"foxlike" poems - Hello Poetry

I. It was peppermint, snowflake blonde hair spilling into gold the foxlike amber of my skin against her phosphorescent white. She made me seasick with her bird-blue eyes and stuck like cotton candy to my fingers. II. Her name was Phoenix, and she scared me with her firecracker will. It made my lungs into waterfalls my thoughts and fingers, butterflies. My carbon-copy hair carnelian red a solar flare, an Icarus, an imitation star. III. We were virgins, and volcanoes. Sharing milkbox wishes on rooftops and climbing trees like horses instead of tiger-mouthed boys. We swallowed the citrus-colored summer like gingerbread and lemonade.

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Mar 22, 2013

Mar 22, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC

carol-cummons

Three Girls

I. It was peppermint, snowflake blonde hair spilling into gold the foxlike amber of my skin against her phosphorescent white. She made me seasick with her bird-blue eyes and stuck like cotton candy to my fingers. II. Her name was Phoenix, and she scared me with her firecracker will. It made my lungs into waterfalls my thoughts and fingers, butterflies. My carbon-copy hair carnelian red a solar flare, an Icarus, an imitation star. III. We were virgins, and volcanoes. Sharing milkbox wishes on rooftops and climbing trees like horses instead of tiger-mouthed boys. We swallowed the citrus-colored summer like gingerbread and lemonade.

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Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; And come, for Love is of the valley, come, For Love is of the valley, come thou down And find him; by the happy threshold, he, Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, Or red with spirted purple of the vats, Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk With Death and Morning on the silver horns, Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: But follow; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

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Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Princess: Come down, O Maid

Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; And come, for Love is of the valley, come, For Love is of the valley, come thou down And find him; by the happy threshold, he, Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, Or red with spirted purple of the vats, Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk With Death and Morning on the silver horns, Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: But follow; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

31

Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang), In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; And come, for Love is of the valley, come, For Love is of the valley, come thou down And find him; by the happy threshold, he, Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, Or red with spirted purple of the vats, Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk With Death and Morning on the silver horns, Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: But follow; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

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1.4k

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Come Down, O Maid

Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang), In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; And come, for Love is of the valley, come, For Love is of the valley, come thou down And find him; by the happy threshold, he, Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, Or red with spirted purple of the vats, Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk With Death and Morning on the silver horns, Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: But follow; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

31

Dark night, dumb fright, furry foxes howl Shy moon, hides soon, barn owls sharply call In thickets, chirp crickets, mew nervous cats Above meadows, paint shadows, low flying bats. From soiled bones, rise the moans, of souls buried deep Clothed white, in low skylight, you hear a spectre weep The cottage light, now out of sight, the dark is denser still You want to run, to safe someone, but frozen is freewill. A few furlong, but seems so long, now turning back Your heavy feet, can't do the feat, finding the right track You can't run, you'll be outdone, and it's not a myth When you move too far, break the bar, winds stop their breath. The hood of dark, makes its mark, you're nomore seen It's too late, to change the fate, not let the fear win You forget fright, dive into night, it's turned a good game A foxlike howl, a hooting owl, you're happily one of them.

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Mar 13, 2024

Mar 13, 2024 at 11:47 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

A Few Furlong

Dark night, dumb fright, furry foxes howl Shy moon, hides soon, barn owls sharply call In thickets, chirp crickets, mew nervous cats Above meadows, paint shadows, low flying bats. From soiled bones, rise the moans, of souls buried deep Clothed white, in low skylight, you hear a spectre weep The cottage light, now out of sight, the dark is denser still You want to run, to safe someone, but frozen is freewill. A few furlong, but seems so long, now turning back Your heavy feet, can't do the feat, finding the right track You can't run, you'll be outdone, and it's not a myth When you move too far, break the bar, winds stop their breath. The hood of dark, makes its mark, you're nomore seen It's too late, to change the fate, not let the fear win You forget fright, dive into night, it's turned a good game A foxlike howl, a hooting owl, you're happily one of them.

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Years have passed since I last heard the Fool speak of the Fox. Time, as it does, has softened the lines of his face and bent his shoulders forward, but it has not dulled the weight in his voice when her name, though he never spoke it, lingers in the air between sentences. Even silence has a way of carrying her. I have walked the valley as he once did, retracing the paths he described. I have stood beneath the great oak where the Fox would hum, leaned over the river’s edge where laughter once spilled like water, and felt the stillness that remains. It is not an empty stillness, no, it is a stillness that remembers. People here speak of the Fox and the Fool in hushed tones, not as a love story, but as a warning. They say it is easy to lose what is rare, and even easier to convince yourself it will wait for you. They say trust is not something you hold in your hand, but something you breathe, and once you choke on it, the air is never the same. The Fool no longer searches. That part of him has gone quiet. But when the wind moves through the valley just right, I have seen him pause, head tilted, eyes narrowing, as if some faint thread of that strange, foxlike laugh has drifted back to him. And every time, his face tightens with that same expression I saw by the fire years ago: the silent confession that the most precious thing he’d ever been given was also the one he shattered with his own hands. He told me once, when I was younger and thought I understood the world, "If you ever find a fox, hold it gently. Never grip too hard, never doubt without cause. Foxes don’t return once frightened, and there are some silences you cannot call back." I did not understand then. I do now. The valley has many stories, of storms, of seasons, of strangers who came and went, but none linger like theirs. Because the Fool’s tale is not about the Fox’s leaving, not really. It is about how a man can ruin his own salvation without meaning to, how he can mistake the echo of old wounds for truth, and how he can spend the rest of his days breathing in the absence of something that once made him whole. And sometimes, when the nights are long and the moonlight cuts through the trees, I wonder if the Fox remembers him, too. I wonder if, somewhere beyond the valley, there is another fire, another listener, hearing the story from the other side.

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Aug 12, 2025

Aug 12, 2025 at 11:19 PM UTC

RuiJasper

Chapter III: The Lesson of the Valley

Years have passed since I last heard the Fool speak of the Fox. Time, as it does, has softened the lines of his face and bent his shoulders forward, but it has not dulled the weight in his voice when her name, though he never spoke it, lingers in the air between sentences. Even silence has a way of carrying her. I have walked the valley as he once did, retracing the paths he described. I have stood beneath the great oak where the Fox would hum, leaned over the river’s edge where laughter once spilled like water, and felt the stillness that remains. It is not an empty stillness, no, it is a stillness that remembers. People here speak of the Fox and the Fool in hushed tones, not as a love story, but as a warning. They say it is easy to lose what is rare, and even easier to convince yourself it will wait for you. They say trust is not something you hold in your hand, but something you breathe, and once you choke on it, the air is never the same. The Fool no longer searches. That part of him has gone quiet. But when the wind moves through the valley just right, I have seen him pause, head tilted, eyes narrowing, as if some faint thread of that strange, foxlike laugh has drifted back to him. And every time, his face tightens with that same expression I saw by the fire years ago: the silent confession that the most precious thing he’d ever been given was also the one he shattered with his own hands. He told me once, when I was younger and thought I understood the world, "If you ever find a fox, hold it gently. Never grip too hard, never doubt without cause. Foxes don’t return once frightened, and there are some silences you cannot call back." I did not understand then. I do now. The valley has many stories, of storms, of seasons, of strangers who came and went, but none linger like theirs. Because the Fool’s tale is not about the Fox’s leaving, not really. It is about how a man can ruin his own salvation without meaning to, how he can mistake the echo of old wounds for truth, and how he can spend the rest of his days breathing in the absence of something that once made him whole. And sometimes, when the nights are long and the moonlight cuts through the trees, I wonder if the Fox remembers him, too. I wonder if, somewhere beyond the valley, there is another fire, another listener, hearing the story from the other side.

13

Lifeblood of democracy hemorrhaging ousting the "FAKE" president only recourse to staunch impending grim demise, since forefathers drafted United States Constitution ratified more'n two centuries ago hoi polloi must take to the streets denouncing severe curtailment impinging sacred freedom of speech linkedin with paramount bedrock provision accessing unvarnished flint ****** "truth," nonetheless commander in chief he quakingly, staunchly, vociferously... excoriates, lacerates, repudiates... one damning hermetically sealed, iniquitous airtight, vacuum packed flagrant misuse of power, (not to mention nepotism) invidious, insidious, injurious... infractions incontestable, incontrovertible, contemptible... significant melange in führer re: hating deplorably crooked basely barren factual exposé after another, deft correspondents all not quiet along western front (I heard Maria - mull remark) bring "to light" execrable, lamentable reprehensible... gross transgressions commander in chief significantly overstepped Pulitzer prize winning prestigious storied publications scathingly trounced, pillaried, lambasted, insulted, denounced, butchered, critiqued, demonized, fricassed, gored, humiliated,... pummeled, quartered, reviled courageously expounding fiend ensconced within his Taj Mahal impregnable donjon, whereat he trumpets laurels asper, nonpareil administration laying groundless accusations baring his white fangs, twittering, naysaying, mocking.. supreme renown gifted by "honest Abe" recalcitrant commander in chief, who refutes objectionable dogged investigative journalism every step of the way, where dedicated news gatherers risk life and limb firing line reportage troopers ferreting (foxlike) ***** doth gopher precious nuggets uncover alarming undisputable details impossible to refute raw bits agent provocateur freely colluding immediately hashtashed poppycock smarmy, snooty, snappy beastly capital one ogre blatantly castigating diligent endeavors oblivious pie in sky delusional egotistic haughtiness bobblehead vilified by silent majority.

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Jun 3, 2019

Jun 3, 2019 at 9:29 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

First Amendment In Jeopardy

Lifeblood of democracy hemorrhaging ousting the "FAKE" president only recourse to staunch impending grim demise, since forefathers drafted United States Constitution ratified more'n two centuries ago hoi polloi must take to the streets denouncing severe curtailment impinging sacred freedom of speech linkedin with paramount bedrock provision accessing unvarnished flint ****** "truth," nonetheless commander in chief he quakingly, staunchly, vociferously... excoriates, lacerates, repudiates... one damning hermetically sealed, iniquitous airtight, vacuum packed flagrant misuse of power, (not to mention nepotism) invidious, insidious, injurious... infractions incontestable, incontrovertible, contemptible... significant melange in führer re: hating deplorably crooked basely barren factual exposé after another, deft correspondents all not quiet along western front (I heard Maria - mull remark) bring "to light" execrable, lamentable reprehensible... gross transgressions commander in chief significantly overstepped Pulitzer prize winning prestigious storied publications scathingly trounced, pillaried, lambasted, insulted, denounced, butchered, critiqued, demonized, fricassed, gored, humiliated,... pummeled, quartered, reviled courageously expounding fiend ensconced within his Taj Mahal impregnable donjon, whereat he trumpets laurels asper, nonpareil administration laying groundless accusations baring his white fangs, twittering, naysaying, mocking.. supreme renown gifted by "honest Abe" recalcitrant commander in chief, who refutes objectionable dogged investigative journalism every step of the way, where dedicated news gatherers risk life and limb firing line reportage troopers ferreting (foxlike) ***** doth gopher precious nuggets uncover alarming undisputable details impossible to refute raw bits agent provocateur freely colluding immediately hashtashed poppycock smarmy, snooty, snappy beastly capital one ogre blatantly castigating diligent endeavors oblivious pie in sky delusional egotistic haughtiness bobblehead vilified by silent majority.

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