplanted the foothill of blankets amassed beside me
The loneliness of night:
When only cars pass below
Sounding like freight trains as they clamor over the slab of steel prostrate on the ground
Protecting the suspensions from the pockmarked face of asphalt
Each a brutish chime filling my apartment
The stark vulgarity lashing out
A garbled cry, anguished and dejected
Dragging from my subconscious
Memories of a different time
Now free
Jostling for position and attention, as though I am the jester king
Holding ghostly court
Clad in the stark regalia of bitterness years in the making
Pour me a glass of that vintage and to what shall we all toast?
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
Come with me. Here’s
the secret trail. At the edge
of the potato field, crouch through
the barbed wire fence. Pass the stone
foundation of an old homestead.
Enter the maple forest, the green oven.
Bake, slowly rise like a gingerbread figure.
Follow, it’s fine (there’s no witch).
Release rivulets of sweat.
This is nothing, the foothill.
Listen: the purr, the burble, the rush,
the small canyon of Catamount
Creek. Remove boots, splash yourself.
Splash me. Cup water in hands
to pour over the face. Let water dribble
inside the shirt, drip to the shorts.
Relish the shock of cold
against hot parts.
Work uphill now, at last
out of the trees into the land of
wild blueberry. Pluck, taste
tiny tight nut-like explosions of blue,
so intense, so different from store-bought.
Gorge, let fingers and tongue
turn garish. Fill pockets.
Climb with me now among rocky
outcrops like stair steps to the Funnel,
a crevice where from below
you push my bottom, then from above
I pull your hand. Emerge to a view
of valley, farmland, wrinkles of mountains
like folds of flesh. How far we’ve come.
This is the false top.
Catch your breath, embrace the vista,
then join me in a scramble up bare granite,
farther than you’d think, no trail marked
on the endless stone but simply
navigate toward the opposite of gravity,
upward, to at last a bald dome
chilled by blasts of breeze.
At the top, sit with me, our backs against
the windbreak of a boulder.
Empty your pockets of blueberries. Nibble,
share — above the rivers,
above the lakes, above the hawks,
among the blue chain of peaks
beyond your outstretched tired feet.
Appreciate your muscles
in exhaustion and exhilaration.
We have made love to this mountain.
Hear a sound like a sigh from waves of
alpine grass in the fading warmth
of a lowering sun. Rest.
After this, the return
is so easy.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
i have spent sentences like
cheap trade-offs,
decreasing their worth
in the currency-exchange where your lips meet.
it is not my fault you cannot afford
a single letter.
i have spent time like
hour-hands are suggestions,
as if pride made the minutes move faster
so i pushed it in the drawers of my chest
and threw away the key
pretending my love does not move mountains.
it is not my fault
you cannot stop counting seconds,
it is not my fault you are always waiting,
and i am always watching you get ready to leave.
i have wasted parts of myself,
thrown them entirely into your puzzle
your fix-and-repair
all sad-faced and
taped up with glue and apologies
i have sacrificed my sunlight,
my clouds,
my hurricanes and shifting plates
in an attempt to make you whole.
i have always been ashamed of the destruction,
i know
my love moves mountains,
it is not cruel.
that does not mean it is kind.
i cannot fix you
no matter how much i give,
time, words, sunlight, clouds,
i have given you my breath but
i cannot put air in your lungs.
it is not my fault that
in all of its destructive glory,
my love moves mountains and
you can't even climb
a foothill.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
Undulating by the beckoning of the wind,
Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins
Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets
Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak
Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms
Visceral is the movement of the procession,
Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill
Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is
Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.
Warlike, the battle up the slope claims the lives of those already claimed
Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict,
Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
The further we walked
the thicker the blonde grass grew.
Soon it was grabbing
at our legs.
We couldn’t carry on
a conversation anymore.
The surrounding landscape
swallowed any desire.
“A huge human head, ahead.”
We approached a foothill
with the curve of a scalp
and a roaring view of a nectarine
sliding down behind the horizon.
We followed a drifting trail
overlooking the dam.
Dusk had turned the water
into pineapple juice.
A metal gate sprouting
from the ground
interrupted our silence.
“This might be too tall.”
I tried to climb
despite my fear of heights.
I wedged a foot between the bars
and reached as high as I could.
My strength broke.
It was too tall.
Apr 28, 2011
Apr 28, 2011 at 9:47 AM UTC
at my foothill of persona
and of our pixelated dynasty
begins an Everest journey
of a stalemate
of hopes
and expectations
of intimacy
and socialization
4 years in expectation
4 years in perilled ranges
through cold and lonely
through barren unseen valley
through 1251 miles
close enough to see the Northern lights
never tall enough to hold them
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
Tonight, deep in
residential woods
at the foothill of the
butte who towers
the city-
the needle touched
the record
and Tenderly,
Tenderly played
you spoke to me
in quiet,
in silence,
and my stillness
was the counter
that you needed so
I made a deal with
fondness-
to open the most secret
vaults of my vulnerability
and sell my soul to hope
and design
at Fox Hollow's
smokey dusk,
with you
I shook the hand of love.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
and friendship is underrated
the more you Romeo-n-Juliet things
the less you see of your surroundings
*** isolates
friendship joins
a crowd a fest all one voice rolling
******* is the mt. top
friendship is the foothill
climb too high
death will meet you at the top
thinned air petrified growth
thrumming bountiful growth
******* promises ****
that it can't follow through on
friendship just is
effing flakes out
friendship stakes out
waits listens doesn't try to fix
eff **** buddies
i need more friends
let's all get high on friendship
...
..
i mean
uhm
im still gonna ****
but
i jus need more friends
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
I am seated in a bed-like rock
Under the foothills this is a single block
The Sun rises behind my back
Though I face hills in the west, its rise I could track
The dawn delightfully unfurl
Mother nature decorates herself, like a girl
The valley is full of greenery
This is a soul soothing summer scenery
Flies are flying in group
With joy and strength, to recoup
Honey bees are busy flying from one to other flower
A fresh flower spreads the fragrance in the air
A group of sparrows fly at a low height
Jubilantly enjoying the new light
A tiniest sparrow dances by jumping from one leaf to the other of a plant
On seeing this, I too wish to jump out of joy, like an infant
Peacocks register their scream from a nearby place
I could hear well, as this area is ruled by peace
From a distant rock, a pair of peacock looks
Displaying the richest colors of their outlooks
Birds potentially program their offspring by singing to their eggs, at a short distance
One may think that they raise the voice with a grievance
Before me, a rabbit runs ruthlessly
Forgetting self, I sit here like lifelessly
Fight of monkeys upon trees on the top of the hill, comes like a melody
Free for all, as the whole range is under His custody
Clouds try to attract my attention with an array of colors
Peace as the Prince on the stage, countless others are actors
Breeze blows as if to say she is the most adorable among all
Of course, choosing the one among all is hard to tell
This is a mind moving morning
In my life, this day is a fine inning
My heart desires to lie under this foothill
But my soul is not full
as my mind yearns for my love
Of course, this place is like a paradise, as above
If I am to cherish my love even in a paradise,
the power of love, you may be pleased to praise
Though I stay away at a far off place
The feelings of romance runs like a race
To live here, to the God, I shall be abundantly faithful
But to conquer my soul, other than such love, nothing is more powerful !
Copyrights reserved
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
he's in love with movements of air;
her distances traveled between it
we were so visibly shaken
after the rest died out &
your bouquet dried out
we were left with our sagging, old brains
& no one's interested, beyond our machines
in our old constructs, or perhaps, new mishaps
he was unsure of what he should be seeking, and
it appeared the pipes in the basement were leaking
yoke propped onto his cracked shoulders, scrutinized
by the heavy eyes of caliginous violet smoulders
she's in love with unfair moments
the blurring of every before and after
barring the moon through creaky rafters
with ****** gloom and insincere laughter
at the sky, bearing its last each and all
tapping on a shivering wall
with a head to traumatize,
to object to the onslaught-
is to reject the tireless ****
a timeless, photogenic glut
and a refutation, erased
a collection of
twelve billion cells
with a ****** captain
giving in to the never-ending
aching, delving, pervading, as
the lecherous lecturer
and a solemn giantess
left on the barren foothill
where it all transgressed
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
Goodbye...why?
Don't leave out the wandering door,
sit and finish these spiraled nutted cookies,
Apple Hill Special from the twisting trees
aging in the generations old summer tilled acreages.
We can glide our right hips over our right thighs
Shut down that calling of faint voices,
chattering through their cocktail party smiles.
While they promise a wealthy life
of building the all the world's a stage,
hammers fall one-two, one-two.
Rest here your child upon this wood plank floor,
see how he crawls swiftly, ambling upwards, notice his mobility?
Child's pose, rest here
The pocked market walls of this tatty room enshrine him,
he has laid his foot falls down, see,
Resounding, forever to re-sound.
Breath in, breathing out
Wait You!
Before you leave,
turn towards the rising horizon,
this foothill sun has still to set.
The day draws on so we can listen, the fiddler,
have you seen him yet? In town? No?
Then you shall not leave until his strings are spent.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
It's supposed to be over 100 degrees all this week
here in my forested northern California foothill town;
**** that, I say.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC