"hillock" poems
ken not the
vive la différence!
entre les deux,
these two bed and head chambers,
for all poets are seducers,
regardless of *** race, creed or color
when first we employ our working, yeoman vocabulary,
we plain start,
to relate but not to regale,
the whom we are,
hoping our moments unique,
will breach the boundaries
of our collective commonality connectivity,
and find human receptivity
thus, the seduction of self commences
though every possible combination of words has somewhere been inscribed and committed, we ****** ourselves
(the seduction of poetry)
with potions of notions that we are and always be our
first, and now soon forever,
yours as well
of course, we are, it's true,
our very own first admirer & lover,
having conquered the hillock of self,
see the universe expanding and the
****** need to conceive
and prowess to please
beyond the beyond with
the poetry of seduction
do not want your body, heart or soul,
commitment, allegiance, vows,
sacred or profane,
all such in vain
crave your everything,
not even a legal nine-tenths satisfactory
dare not call me arrogant or presumptive,
gaze upon the mirror that cannot lie,
rereading thy words assemblage,
and deny to lie to yourself
want you, you want me,
my adoration,
we want to be in
a poem together,
lovers at the molecular level
where words dissected into letters, then again,
into guttural sounds where a simple outcry is an elegy,
a love poem, a wound, a denouement, a preface, a tear,
a welling, a heaving, a sigh, an exhalation, all,
an entrance to where the need for words
is long since past
the sin and crown of seduction completed,
unanimously
now breathe out
and then,
breathe in
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
This sunlight shames November where he grieves
In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun
The day, though bough with bough be over-run.
But with a blessing every glade receives
High salutation; while from hillock-eaves
The deer gaze calling, dappled white and dun,
As if, being foresters of old, the sun
Had marked them with the shade of forest-leaves.
Here dawn to-day unveiled her magic glass;
Here noon now gives the thirst and takes the dew;
Till eve bring rest when other good things pass.
And here the lost hours the lost hours renew
While I still lead my shadow o’er the grass,
Nor know, for longing, that which I should do.
7.3k
*The old cottage over the hillock
Winding and cobbled road to the top
The teak and mahogany in splendor
Vintage style overlooking the modernity
Lion door knockers awakes the silence
Surrounded by antique furniture
In retrospect, says about its eloquent glory
Giving competition to modern architecture*
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
after a healthy
snowfall
I took to the park
to hike through
the woods with
Sweet Pea
on a friendly hill
near the entrance
I watched a father
and his miniature
purple scarved
pink bundled daughter
deep in the throes
of giddy play
slide down the
slight slope
daring the fates of
bodacious joy
I joined in their
smiles, lifted
by girly giggles
sung from
the secure lap of a
bear hugging dad
as the disk
whirled through
the snow
when the
thrilling ride ended
the little one
scampered after her
hooting daddy
as they climbed
the hillock for
another round
of glee
a few days later
Sweet Pea and I
returned to the park
the footprints
and sled marks
of our intrepid
joy riders were
fading, receding
into the march of
a waning season
though the
happy tracks
in the melting
snow will
surely vanish
the footprints
of that day will
remain fresh
alive forever
in the mind
of an elderly
woman, recalling
the thrilling giggles
and secure bearhugs
of a love blest youth
Music Selection:
Los Lobos:
Somewhere in Time
Oakland
2/5/14
jbm
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
Autumn in New Zealand is a masterpiece on canvas
Patternings of goldens and bright rose hips in their beds,
Copses of coniferous in deep and darkly avenues
To the brilliance of a country lane awash with leafy reds.
Chimney fires are smoking in the rural country cottages
The warming glow of lanterns in the windows as I pass,
A tantalising whiff of hot buttered scones is wafting
And somewhere in the distance I can hear a red deer bark.
Strolling by the lakeside in the early morning stillness
My breathing fogs before me in the chillness of the air,
Rowan trees glow scarlet and the naked ***** willow
Has shed her golden carpet on the emerald hillock there.
Rushes rattle softly in the mistyness of lowlands
Treeeferns in their glory of silver filagree,
Sparrows ruffle feathers to insulate the coolness
As wheeling flocks of starling mass to migrate to be free.
Gossamer as fairy dust the thistledown is floating
A harbinger of autumn leaves and freezing frost to come,
Those Coriollis forces are determining the changeling
Where the snowy days approaching means the Autumn tones are done.
Marshalg
27 April 2013
In rural Pukekohe.
New Zealand
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
Our home was soft corners, diaphanous shadows,
A ghost-home tamarind tree of dark midnights
That used to shed many tiny leaves and bird-twigs,
A well deep in darkness and shrieking night crickets,
A wet coconut rope slithering on its stone rim.
The water shivered on its perked up surface
At the dark touch of the dimpled metal pail.
The pail got pulled up quickly spilling water
To the banana which squealed with green joy.
The thorny fence wound its way in the moonlight
Quietly disappearing in the hillock without trace.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 3:37 AM UTC
My window has no seat, why would it? I wish it did.
There is just a glossy magnolia ledge, barely wide enough to
cater a slender bottom. Upon the ledge books and candles
rest, illuminating the murk outside. Directly opposite orchard
trees recede as I welcome autumn with a zealous smirk.
For now faintly visible between their visceral arms are the
all-seeing hillocks that in winter will dominate my view.
An impartial observer once stated they were mere freckles
on the landscapes recumbent spine, but to me their sight alone
is vertiginous. On balmy April days I would surmount them,
a personal expedition, up there where I’m the valleys curator, wearing
pristine white gloves I meticulously unravel the terrain: an ancient
manuscript, the vellum inked with meandering streams, occasional farms,
cursive hamlets and little else - a land of sobriety and dearth.
In November though there is a permanent mist and its source
inexplicable. Does it simply effervesce from the precipitous tors about?
Is it the villager’s enshrined collective sigh? No it is something
more. Sitting atop the villages head it’s the beloved satin bonnet you
wore religiously as a child. Wholly impractical for this season
its gossamer fabric offers little solace or insulation to those below
as its pleated extremities elope with the moss-brown hinterland.
Fervently stoking their hearths the villagers broaden the
ethereal cloth with a smoke not acrid but satisfying and nourishing:
with a terrifically edible, hardwood flavour. From my hillock
vantage, the sanguine stone of the manorial chimneys is all that
penetrates the film; casually they release torrents of smoke like
ivory doves that weft patterns instinctively into the sky’s pallid damask.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
In Randy Pausch’s last lecture there is space
Left briefly to be occupied en bloc-
The space that will exist, lacking, always,
In substance like quarry in a hillock.
You imagine a quarry filled with dark space
Stand on the rim of the hole that exists
In presence of time and absence of space.
Follow the last lecture to clear its mists.
You don’t get into his circle really
Of an inspiring cancer death suffering
The circle of dark humour surreally
But as a tangent on its outer ring.
Stand on the rim and into the dark lean
Strain eyes to see own reflection keen.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 7:01 AM UTC
thankful that
the promised storm
did not arrive
umbrellas were collapsed
used as walking sticks
or were discarded
as unwelcome rain
and clouds of grey
drifted apologetically
stood in expectant awe
we were rapturous
as blue skies stretched
from hillock to tor
to witness a cowboy
dressed in white
the hero-in-waiting
with a sunset
to ride towards
his happily-ever-after
a pastoral beauty
in flowering green
inseparable thus far
tradition be ******
now adorned with
a bonded eternity
on their fingers
to match that
which is long-rooted
in their hearts
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 8:50 AM UTC
My word is good, it's also true,
I promise to you all my life,
For you will be my wife,
Touch me & you'll see,
How I turn to gold soon,
You'll be my intense magic,
Our families will be our glue.
When the time is ripe,
For me & even you,
It will be alright,
Because you will be my wife,
To indulge in romance,
Engage in this dance,
To create new life.
Don't worry dear, I won't stifle you,
You I won't send in a swoon,
I know you can achieve,
The greater glory.
That will be the day,
For us to unite as one body,
Come dancing to me, my dear lady.
Now, don't procrastinate much,
I'm yours and you're mine too,
And both of us are alike each,
Both me & you were let down,
By the ones we took to be ours,
But we don't need such friends,
Oh, such fake faces around us.
I know that me you'll not disappoint,
You I'll never let feel disheartened,
Babe, I will be patient with you,
And I will let my poems now,
Trust me & you'll see the peak,
Not of any other mountain now,
But of the friendly hillock of love.
You must trust me in this skydive,
I'll take care of you when you need,
When it's time, your dough I'll knead,
Feel my deep love as you dared to jump,
You're the most beautiful of them all,
Now feel confident about yourself,
You're cautious and that's good.
Just don't hold back fearing me,
I'll be gentle and kind with you,
And I expect you to be receptive,
Also, you be ready for new love,
Come, let's look after this dove,
Be receptive to my love, don't fear,
Be intimate when I pull you near.
May 2, 2024
May 2, 2024 at 2:06 AM UTC
A coercive throat siphons the sky: delineating.
Men of Normandy, your dulcet words still flow
On aching gusts around these hillock ramparts.
Autumns tapestry fell with Harold, listless it
Furnishes the margin of an otherwise bleak-boughed
Wood. An obstinate robin: the failing furnaces closing
Ember, pursues the regressive winter light among the
Limbs of a grand oak, laden with iron cloud, low
And heavy. The thicket is sparse yet astir, two narrow
Eyes, eight square, inky pupils squat below the
Russet brow of a thrice augmented cottage: histories
White-washed witness, bearing pale stone arms and a
Jaunty red-bricked cap.
©Thomas Gabriel
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
With bodice wound around her girth
And petticoats all a sway
The lady rode past me on the road
In the full flung rays of day
She tossed instruments to the ground
Trumpets, thermometers, gyroscopes,
Then drove her vehicle onwards
Her gloved hands at the wheel *****
This with lighter load she went
Up a glacial hillock
Up and up and up she went
Bringing only an inlaid clock
Into the sky and above the land
The fantastical vehicle drove
A sharp laugh rang all around
And from this world she wove.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 9:50 AM UTC
Through the obscure woodland,
Under the path shown by starry sky,
Over the hillock of misery,
Finally standing on the mountaintop high above.
Staying there forever
Is impossible,
And without the rough ascent
Unreachable,
Tumbling back down
Is inescapable,
Being ready for it, though,
Is sensible,
And not remaining down there defeated,
Is reasonable.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
Hear the hounds
I among them,
hillock,
brook,
hedge.
You've out foxed us,
but I live in hope
to get you yet!
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 8:39 PM UTC
You've read many books,
think your homework done,
consider yourself
well-informed.
And then you stand
on the hillock
at Wounded Knee
or the spot
at Fort Robinson
where Crazy Horse
was murdered
or the ravine
at Sand Creek
and you smell blood,
leather, horses, sweat, earth
smoldering around you
and suddenly you know
what you didn't know:
history is more than words.
~mce
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
My eyes are tasting flavor my hands are roaming around
Your beauty has spread on the land my love is to surround
You my beloved from all sides to understand to get astound
After this magical experience I am no where on the ground
My sweetheart let me embrace you with all strength, power
Let us be together on every hillock mountain and every tower
Drizzling rain of passion will kiss you and come like a shower
Your petals open in jubilation like that of a pink rose flower
I am yours and you are mine in all paths of life to just travel
Let me take you drop by drop like wine from the full bottle
I love you I love you like a chaste and pure good sweet angel
I worship you like a deity and my love you are like temple
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 4:32 AM UTC
As a measly minstrel
On the hillock of California
From the time of thirteen
Until now
I'm still ornery
As grandmammy still trys to keep me tied up.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
The earth might know whether the fire
Beneath the hillock as a pyre
Was there and kept a-smouldering
Whatever burnt it with fiery sting.
From morning did he slowly, oh!
Acute and heavy stones below
Clasp with his own holy wrath,
A power ne one had ne now hath.
Though he’s been slumb’ring innocently
Since hundred years ago, sharply,
As I had heard from my ancestors,
Got furious by some evil stars.
It was a foggy day of autumn,
None could be seen at the bottom,
Nor high above a bird to fly,
Nor that hill, then calm and high.
When the pale sun reached the top,
Of earthly dome of clouds did rob
His grandeur boldly, the rain began
To curse the man with wicked plan.
Till then no one conjectured what
God had stored for their hapless lot,
But dreamt bygone months when they
Were carefree as a child and gay.
Once the sun was lost in the west,
Some eerie sounds from that hill-crest
Began to frighten children, and their
Unhappy parents uttered a prayer.
One wondered if it was a rumbling
Of the clouds, about to be tumbling
Once again as heavier rain
Upon grey mountains and verdant plain.
Another heard the rustling leaves,
As summer’s cool wind gently heaves.
But no such things were their outside,
Then must’ve in high note an infant cried.
That voice, as night seemed deep and darker,
Bit by bit, from grave to graver
Became, and did from the hill emerge.
All cravens shrieked, they shrieked, “O dirge!”
All at once in mightiest blast,
Liquid fire did up the crust
Gush out, flash out from the earth,
As if he gathered an endless mirth.
Then down that splendent stone did flow
With million captive crumbles, lo!
The brooklet virile made its way
Through forsaken woods and clay.
Hearth! A hearth of our whole world
That dormant knoll was like; he hurled
The hallowed fire, which God alone
Could gift mankind, with new adorn.
What rapture did the hill derive
Unburd’ning himself of newer life!
And what unwavering faith had he
In earth on whose lap his child would be!
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 3:20 AM UTC
Asleep on your belly, or, alternately,
on your side, on me; the first night -
the first full night - with the promise of coffee
in the morning and not only allusions to it.
Your full weight on my thigh,
which I’d never tolerate in any night past,
but kept awake by the two scant hours
of partial sleep I had and admiration
of your neckline, the province of your back,
golden boughs embroidered under
thin hair
part umber, part gold itself, cast on the pillow
your left hand
and its short fingers partially unearthed, nested
in a hillock of brown coverlet and blue curlicues,
opening and closing.
Hushed, I sip a drink and read a poem
as you murmur in sleep “yes”
to whatever invitation the one in dreams extends.
The one in dreams; he may be me. Gold from a summer
that has not happened yet, surer with a barbecue,
ready to paint a white thigh emerging from a sheet,
a better rendering than mine
of the one spot you missed shaving.
He may be the husband of Scheherazade, prodding
one more story, one more night at a time.
You’ve a cobra in a willow basket.
It’s not a murmur. It isn’t “yes”.
It’s a gourd flute the land of dream gave you,
and I am not
the servant of the realm, or gold at all,
or worth my silk curtains. One thousand or
one thousand one; I can’t change,
not overnight.
I won’t know, nor ask, but
the snake isn’t transfixed.
It’s only waiting.
One day, I’ll appear in print.
The small merchant in Barataria
with whom Sancho Panza speaks.
You’ll describe those sheets
or some such other linens I have for sale -
an intimate detail of my home, returning the favor
of having appeared here. It will win a prize
you never knew you were competing for and
a dozen men in memory will whistle down “yes”.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
Everything is set in mathematical accuracy,
a river flows humming the tune of waves,
the hillock smiles in variegated greens,
blue sky looks down, breeze caresses gently,
and the riverside pub is a picturesque relief.
In this vacant scenario,
an artist feels the presence of lively nature,
draws a lass with hay and twigs walking briskly
rhythm of nature radiates to her body,
she lives as a lively nature within a frame.
23rd Dec. 2016
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
The wind was but a fleeting rustle,
Tampering with her straightened dress,
She stood in peace atop a hillock
And let go of all she had repressed,
I watched as the breeze found her face,
So soft and pale, so calm and fair,
It lovingly turned her cheeks to ash,
The rest went piece by piece in air,
Like the residual cackling
Of a yet burned log
In a fireplace glowing
To ward the fog,
Her mind found freedom
While I witnessed loss,
Where she found completion,
My eyes did gloss,
I wept like a child in mourning
O'er some sweet dreams and wake,
Yet the idea seemed so alluring
That I wished the wind me take.
So as I walked up the hillside,
And saw her dress on the ground,
I wished for that same feeling,
To be ever one with the shroud,
I took myself to calling,
Quietly in hopes to hear,
A response in turn to me,
So that I may this world clear.
I stood alone for so long,
I had forgotten why I remained,
But a smile found me before too long,
And on the wind, with her, I remain.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
I have no idea how it got this far,
I was just walking along,minding my own,
don't even have a car, but suddenly
the penny dropped and like a stone
I sank,quite frankly,
I no longer give a **** about Sunday and
the magnificent plan or
the son of man and his part in it,
I want to rip it all up and just ****** bin it.
However,
I am a part of the play he has written,the sod
of a Jesus bug has bitten me and although
not quite smitten with it,
I'll do my bit to perfect it,while he stands on the hillside and quietly
inspects it,.
There's a canteen here,
not much of a menu but a fabulous venue at the side of the hillock,
rock salmon and bread that's all we are fed and we're five thousand at least,not a feast fit for a King but
we're just the players and we'll eat anything.
So the fact still remains along with the aches and the pains,the trials,tribulations, that we are all part time actors in this movie that is backed by the hand of some producer,producing rabbits from hats and all that is just child's play but it's a God's way and when the penny drops for you,
you'll produce rabbits too,
we are one and the same,
mirrors
in the mirror image game
some cracked
what's lacked is a background,some sound?
weeping and gnashing of teeth,someone smashing the tablets of stone?
Is Moses at home?
Get on or off,within or without it we're still just a bit of the picture.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC
Cows across the road
like to stand on a small hillock
and stare at the scenery
They seem fascinated
watching their fellows
from a different perspective
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
The Hummock
There is a hill behind the houses rounded and soft
I call it a -mother hill- and it welcome you and softly
Murmur, how do you do and leave you alone to sit
On a boulder and think how incredible life is.
If you sit there too long enjoying your sentimentality
It wakes you up the rock get cold and the northerly
Blow that has a fragrance of Siberia, reindeer and *****
So you walk about to keep warm and see wildflowers
Hiding behind stones, but pick them you cannot they
Are not yours will wizen in your hands and bring rain
Walk softly now the aroma of spring is in the grass.
Just behind the hill a hillock grey as October fall, but
Out of sight and no trees grow on it scrawny side it
The mother hill's burden which it bears with fortitude
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC